EPISODE 112 RAY CLOUGH…ROOFER … ECCENTRIC



EPISODE  112     RAY CLOUGH…AN ECCENTRIC WHO DID OUR FARM ROOF.

alan  skeoch
Sept 6, 2020

Ray Clough…farmer and part time roofer.  I hired him.  A very interesting man.

This is not Ray’s  house.  Ray’s  place had a good roof.  But the front door was similar…very similar.  Upstairs windows closed  down because
no one ever went upstairs.


This was a good farm sale to talk about a roof.  Not far from Ray’s farm.   Might be  where we met and stick up the
roof  conversation.  Take a look at the next picture.


An astounding  picture.  someone climbed up that ladder carrying those sheets of  metal  


I MET Ray at a farm sale much like the sale pictured here.  


Not far from Ray’s place was another bachelor farmer.  He needed to hire Ray but likely could not afford it.
How  did he ever get those patches on the barn roof?  Look at that long ladder.  Dangerous way to live.

When I described the restoration of our farm house by Wayne Shannon, I did not
mention the roof.

    Before the robbery…before the renovation I hired Ray Clough to put a steel roof over
the asphalt shingles.  Ray was not a roofer.  He was a farmer over near Ospringe. 
A very unconventional chap.  The kind of person I admire.  His  own man as they say.
Ray put a new roof on the farm all by himself.  How he did it mystified me.  Great long
sheets of ribbed  steel.  Green.  How could Ray manhandle the sheets up to the roof
and then pound in lead headed roofing nails.  He only had two hands.  I never
saw anyone help him.  Must have  been helpers. Matter of fact I never saw him doing the roof.  It was
done in the same week I hired him.  While I taught school, Ray hammered the roof in place.


This is not Ray nor is it our farm house roof but the picture gives  some idea of the danger involved.



After Ray finished  the job, he asked  if he could live in the house.  That was a 
surprise.   A bigger surprise came one Halloween night when Marjorie was having
a bunch of her women friends in the house for a grand  supper.  Darkness. There was a nock
on the door.   Jean or Cathy or Elizabeth opened the door and there was Ray.  Just standing there. She screamed and
called Marjorie.  Ray had one set of clothes and a Fedorah hat that had seen far
better days. He did not shave as often as some men do.  He was single.  Women
scared him … especially when they scream. The night was dark and Ray just
disappeared into the darkness.  He expected to see me. “He said nothing, Alan,…
just faded into the night.  I think we scared him.”

Then a day or so later…payment.

“Marjorie, you just stay in the car while  I pay Ray  for the roofing job.”
“Why?”
“Ray lives  alone.?
“So?”
“He may not be a fastidious as me.”
“You?  That’s a laugh. I do all the cooking and cleaning.  I even cut the grass.”
“Now I know you get my meaning.”

Ray invited me  in via the woodshed  doorway.  The front door had not been used
for years.  it was  hard  to even see the door as some great wild shrubs had taken over.
The woodshed was the closest way to the barn where Ray had his cattle.  No need
for a front door.  Ray was efficient.  There was a foot trail to and from the barn. There
was also a  foot trail in the kitchen.  Ray’s path over the worn linoleum led  to great greasy 
stove…blackened with old grease.  Then from stove to his big easy chair which
was worn and tufted here and there.  The floor was black except for that trail from back door to stove to
the big easy chair.  
  As  I mentioned  Ray was not fastidious.

This is not Ray’s kitchen   Same kind of stove.  Ray’s was better than this



A year or so later,  Ray died.  Alone.  On his farm.  Marjorie and I went to his auction 
sale.  I do not know who dealt with his estate.  Not much in terms of household goods.  Not much that anyone would want.
Someone suggested a tour of the house.  I think I dissuaded  Marjorie from going.
  
In conclusion.  I hope my story about Ray is seen the way I see it.  This is  not a put down.  I really
liked him. Marvelled at our new roof.  I wish I had taken the time to find  out more about him.  Cousin Helen Parkinson 
and husband Bill lived on a farm near Ray as did  Shirley (Awrey) Freeman and cousin Ted.  So did  Barb and  Bob Root 
(‘Rooter’) I am sure they knew Ray  because their farms  are close.
Perhaps they will make a  comment.

Take a close look at Ray.  His face. Not his clothes.  That is  a  nice face.  The creases are
warm creases.   The eyes are amused eyes.  Ray shaved  every other day. His hat must be a farm heirloom.
The  hat was not put in the auction sale.  if it was  there I would have  bought it.

Ray believed in layered clothing.  Count the layers.



alan skeoch
Sept. 7  2020



EPISODE 111 “ALAN, NEVER LET YOURSELF BE HOSTAGE TO FORTUNE.”

EPISODE 111   ALAN, NEVER  LET YOURSELF BE HOSTAGE  TO FORTUNE.


alan skeoch
Sept. 6 , 2020

OUR farm house  was built around 1870 or 1880.   The owner at the time had very little money…he had to cut corners as we discovered
in the renovation a century later.   The design was  common … available plans in Eaton’s catalogue. Mom, grandma and their dog Punch
on front lawn.

We inherited the farm in 1958.  Condition? Not so good.   We could barely afford to look after our 
city house.

Our family around  1958 when we inherited the Freeman farm.  We were not wealthy so owning property like the farm
was a  novel and frightening thing.  Only later, around 1990 could Marjorie and I afford to renovate…and even then it
took the shock of the robbery to force us into action.   Picture: left to right…Eric, Elsie (Freeman) Skeoch, Alan, Arnold (Red) Skeoch
We laughed a lot…in this case someone broke wind  Just as  I set the camera  for a delayed picture.


Months after the farm robbery we had to give  serious thought to the farm future. 
Should we keep the farm  or  put it up for sale like was happening to so many
other historic farms.  The debate was just awful.

THE choice?  Sell everything  or pour a lot of money into restoration of the farm house.
Depressing thoughts.   The loss of so much. Family treasures gone.    The usual ‘poor me’
comments by persons who have been robbed.   grieving that deep
sense of loss when someone you love is gone.  Anger.  Feeling violated.  All
that and more.  For the first few hours. 

 Then the clouds of doubt cleared away.

Granddad  made small wheelbarrows for us.  Note the sad dog house in the  background.  Fancy living on a farm?  Not so much.


Then I thought of Evan Cruickshank who had such a powerful influence on my life.
“Crooky” had been our history teacher at Humberside.  A man of deep intellect.
And later he hired both Eric and me as  history teachers at Parkdale Collegiate in
west central Toronto.  I got to know him really well as did Marjorie.  Respect and
friendship.   “Crusher” Cruickshank had many words of  wisdom which he shared
Never heavy handed sharing.  Never patronizing.  

Our robbery was hurting.  At its worst when I suddenly remembered “Crooky’s”
comment regarding material things in life.  “Alan, never let yourself be hostage
to fortune.”  Said another way.  “Never let things own you.  If you do you will
have an unhappy life.”                                                                               

We were grieving the loss  of the furniture and everything else in the house.  What we
should have been thinking about was the house itself and the future direction we would take.   

NOTE:  The term hostage to fortune means that wealth, family, possessions can hold
us hostage.  Crooky added ‘Never be’ to ‘hostage to fortune’ which I believe meant
to never let the material things in life hold you hostage.  Do not worship your wonderful car, 
for instance.

I am not sure this  point if clear.  We decided to put our money into a dream rather
than  save it for who knows what .   Maybe that is  not even clear.  We took action.
That is  clear.


Many many Ontario farm houses that were built far better than ours have been destroyed.  

SO A  DECISION WAS MADE:  WE WILL RESTORE THE FARM HOUSE

“Let’s do it…restore the farm house.”
“That means a total gutting  of the interior.”
“Give the job to Kevin and Andy…strip back to the bricks.”
“The boys will enjoy it…demolition and teen agers go hand  in hand.”

1)  So  Andrew and Kevin using crowbars, sledges,  hammers and a wheelbarrow
began stripping away the plaster which was already in decay…then the lathe  
some of which was even ancient split lathe.  Wheelbarrow  loads were dumped
outside.

2) Beneath the plaster they discovered that our brick farm house was really
not a brick house at all.  Underneath was a barn frame…heavy hand hewn beams
pegged together as was the custom in 1870.  This was not a house at all.  Had
we depended on the bricks to hold the ouse up then there would  be no house.
The bricks were soft as a baby’s bum.  They had been shaped and  fired less
than  a mile away near #5 sidereal.  Weak.  I wondered why other brick  farm houses
had  collapsed  and  ours did not.  Now  I knew. Ours was  a barn.

3) But  The big beams had not been  made here.  No group of men with broad axes
had  spent a year or more preparing white pine beams.  No.  Our farm house
was made from beams  collected here and there across the township in 1870 or so.
How did  we know?   Because many beams had burn marks.  The beams had
been gathered from older burned out buildings…barns, drivesheds.   

4) Nothing special about the beams.  The great floor beams were only rough
hewn on one side…sometimes two sides.  The other sides still had the bark.
This house was not an example of fine art carpentry.  

5) The board  floors had been worn to nubs by hundreds of feet over the century.
The nubs were the knots.  Harder than the planks and therefore when worn and 
stamped on left a wavy floor that I always found charming.  But it had to go and
so the boys got crowbars to lift the ancient slabs.  Too bad.  Loved  the old floor.

6) They made one amazing discovery.  Hard to believe I  know.  The centre of
the house was held up by one long carved beam.  Crucial piece to which  all
the other beams were attached directly or indirectly.  “Guess  what, Dad?”
“What?” “The main beam hangs in the air.”   The main beam never touched
the ground.  It was free standing.  How that happened we will never know.  had
we not stripped the walls that fact would remain a little secret.  How the roof
held up for 130 years or more I will never understand.   

Ricky the  Raccoon was a pet of ours until he  reached puberty when all things changed.  While young Ricky would scamper up our
shoulders to sit on our heads.  Here he is being gently removed by David S.

Did Ricky the Racoon sneak back and  take up residence behind the plaster and lathe of the farm house?  Not likely.  We let him
go in a farm field  far away.  But raccoons are smart.

7) That was  only one discovery.  There were others.  Like finding a nest
of raccoons in the upper bedroom wall.  They had  made the house a home
for years it seems.  And then there were the red squirrels who can chew there
way into any house.  Mice, of course.  A plentiful supply that the garter snakes
must have found convenient food.  A bunch of snakes lived in the field stone
foundation.  They may still be there since the foundation was  never changed only
braced.

8) The basement floor was dirt.  Hard packed dirt.  Three rooms down there, each
with a function but all with dirt footing.  In spring this cellar was wet…pooled water
often.  But the walls held.  One room had big dirt floored stalls…one for coal, one for potatoes,
carrots, etc.   The other room Grandma called “the Dairy’ where she kept food in
the cool dark.  Slabs of beef hung here which was why I liked to slather our meals
with Worcester Sauce.   I never trusted the Dairy.  No good reason.  Grandma and
Grandpa Freeman lived here deep in their 90’s.  The other big cellar room
had an old  but huge cook stove with a pipe hole exit carved into the foundation.  This was
grandma’s ‘summer kitchen’ but was never in use when we were growing up. There
was a rickety staircase and  a trap door that gave access to the main house.
Granddad  had  his carpenters tools there as well.   As a kid  I stole one of his
chisels and got caught.  I ran and  hid  in the tall summer grasses and golden rod
on that day.  Humiliated because  I was caught.   I still have the chisel somewhere.
Granddad gave it to me.  He was a master craftsman.

9) Kevin and Andrew also had to clean out the attic…a long unfinished room
that ran eastwards from the upstairs bedrooms where the raccoons lived.
That attic was  a wonderful treasure trove.  For most of  my pre teen years I explored this
room endlessly.  For years it was full of spinning wheels,  walking wheels and  all
the wool processing things of the 19th century and other treasures that were to me
a mystery.  I remember when most of that stuff suddenly was gone. “OH, Elsie (my 
mother), a wonderful man came by and paid  us money for the things in the attic.”
“How much?” “Ten dollars”  Bastard.

10)  The scavenger missed a 1920’s “skin” book called  Smokehouse.  Lots of rather
off colour jokes and some suggestive drawings of stockings with legs in them … at least 
as I remember.  And, oh yes, the explosive novel “Tobacco Road” by Erskine Caldwell.
At tale of poverty and prejudice in the American  south.  That book  would even be
scandalous in today’s liberal world.  It was  falling apart as  it had been read  and  re read
and  re read again by me.

11) So the house was stripped bare…a shell. No, a  folderol i.e. A barn within a brick house.
Now we had to find a builder.  By good fortune we noticed a truck  while getting ice cream cones
in Erin.  WAYNE SHANNON, BUILDER    No beating around the bush we hired him to renovate
and reconstruct the farm house.   He  had some great ideas.  Open concept.

12) And  he said  a couple of things I had  not counted upon  “Where do you want the bathroom?”
My response  was “What  bathroom?”…because we had a perfect backhouse I had  built.  Marjorie
chimed  in and so we got two bathrooms.  His next question was about the trap door to the
cellar.  “Of course we will close that trap door and put a stairway to the cellar.” “What? I love that
trap door.”  Then everyone chimed in so  we got a stairway.  And  another question I had not
counted upon was the furnace.  “What furnace? Isn’t the old wood stove good enough?” That 
thought was also put to rest when Wayne found us a good electric  furnace.* (Note..furnace
will be subject of  major story later…a story so  big that my picture replaced the Sunshine Girl
on the Toronto Sun.  No  vanity involved…just a very bitter fight with Hydro One)

13) Wayne and his worker crew spent the whole winter changing the farm house. What a
terrific job they did.   The house became a home.  We have entertained there so much
since.  Grand  dinners.   Wayne did not stop with the house.  “Alan, you need a barn.”
On this, I agreed so  Wayne built us a barn with a cement floor.  These were good times.

TO WHOM DO I OWE MY GRATITUDE?

I really must thank the robber that stripped the farm house of furniture and who knows what else.
Without him we would have never taken such drastic action   Good things do often emerge from
what seems bad at first.


Renovating the farm house has enriched our lives.  Lots of friends have joined us.  In this case the Christophersons.  They
seem to have pillaged the garden.  Brenda’s father was a  crop duster in Manitoba with a plane much like the one that
tried ti kill Cary Grant.  


alan skeoch
Sept. 6, 2020










EPISODE 111 “ALAN, NEVER LET YOURSELF BE HOSTAGE TO FORTUNE.”

EPISODE 111   ALAN, NEVER  LET YOURSELF BE HOSTAGE  TO FORTUNE.


alan skeoch
Sept. 6 , 2020

OUR farm house  was built around 1870 or 1880.   The owner at the time had very little money…he had to cut corners as we discovered
in the renovation a century later.   The design was  common … available plans in Eaton’s catalogue. Mom, grandma and their dog Punch
on front lawn.

We inherited the farm in 1958.  Condition? Not so good.   We could barely afford to look after our 
city house.

Our family around  1958 when we inherited the Freeman farm.  We were not wealthy so owning property like the farm
was a  novel and frightening thing.  Only later, around 1990 could Marjorie and I afford to renovate…and even then it
took the shock of the robbery to force us into action.   Picture: left to right…Eric, Elsie (Freeman) Skeoch, Alan, Arnold (Red) Skeoch
We laughed a lot…in this case someone broke wind  Just as  I set the camera  for a delayed picture.


Months after the farm robbery we had to give  serious thought to the farm future. 
Should we keep the farm  or  put it up for sale like was happening to so many
other historic farms.  The debate was just awful.

THE choice?  Sell everything  or pour a lot of money into restoration of the farm house.
Depressing thoughts.   The loss of so much. Family treasures gone.    The usual ‘poor me’
comments by persons who have been robbed.   grieving that deep
sense of loss when someone you love is gone.  Anger.  Feeling violated.  All
that and more.  For the first few hours. 

 Then the clouds of doubt cleared away.

Granddad  made small wheelbarrows for us.  Note the sad dog house in the  background.  Fancy living on a farm?  Not so much.


Then I thought of Evan Cruickshank who had such a powerful influence on my life.
“Crooky” had been our history teacher at Humberside.  A man of deep intellect.
And later he hired both Eric and me as  history teachers at Parkdale Collegiate in
west central Toronto.  I got to know him really well as did Marjorie.  Respect and
friendship.   “Crusher” Cruickshank had many words of  wisdom which he shared
Never heavy handed sharing.  Never patronizing.  

Our robbery was hurting.  At its worst when I suddenly remembered “Crooky’s”
comment regarding material things in life.  “Alan, never let yourself be hostage
to fortune.”  Said another way.  “Never let things own you.  If you do you will
have an unhappy life.”                                                                               

We were grieving the loss  of the furniture and everything else in the house.  What we
should have been thinking about was the house itself and the future direction we would take.   

NOTE:  The term hostage to fortune means that wealth, family, possessions can hold
us hostage.  Crooky added ‘Never be’ to ‘hostage to fortune’ which I believe meant
to never let the material things in life hold you hostage.  Do not worship your wonderful car, 
for instance.

I am not sure this  point if clear.  We decided to put our money into a dream rather
than  save it for who knows what .   Maybe that is  not even clear.  We took action.
That is  clear.


Many many Ontario farm houses that were built far better than ours have been destroyed.  

SO A  DECISION WAS MADE:  WE WILL RESTORE THE FARM HOUSE

“Let’s do it…restore the farm house.”
“That means a total gutting  of the interior.”
“Give the job to Kevin and Andy…strip back to the bricks.”
“The boys will enjoy it…demolition and teen agers go hand  in hand.”

1)  So  Andrew and Kevin using crowbars, sledges,  hammers and a wheelbarrow
began stripping away the plaster which was already in decay…then the lathe  
some of which was even ancient split lathe.  Wheelbarrow  loads were dumped
outside.

2) Beneath the plaster they discovered that our brick farm house was really
not a brick house at all.  Underneath was a barn frame…heavy hand hewn beams
pegged together as was the custom in 1870.  This was not a house at all.  Had
we depended on the bricks to hold the ouse up then there would  be no house.
The bricks were soft as a baby’s bum.  They had been shaped and  fired less
than  a mile away near #5 sidereal.  Weak.  I wondered why other brick  farm houses
had  collapsed  and  ours did not.  Now  I knew. Ours was  a barn.

3) But  The big beams had not been  made here.  No group of men with broad axes
had  spent a year or more preparing white pine beams.  No.  Our farm house
was made from beams  collected here and there across the township in 1870 or so.
How did  we know?   Because many beams had burn marks.  The beams had
been gathered from older burned out buildings…barns, drivesheds.   

4) Nothing special about the beams.  The great floor beams were only rough
hewn on one side…sometimes two sides.  The other sides still had the bark.
This house was not an example of fine art carpentry.  

5) The board  floors had been worn to nubs by hundreds of feet over the century.
The nubs were the knots.  Harder than the planks and therefore when worn and 
stamped on left a wavy floor that I always found charming.  But it had to go and
so the boys got crowbars to lift the ancient slabs.  Too bad.  Loved  the old floor.

6) They made one amazing discovery.  Hard to believe I  know.  The centre of
the house was held up by one long carved beam.  Crucial piece to which  all
the other beams were attached directly or indirectly.  “Guess  what, Dad?”
“What?” “The main beam hangs in the air.”   The main beam never touched
the ground.  It was free standing.  How that happened we will never know.  had
we not stripped the walls that fact would remain a little secret.  How the roof
held up for 130 years or more I will never understand.   

Ricky the  Raccoon was a pet of ours until he  reached puberty when all things changed.  While young Ricky would scamper up our
shoulders to sit on our heads.  Here he is being gently removed by David S.

Did Ricky the Racoon sneak back and  take up residence behind the plaster and lathe of the farm house?  Not likely.  We let him
go in a farm field  far away.  But raccoons are smart.

7) That was  only one discovery.  There were others.  Like finding a nest
of raccoons in the upper bedroom wall.  They had  made the house a home
for years it seems.  And then there were the red squirrels who can chew there
way into any house.  Mice, of course.  A plentiful supply that the garter snakes
must have found convenient food.  A bunch of snakes lived in the field stone
foundation.  They may still be there since the foundation was  never changed only
braced.

8) The basement floor was dirt.  Hard packed dirt.  Three rooms down there, each
with a function but all with dirt footing.  In spring this cellar was wet…pooled water
often.  But the walls held.  One room had big dirt floored stalls…one for coal, one for potatoes,
carrots, etc.   The other room Grandma called “the Dairy’ where she kept food in
the cool dark.  Slabs of beef hung here which was why I liked to slather our meals
with Worcester Sauce.   I never trusted the Dairy.  No good reason.  Grandma and
Grandpa Freeman lived here deep in their 90’s.  The other big cellar room
had an old  but huge cook stove with a pipe hole exit carved into the foundation.  This was
grandma’s ‘summer kitchen’ but was never in use when we were growing up. There
was a rickety staircase and  a trap door that gave access to the main house.
Granddad  had  his carpenters tools there as well.   As a kid  I stole one of his
chisels and got caught.  I ran and  hid  in the tall summer grasses and golden rod
on that day.  Humiliated because  I was caught.   I still have the chisel somewhere.
Granddad gave it to me.  He was a master craftsman.

9) Kevin and Andrew also had to clean out the attic…a long unfinished room
that ran eastwards from the upstairs bedrooms where the raccoons lived.
That attic was  a wonderful treasure trove.  For most of  my pre teen years I explored this
room endlessly.  For years it was full of spinning wheels,  walking wheels and  all
the wool processing things of the 19th century and other treasures that were to me
a mystery.  I remember when most of that stuff suddenly was gone. “OH, Elsie (my 
mother), a wonderful man came by and paid  us money for the things in the attic.”
“How much?” “Ten dollars”  Bastard.

10)  The scavenger missed a 1920’s “skin” book called  Smokehouse.  Lots of rather
off colour jokes and some suggestive drawings of stockings with legs in them … at least 
as I remember.  And, oh yes, the explosive novel “Tobacco Road” by Erskine Caldwell.
At tale of poverty and prejudice in the American  south.  That book  would even be
scandalous in today’s liberal world.  It was  falling apart as  it had been read  and  re read
and  re read again by me.

11) So the house was stripped bare…a shell. No, a  folderol i.e. A barn within a brick house.
Now we had to find a builder.  By good fortune we noticed a truck  while getting ice cream cones
in Erin.  WAYNE SHANNON, BUILDER    No beating around the bush we hired him to renovate
and reconstruct the farm house.   He  had some great ideas.  Open concept.

12) And  he said  a couple of things I had  not counted upon  “Where do you want the bathroom?”
My response  was “What  bathroom?”…because we had a perfect backhouse I had  built.  Marjorie
chimed  in and so we got two bathrooms.  His next question was about the trap door to the
cellar.  “Of course we will close that trap door and put a stairway to the cellar.” “What? I love that
trap door.”  Then everyone chimed in so  we got a stairway.  And  another question I had not
counted upon was the furnace.  “What furnace? Isn’t the old wood stove good enough?” That 
thought was also put to rest when Wayne found us a good electric  furnace.* (Note..furnace
will be subject of  major story later…a story so  big that my picture replaced the Sunshine Girl
on the Toronto Sun.  No  vanity involved…just a very bitter fight with Hydro One)

13) Wayne and his worker crew spent the whole winter changing the farm house. What a
terrific job they did.   The house became a home.  We have entertained there so much
since.  Grand  dinners.   Wayne did not stop with the house.  “Alan, you need a barn.”
On this, I agreed so  Wayne built us a barn with a cement floor.  These were good times.

TO WHOM DO I OWE MY GRATITUDE?

I really must thank the robber that stripped the farm house of furniture and who knows what else.
Without him we would have never taken such drastic action   Good things do often emerge from
what seems bad at first.


Renovating the farm house has enriched our lives.  Lots of friends have joined us.  In this case the Christophersons.  They
seem to have pillaged the garden.  Brenda’s father was a  crop duster in Manitoba with a plane much like the one that
tried ti kill Cary Grant.  


alan skeoch
Sept. 6, 2020










EPISODE 111 “ALAN, NEVER LET YOURSELF BE HOSTAGE TO FORTUNE.”

EPISODE 111   ALAN, NEVER  LET YOURSELF BE HOSTAGE  TO FORTUNE.


alan skeoch
Sept. 6 , 2020

OUR farm house  was built around 1870 or 1880.   The owner at the time had very little money…he had to cut corners as we discovered
in the renovation a century later.   The design was  common … available plans in Eaton’s catalogue. Mom, grandma and their dog Punch
on front lawn.

We inherited the farm in 1958.  Condition? Not so good.   We could barely afford to look after our 
city house.

Our family around  1958 when we inherited the Freeman farm.  We were not wealthy so owning property like the farm
was a  novel and frightening thing.  Only later, around 1990 could Marjorie and I afford to renovate…and even then it
took the shock of the robbery to force us into action.   Picture: left to right…Eric, Elsie (Freeman) Skeoch, Alan, Arnold (Red) Skeoch
We laughed a lot…in this case someone broke wind  Just as  I set the camera  for a delayed picture.


Months after the farm robbery we had to give  serious thought to the farm future. 
Should we keep the farm  or  put it up for sale like was happening to so many
other historic farms.  The debate was just awful.

THE choice?  Sell everything  or pour a lot of money into restoration of the farm house.
Depressing thoughts.   The loss of so much. Family treasures gone.    The usual ‘poor me’
comments by persons who have been robbed.   grieving that deep
sense of loss when someone you love is gone.  Anger.  Feeling violated.  All
that and more.  For the first few hours. 

 Then the clouds of doubt cleared away.

Granddad  made small wheelbarrows for us.  Note the sad dog house in the  background.  Fancy living on a farm?  Not so much.


Then I thought of Evan Cruickshank who had such a powerful influence on my life.
“Crooky” had been our history teacher at Humberside.  A man of deep intellect.
And later he hired both Eric and me as  history teachers at Parkdale Collegiate in
west central Toronto.  I got to know him really well as did Marjorie.  Respect and
friendship.   “Crusher” Cruickshank had many words of  wisdom which he shared
Never heavy handed sharing.  Never patronizing.  

Our robbery was hurting.  At its worst when I suddenly remembered “Crooky’s”
comment regarding material things in life.  “Alan, never let yourself be hostage
to fortune.”  Said another way.  “Never let things own you.  If you do you will
have an unhappy life.”                                                                               

We were grieving the loss  of the furniture and everything else in the house.  What we
should have been thinking about was the house itself and the future direction we would take.   

NOTE:  The term hostage to fortune means that wealth, family, possessions can hold
us hostage.  Crooky added ‘Never be’ to ‘hostage to fortune’ which I believe meant
to never let the material things in life hold you hostage.  Do not worship your wonderful car, 
for instance.

I am not sure this  point if clear.  We decided to put our money into a dream rather
than  save it for who knows what .   Maybe that is  not even clear.  We took action.
That is  clear.


Many many Ontario farm houses that were built far better than ours have been destroyed.  

SO A  DECISION WAS MADE:  WE WILL RESTORE THE FARM HOUSE

“Let’s do it…restore the farm house.”
“That means a total gutting  of the interior.”
“Give the job to Kevin and Andy…strip back to the bricks.”
“The boys will enjoy it…demolition and teen agers go hand  in hand.”

1)  So  Andrew and Kevin using crowbars, sledges,  hammers and a wheelbarrow
began stripping away the plaster which was already in decay…then the lathe  
some of which was even ancient split lathe.  Wheelbarrow  loads were dumped
outside.

2) Beneath the plaster they discovered that our brick farm house was really
not a brick house at all.  Underneath was a barn frame…heavy hand hewn beams
pegged together as was the custom in 1870.  This was not a house at all.  Had
we depended on the bricks to hold the ouse up then there would  be no house.
The bricks were soft as a baby’s bum.  They had been shaped and  fired less
than  a mile away near #5 sidereal.  Weak.  I wondered why other brick  farm houses
had  collapsed  and  ours did not.  Now  I knew. Ours was  a barn.

3) But  The big beams had not been  made here.  No group of men with broad axes
had  spent a year or more preparing white pine beams.  No.  Our farm house
was made from beams  collected here and there across the township in 1870 or so.
How did  we know?   Because many beams had burn marks.  The beams had
been gathered from older burned out buildings…barns, drivesheds.   

4) Nothing special about the beams.  The great floor beams were only rough
hewn on one side…sometimes two sides.  The other sides still had the bark.
This house was not an example of fine art carpentry.  

5) The board  floors had been worn to nubs by hundreds of feet over the century.
The nubs were the knots.  Harder than the planks and therefore when worn and 
stamped on left a wavy floor that I always found charming.  But it had to go and
so the boys got crowbars to lift the ancient slabs.  Too bad.  Loved  the old floor.

6) They made one amazing discovery.  Hard to believe I  know.  The centre of
the house was held up by one long carved beam.  Crucial piece to which  all
the other beams were attached directly or indirectly.  “Guess  what, Dad?”
“What?” “The main beam hangs in the air.”   The main beam never touched
the ground.  It was free standing.  How that happened we will never know.  had
we not stripped the walls that fact would remain a little secret.  How the roof
held up for 130 years or more I will never understand.   

Ricky the  Raccoon was a pet of ours until he  reached puberty when all things changed.  While young Ricky would scamper up our
shoulders to sit on our heads.  Here he is being gently removed by David S.

Did Ricky the Racoon sneak back and  take up residence behind the plaster and lathe of the farm house?  Not likely.  We let him
go in a farm field  far away.  But raccoons are smart.

7) That was  only one discovery.  There were others.  Like finding a nest
of raccoons in the upper bedroom wall.  They had  made the house a home
for years it seems.  And then there were the red squirrels who can chew there
way into any house.  Mice, of course.  A plentiful supply that the garter snakes
must have found convenient food.  A bunch of snakes lived in the field stone
foundation.  They may still be there since the foundation was  never changed only
braced.

8) The basement floor was dirt.  Hard packed dirt.  Three rooms down there, each
with a function but all with dirt footing.  In spring this cellar was wet…pooled water
often.  But the walls held.  One room had big dirt floored stalls…one for coal, one for potatoes,
carrots, etc.   The other room Grandma called “the Dairy’ where she kept food in
the cool dark.  Slabs of beef hung here which was why I liked to slather our meals
with Worcester Sauce.   I never trusted the Dairy.  No good reason.  Grandma and
Grandpa Freeman lived here deep in their 90’s.  The other big cellar room
had an old  but huge cook stove with a pipe hole exit carved into the foundation.  This was
grandma’s ‘summer kitchen’ but was never in use when we were growing up. There
was a rickety staircase and  a trap door that gave access to the main house.
Granddad  had  his carpenters tools there as well.   As a kid  I stole one of his
chisels and got caught.  I ran and  hid  in the tall summer grasses and golden rod
on that day.  Humiliated because  I was caught.   I still have the chisel somewhere.
Granddad gave it to me.  He was a master craftsman.

9) Kevin and Andrew also had to clean out the attic…a long unfinished room
that ran eastwards from the upstairs bedrooms where the raccoons lived.
That attic was  a wonderful treasure trove.  For most of  my pre teen years I explored this
room endlessly.  For years it was full of spinning wheels,  walking wheels and  all
the wool processing things of the 19th century and other treasures that were to me
a mystery.  I remember when most of that stuff suddenly was gone. “OH, Elsie (my 
mother), a wonderful man came by and paid  us money for the things in the attic.”
“How much?” “Ten dollars”  Bastard.

10)  The scavenger missed a 1920’s “skin” book called  Smokehouse.  Lots of rather
off colour jokes and some suggestive drawings of stockings with legs in them … at least 
as I remember.  And, oh yes, the explosive novel “Tobacco Road” by Erskine Caldwell.
At tale of poverty and prejudice in the American  south.  That book  would even be
scandalous in today’s liberal world.  It was  falling apart as  it had been read  and  re read
and  re read again by me.

11) So the house was stripped bare…a shell. No, a  folderol i.e. A barn within a brick house.
Now we had to find a builder.  By good fortune we noticed a truck  while getting ice cream cones
in Erin.  WAYNE SHANNON, BUILDER    No beating around the bush we hired him to renovate
and reconstruct the farm house.   He  had some great ideas.  Open concept.

12) And  he said  a couple of things I had  not counted upon  “Where do you want the bathroom?”
My response  was “What  bathroom?”…because we had a perfect backhouse I had  built.  Marjorie
chimed  in and so we got two bathrooms.  His next question was about the trap door to the
cellar.  “Of course we will close that trap door and put a stairway to the cellar.” “What? I love that
trap door.”  Then everyone chimed in so  we got a stairway.  And  another question I had not
counted upon was the furnace.  “What furnace? Isn’t the old wood stove good enough?” That 
thought was also put to rest when Wayne found us a good electric  furnace.* (Note..furnace
will be subject of  major story later…a story so  big that my picture replaced the Sunshine Girl
on the Toronto Sun.  No  vanity involved…just a very bitter fight with Hydro One)

13) Wayne and his worker crew spent the whole winter changing the farm house. What a
terrific job they did.   The house became a home.  We have entertained there so much
since.  Grand  dinners.   Wayne did not stop with the house.  “Alan, you need a barn.”
On this, I agreed so  Wayne built us a barn with a cement floor.  These were good times.

TO WHOM DO I OWE MY GRATITUDE?

I really must thank the robber that stripped the farm house of furniture and who knows what else.
Without him we would have never taken such drastic action   Good things do often emerge from
what seems bad at first.


Renovating the farm house has enriched our lives.  Lots of friends have joined us.  In this case the Christophersons.  They
seem to have pillaged the garden.  Brenda’s father was a  crop duster in Manitoba with a plane much like the one that
tried ti kill Cary Grant.  


alan skeoch
Sept. 6, 2020










EPISODE 111 “ALAN, NEVER LET YOURSELF BE HOSTAGE TO FORTUNE.”

EPISODE 111   ALAN, NEVER  LET YOURSELF BE HOSTAGE  TO FORTUNE.


alan skeoch
Sept. 6 , 2020

OUR farm house  was built around 1870 or 1880.   The owner at the time had very little money…he had to cut corners as we discovered
in the renovation a century later.   The design was  common … available plans in Eaton’s catalogue. Mom, grandma and their dog Punch
on front lawn.

We inherited the farm in 1958.  Condition? Not so good.   We could barely afford to look after our 
city house.

Our family around  1958 when we inherited the Freeman farm.  We were not wealthy so owning property like the farm
was a  novel and frightening thing.  Only later, around 1990 could Marjorie and I afford to renovate…and even then it
took the shock of the robbery to force us into action.   Picture: left to right…Eric, Elsie (Freeman) Skeoch, Alan, Arnold (Red) Skeoch
We laughed a lot…in this case someone broke wind  Just as  I set the camera  for a delayed picture.


Months after the farm robbery we had to give  serious thought to the farm future. 
Should we keep the farm  or  put it up for sale like was happening to so many
other historic farms.  The debate was just awful.

THE choice?  Sell everything  or pour a lot of money into restoration of the farm house.
Depressing thoughts.   The loss of so much. Family treasures gone.    The usual ‘poor me’
comments by persons who have been robbed.   grieving that deep
sense of loss when someone you love is gone.  Anger.  Feeling violated.  All
that and more.  For the first few hours. 

 Then the clouds of doubt cleared away.

Granddad  made small wheelbarrows for us.  Note the sad dog house in the  background.  Fancy living on a farm?  Not so much.


Then I thought of Evan Cruickshank who had such a powerful influence on my life.
“Crooky” had been our history teacher at Humberside.  A man of deep intellect.
And later he hired both Eric and me as  history teachers at Parkdale Collegiate in
west central Toronto.  I got to know him really well as did Marjorie.  Respect and
friendship.   “Crusher” Cruickshank had many words of  wisdom which he shared
Never heavy handed sharing.  Never patronizing.  

Our robbery was hurting.  At its worst when I suddenly remembered “Crooky’s”
comment regarding material things in life.  “Alan, never let yourself be hostage
to fortune.”  Said another way.  “Never let things own you.  If you do you will
have an unhappy life.”                                                                               

We were grieving the loss  of the furniture and everything else in the house.  What we
should have been thinking about was the house itself and the future direction we would take.   

NOTE:  The term hostage to fortune means that wealth, family, possessions can hold
us hostage.  Crooky added ‘Never be’ to ‘hostage to fortune’ which I believe meant
to never let the material things in life hold you hostage.  Do not worship your wonderful car, 
for instance.

I am not sure this  point if clear.  We decided to put our money into a dream rather
than  save it for who knows what .   Maybe that is  not even clear.  We took action.
That is  clear.


Many many Ontario farm houses that were built far better than ours have been destroyed.  

SO A  DECISION WAS MADE:  WE WILL RESTORE THE FARM HOUSE

“Let’s do it…restore the farm house.”
“That means a total gutting  of the interior.”
“Give the job to Kevin and Andy…strip back to the bricks.”
“The boys will enjoy it…demolition and teen agers go hand  in hand.”

1)  So  Andrew and Kevin using crowbars, sledges,  hammers and a wheelbarrow
began stripping away the plaster which was already in decay…then the lathe  
some of which was even ancient split lathe.  Wheelbarrow  loads were dumped
outside.

2) Beneath the plaster they discovered that our brick farm house was really
not a brick house at all.  Underneath was a barn frame…heavy hand hewn beams
pegged together as was the custom in 1870.  This was not a house at all.  Had
we depended on the bricks to hold the ouse up then there would  be no house.
The bricks were soft as a baby’s bum.  They had been shaped and  fired less
than  a mile away near #5 sidereal.  Weak.  I wondered why other brick  farm houses
had  collapsed  and  ours did not.  Now  I knew. Ours was  a barn.

3) But  The big beams had not been  made here.  No group of men with broad axes
had  spent a year or more preparing white pine beams.  No.  Our farm house
was made from beams  collected here and there across the township in 1870 or so.
How did  we know?   Because many beams had burn marks.  The beams had
been gathered from older burned out buildings…barns, drivesheds.   

4) Nothing special about the beams.  The great floor beams were only rough
hewn on one side…sometimes two sides.  The other sides still had the bark.
This house was not an example of fine art carpentry.  

5) The board  floors had been worn to nubs by hundreds of feet over the century.
The nubs were the knots.  Harder than the planks and therefore when worn and 
stamped on left a wavy floor that I always found charming.  But it had to go and
so the boys got crowbars to lift the ancient slabs.  Too bad.  Loved  the old floor.

6) They made one amazing discovery.  Hard to believe I  know.  The centre of
the house was held up by one long carved beam.  Crucial piece to which  all
the other beams were attached directly or indirectly.  “Guess  what, Dad?”
“What?” “The main beam hangs in the air.”   The main beam never touched
the ground.  It was free standing.  How that happened we will never know.  had
we not stripped the walls that fact would remain a little secret.  How the roof
held up for 130 years or more I will never understand.   

Ricky the  Raccoon was a pet of ours until he  reached puberty when all things changed.  While young Ricky would scamper up our
shoulders to sit on our heads.  Here he is being gently removed by David S.

Did Ricky the Racoon sneak back and  take up residence behind the plaster and lathe of the farm house?  Not likely.  We let him
go in a farm field  far away.  But raccoons are smart.

7) That was  only one discovery.  There were others.  Like finding a nest
of raccoons in the upper bedroom wall.  They had  made the house a home
for years it seems.  And then there were the red squirrels who can chew there
way into any house.  Mice, of course.  A plentiful supply that the garter snakes
must have found convenient food.  A bunch of snakes lived in the field stone
foundation.  They may still be there since the foundation was  never changed only
braced.

8) The basement floor was dirt.  Hard packed dirt.  Three rooms down there, each
with a function but all with dirt footing.  In spring this cellar was wet…pooled water
often.  But the walls held.  One room had big dirt floored stalls…one for coal, one for potatoes,
carrots, etc.   The other room Grandma called “the Dairy’ where she kept food in
the cool dark.  Slabs of beef hung here which was why I liked to slather our meals
with Worcester Sauce.   I never trusted the Dairy.  No good reason.  Grandma and
Grandpa Freeman lived here deep in their 90’s.  The other big cellar room
had an old  but huge cook stove with a pipe hole exit carved into the foundation.  This was
grandma’s ‘summer kitchen’ but was never in use when we were growing up. There
was a rickety staircase and  a trap door that gave access to the main house.
Granddad  had  his carpenters tools there as well.   As a kid  I stole one of his
chisels and got caught.  I ran and  hid  in the tall summer grasses and golden rod
on that day.  Humiliated because  I was caught.   I still have the chisel somewhere.
Granddad gave it to me.  He was a master craftsman.

9) Kevin and Andrew also had to clean out the attic…a long unfinished room
that ran eastwards from the upstairs bedrooms where the raccoons lived.
That attic was  a wonderful treasure trove.  For most of  my pre teen years I explored this
room endlessly.  For years it was full of spinning wheels,  walking wheels and  all
the wool processing things of the 19th century and other treasures that were to me
a mystery.  I remember when most of that stuff suddenly was gone. “OH, Elsie (my 
mother), a wonderful man came by and paid  us money for the things in the attic.”
“How much?” “Ten dollars”  Bastard.

10)  The scavenger missed a 1920’s “skin” book called  Smokehouse.  Lots of rather
off colour jokes and some suggestive drawings of stockings with legs in them … at least 
as I remember.  And, oh yes, the explosive novel “Tobacco Road” by Erskine Caldwell.
At tale of poverty and prejudice in the American  south.  That book  would even be
scandalous in today’s liberal world.  It was  falling apart as  it had been read  and  re read
and  re read again by me.

11) So the house was stripped bare…a shell. No, a  folderol i.e. A barn within a brick house.
Now we had to find a builder.  By good fortune we noticed a truck  while getting ice cream cones
in Erin.  WAYNE SHANNON, BUILDER    No beating around the bush we hired him to renovate
and reconstruct the farm house.   He  had some great ideas.  Open concept.

12) And  he said  a couple of things I had  not counted upon  “Where do you want the bathroom?”
My response  was “What  bathroom?”…because we had a perfect backhouse I had  built.  Marjorie
chimed  in and so we got two bathrooms.  His next question was about the trap door to the
cellar.  “Of course we will close that trap door and put a stairway to the cellar.” “What? I love that
trap door.”  Then everyone chimed in so  we got a stairway.  And  another question I had not
counted upon was the furnace.  “What furnace? Isn’t the old wood stove good enough?” That 
thought was also put to rest when Wayne found us a good electric  furnace.* (Note..furnace
will be subject of  major story later…a story so  big that my picture replaced the Sunshine Girl
on the Toronto Sun.  No  vanity involved…just a very bitter fight with Hydro One)

13) Wayne and his worker crew spent the whole winter changing the farm house. What a
terrific job they did.   The house became a home.  We have entertained there so much
since.  Grand  dinners.   Wayne did not stop with the house.  “Alan, you need a barn.”
On this, I agreed so  Wayne built us a barn with a cement floor.  These were good times.

TO WHOM DO I OWE MY GRATITUDE?

I really must thank the robber that stripped the farm house of furniture and who knows what else.
Without him we would have never taken such drastic action   Good things do often emerge from
what seems bad at first.


Renovating the farm house has enriched our lives.  Lots of friends have joined us.  In this case the Christophersons.  They
seem to have pillaged the garden.  Brenda’s father was a  crop duster in Manitoba with a plane much like the one that
tried ti kill Cary Grant.  


alan skeoch
Sept. 6, 2020










EPISODE 110 “FATALLII PEPPER”…OUR BRANS SURGED…ALERT! ALERT! …AND WE RAN.”



Begin forwarded message:


From: ALAN SKEOCH <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>
Subject: HOT PEPPERS GARDEN 2020
Date: September 6, 2020 at 4:58:07 AM EDT
To: Alan Skeoch <alan.skeoch@rogers.com>


EPISODE  110    “FATALLII PEPPER” … OUR BRAINS SURGED…ALERT! ALERT!…AND WE RAN.”

alan skeoch
Sept 2020

The scene may look pastoral…relaxed.  But that was  not the case…even Woody
the dog looked for relief and  he did not eat any peppers.


Now what in tarnation is this?  Shrivelled up pepper due to the month long drought.
NOT SO!




“Here Andrew,  we  grew these odd looking peppers…do you know them?”
“Hot peppers, Mom.”
“I thought they were different…small, shrivelled  looking, wrinkled.”
“Here taste  one.”

And  Andrew, pinched off a piece about size of a  radish seed…tiny.  

“Here, Dad, you have a taste too.”

Both Marjorie and I immediately had flashes from our brains.  “

Alert!  Alert! Do  not eat. Regurgitate now. You are in danger!”

Andrew gave a lopsided grin.  “Hot, eh!”

By then we were both racing to the farm house for water…for anything that would reduce the burning sensation on our
lips…tongue,..throat.  We had  immediately spit out the tiny piece of  green or yellow wrinkled  pepper fruit.  Spitting out
did no good.  We needed water.  Marjorie got to the house first.  I tried to soldier out the exploding burning sensation.
But I needed water…anything.  

Marjorie was arched over the kitchen sink.  “I think I’m going to vomit.  Maybe faint.  Need water..water.”

Since she had the sink, there was no room for me.  I yanked  open the refrigerator where a half consumed
bottle of beer was cooling.   I drank some right away.   Seemed to reduce the burning.  “Here Marjorie, try this.”
She does not normally like beer but gave it a shot.  She was returning to normal  by that time anyway.

What in hell’s half acre had we eaten?   A pepper.  I knew that but what kind  of pepper?

Later, about 3 a.m. while we combed the internet for pictures of  peppers we agreed that one variety
…the Fatalii pepper…was  closest.  Fatalii peppers are the hottest pepper on earth according to internet
sources.  Like all peppers they originated in South America but were ‘improved’ in Africa which is the
main source.
NORMAL GREEN PEPPER FRUIT BESIDE FATALII HOT PEPPERS.


One source was dead on.  Dead  on?  Wrong term since we did  not die.   But the source said that as soon as
piece of the Falalii pepper touches the lips then the tongue, our brains immediately go into overdrive with
the Alerts.  And that is  what happened.   As soon as that little piece of  pepper flesh hit our tongues
there was word from our brain.  “Spit the damn  thing out right now…get water right now…beer will do if no
water.”   As  it turns out relief from the burning is best relieved  by  milk or other dairy products.  We did
not know that.

How did  Fatalii peppers get into our garden?  That is  our fault.  We try to look for unusual  plants
at garden centres and I dimly remember a hand drawn  sigh saying something about a  hot pepper plant
at a nursery near Erin.  Could have also  been the nursery on Trafalgar Road north of Oakville.  Due 
to the Covid 19 scare we wore masks and were encouraged to make our purchases and  leave
quickly.  Marjorie must have grabbed  the Fatalii…not me…I am too smart for that.  (Ahem!)
Thankfully the pepper is  not really Fatal.  Just seems  so.

The plant is still alive.  Now here is an  idea. We will keep growing these peppers  and  will put them in a special place
in hopes  that any future thieves will sample them.   So, be  warned,  if you look in our refrigerator
and  see a  hand written sign saying “Tastes good…take a bite.”..please do not be fooled unless
you are a thief.

alan  skeoch
Sept. 2020

P>S>   Fatalii is  the closest we could come to identifying these peppers.  We could be 
wrong.  

P.P.S   In the course of our night long research we discovered that some craft beers
used tiny bits  of Fatalli peppers to sharpen the taste.  Imagine that.  Much more can be
said but I think this is enough.

P.P.S.  What about Andrew?   What did we do to get even?  What ‘should’ we do?
Laughter is inappropriate somehow.  We are  debating the problem.





Marjorie took this picture of part of  our crop.  A good  warning sign.  Note the hole in one of the Fatalii peppers where
some kind of slug, worm, bug…crawled inside and died I think.
Marjorie does not usually like beer…but this day, the day of the hot pepper, she changed her mind.

EPISODE 109 BIG TIME ROBBERY: AND REPERCUSSIONS

EPISODE109    BIG TIME  ROBBERY AND REPERCUSSIONS



alan skeoch
Sept. 2020



“RING…RING”
“ALAN, did you know the front door of the farm is  wide  open?” 
(Said Tim Rock, a neighbour)
“No, thanks, we’ll get right up there.”

It was mid March.  Slushy farm roads, lots of fog and  moonless night.

“We have  been  robbed big time,  Marjorie.”

   I had  hoped the door was just
ajar.  That would be  my fault but I had at the same time  sinking feeling that my 
troubles could  be a lot worse than that.  Break and enter robbery.  Our family farm house had
been stripped by robbers who just took their time from about 
mid-night until the  small hours of that dark March evening..   How do I know they took their time?
Because  the dishes and crockery were sorted carefully on the farmhouse floor.  Those rejected were
in piles..   The good stuff was gone.

They, I assume more than 1 person, were so  confident that  they even stole
my trailer to load the big things.  Just backed the trailer up to the front door 
after filling their truck with the smaller things  like the dishes.  Imagine that
…they used  my trailer.  That meant they must have known the trailer was
parked  under the big maples.   Our farm had been  ‘cased’…someone had
noted the farm house was vulnerable.  That’s what professional thieves  do…
they carefully case  a target then strike when least likely to be noticed.  If anyone
did notice they might even say “Alan’s working late tonight…has his trailer 
backed up to the front door.”  A good thief exudes confidence.

Eric and I spent much  of our lives on the Freeman farm.  The farm marked  us  indelibly.  Eric on the right.


Our grandparents,  Ed and Louisa Freeman, had died years
earlier around 1958.  Mom and dad  had recently passed  on.
 We tried to keep the house  as they had left it…like
Miss Havisham’s house described by Charles Dickens in Great Expectations.
But a happy place not miserable.  It would take a lot of money to fix up the house
which had  been built in the 1870’s and showed its age.

The main room was the kitchen
where the wood stove made  winters livable.  The  thieves managed
to get the huge flatback kitchen  cupboard  out the front door into
my trailer.  No easy task.  It was six to seven  feet high with shelves
and  doors and even a built in mirror.   This was where Grandma kept
the things she prized most.  Gone. We  had never emptied it ourselves
so could  hardly make an  insurance claim.

The really big pieces of furniture  were in the living room.  A room rarely used.
Those large  family reunions were gone before mom had kids.  The room
was well finished all the same. What I missed
immediately was the  dark  varnished long  cupboard that always
smelled of cookies because  grandma kept them there for Eric and  I to gorge
upon on our week  end visits from the city.  Gone.  

I suppose the most valuable piece they  got was the huge heavy pedestal table…
with inserts should a grand party be organized.  That table was filled with home
cooking on the day in 1937 mom and dad were married in that room.  Lots of fine
memories of that victorian jewel.   Mom told us that Dad’s brothers were busy
in the cellar  while the wedding feast was underway…laid out on the big table..  Uncles Norman,  Archie,
Art and maybe even John from Saskatchewan…and  Uncle Ernest who was really a cousin…
all of them were busy dumping
out Mom’s wedding  clothes and filling her suitcase with carrots,squash and zucchini in
the belief that mom would not really need clothes  on her honeymoon.  I  say 
this to show how the furniture in the farmhouse connected with events in our
daily life.

Anyone who has been  robbed knows the feeling.  Akin to rape.




We had  no electronics … no bottles  of fine whisky  … no electric 
kitchen gadgets.  No problem for the thieves.  After loading up at
our farm house they drove across the road and stripped the neighbours
house of the TV set, radio, LP player, etc.etc.   Maybe  they hit that
place first. The family were away that evening.  The thieves  must
have really done some fine planning.

Mom and Marjorie on the farm.  Daisy on the left, what a good dog but not her best profile.  Our pet ducks, Ping and Pong in the pond.  Those ducks
thought we were their mom and dad  so they came at our bidding.  The farm was a key part of our lives.  Robbery was a shock.


I was really glad that mom and dad had passed on when the robbery 
happened.  Mom would have been really hurt as it was her home.  Dad
would have been furious and might have laid blame on innocent drifters.
He did not trust everyone, especially new  people on the Fifth line.

I was still doing CBC radio shows at the time  so I created a script for
the five minute time slot on Friday’s Radio Noon.  I addressed the 
thieves…first person.

i.e. “You stole things that are alive.  Please treat them well. The big
dining  room table, for instance.  Take a close look at it.  Along one
edge you will see some indentations.  Small.  That was the place
where our little son Andrew’s teeth hit the table when  he threw a
temper tantrum.  Why?  Marjorie had  wrapped  up  nickels and  dimes
and quarters in the cake for Andrew’s fifth or sixth birthday.  All his 
friends got a coin or two.  Andrew got nothing.  He got the piece
of cake with no dime wrapped  in wax paper.  He was devastated
and bit the table for a reason I cannot fathom.  So, Mr. thief, when
you sell this table put a few dollar extra on your price.  Andrew’s
teeth marks are worth something extra.”

The broadcast had lots of these twists and  turns.  All addressed 
to the thieves who were unlikely to be listening.

The thieves missed these picture frames…hand carved by granddad in winter times
honouring the worker on the Eywood Estate  they left in 1908.  This was the estate cook
who was Mom’s godparent.  Thankfully the thieves  considered these of  no value.

One  of granddad’s largest carvings framed this picture of Mom…Elsie Freeman.   Hand coloured
picture taken I think by a pinhole camera granddad  made himself.


“And,  Mr Thief, let me ask  you a question.   Why did you not also steal 
the pump organ that grandma and grandpa kept in the
front room kitchen.  Thanks for leaving it behind.  I suppose
it has no value or then again might be too easy to identify.  No matter.
I appreciate you left it behind.  Did you know that the organ was
the only piece fo  furniture grandma and grandpa were able to 
save when their log cabin caught fire in the pioneer village of Krugerdorf,
near Englehart.  They lugged it out of the conflagration then They lugged the organ south to the Fifth line.  I was
so glad you did not steal it.  Grandma would  play the organ  on winter
nights while granddad played his prized violin.  Their dog Laddie
always joined  in and howled  throughout.   My favourite piece was
their rendition of The Devil’s Dream.  That piece you probably know by
heart as the anthem most popular among thieves .  Thanks for 
being so thoughtful.  Or was the organ just to hard to get onto my
trailer load.”

As it turned out the thief was listening.  Or some cruel  practical joker
saw a chance to put the fear of the lord  into me.  shortly after 
the broadcast I got a note from a person claiming to be the thief.
It was not nice.  “Shut the fuck up or we’ll drop by and torch the place.”
Now that really sacred me.  No sense of humour.  

We had been talking to the OPP about the thefts. Not much they could do except drop
by now and then.

“What happens to our furniture?”

“  probably driven immediately down to Quebec
and sold as antiques.   trailer and all.  Removed licence plates of course.
 In other words sold where things could
not be identified as stollen.   Not much we can do.”

“One thing you might do.  Maybe when you are having lunch
and  are near here.   Maybe you can park in our laneway.  That
might just send  a message.”

Like ripples on the pond, many other tings happened. One of
the  weirdest was done by a student teacher of mine  She believed
in ESP.  She could communicate with the thief by some  sort 
of near witchcraft.  “Would you like me to try?”  “Noting to lose.”
She came to see me sometime later.  “The thief lives nearby…a
mile or so North west of the farm.  Knows your farm.”  Now that 
bit of  information really startled me.  I would rather have heard
the thief was living in Quebec or, even better, that he had a home
on the moon.  I did not want to know he was close by.

Bottom line.  I decided to shut up. No more radio stories.

The next incident was a kind of dark humour.    Two months later on a May evening…after dark…our
neighbour Ron Saunders noticed a car parked at the front door to our farm house.
No lights.  Activity.   Ron alerted his son-in-law Tim and they drove over in two cars.
Was  Ron armed  with his shotgun.  I think he said he was.  They blocked the front
of our farm  by focusing their headlights on the door. They were not fooling around.

Then our oldest son Kevin  came out.  Alarmed. He had  finished his year at the University of
Toronto and was putting things in storage at the farm.  Ron Saunders was first to
laugh.  “By Jesus, we thought we had a thief,  Kevin.”

This robbery had legs.   There was
insurance involved.  We had a policy with a local  insurance broker
who asked me to list what was taken  and suggest a value.  Not
easy to do since I had  forgotten some things and did not know exactly what was taken.
I walked through the rooms and  looked at empty spots where the linoleum
was lighter…not worn.   My estimate was $6,000.  Best I could do
I asked  that the insurance company to send a person over.  And we waited.
No  one came.  So I phoned.   

“No person will be coming.  Your claim of
$6,000 will be accepted.”  

“But what if  I am lying…making things.up.”

Unlikely you would do that.  Insurance scammers are spotted
but rarely at the $6,000 level.  

“When do you send an investigator then?”

“$15,000 dollar claims and up. “  Now that was a big  surprise.  If I was
an insurance investigator and had a claim come in for $14,999 i would
be  suspicious indeed.

WHAT COULD BE DONE WITH $6,000?

The insurance money must be put to good use.   We could not buy
back what was lost.  But we could do something memorable.


“Marjorie,  why don’t we put that money into a trip with Andrew and
Kevin back to England…back to Herefordshire where grandma and
grandpa were  born.  Back to the Eywood  Estate where grandpa 
was the head  gardener.  I think grandma and grandpa wuld like that.
Best thing we could do with the money.

So we did.  If I ever met the thief I would shake his hand.  Without 
him our kids would  not really know their roots


ALAN SKEOCH
SEPT. 2020

P.S,   The old pump organ is safely kept. Sadly no one knows
how  to play it.  It is however a symbol that reminds  me often
of that slushy, foggy, March evening when the moon was covered
over and  thieves were busy pushing my trailer up to the front door
of our farm house

NEXT EPISODE       THE ROBBERY    “NEVER BE  HOSTAGE TO FORTUNE”



EPISODE 108 ROBBERIES

EPISODE  108  ROBBERIES


No  doubt most readers  have been robbed at one time or another.  Shocking in the past.
Common in the present with internet exposure.  Trust is difficult because internet robbers
are so sophisticated.

Play the game called ‘FIND THE TOURIST’ at the end of these tales of woe.


Old  time robbers were not as sophisticated  as modern summers.

Robbers?  Below

1) Like the robber our dog treed one winer evening.  We heard a hullabaloo in the back yard
where Sonny was put out for a ‘walk’.   What was he barking at?  Unusual for Sonny since
he was such a placid dog…big, super friendly Labrador.  At first we saw nothing
then noticed a tall thin man with his back to one of our trees.  Almost invisible.

“Get the dog away.”
“Dog is friendly…will not bite.”
“What are you doing in our back yard?”
“I have been drinking…got lost.”
“Where do  you live?”
“Over there on Hurontario.”
(He waved in the right direction. He was stumbling in that direction.
We had  no lock  on our gate and a deep back wilderness that eventually
linked up with Hurontario.)
“What is your name?”  No answer, slurred
“Where is your house?   No answer, or slurred

And away he went.  Fooled us.  We really thought
he was drunk.   A  few minutes later we changed  our minds…likely
a break and enter person.  Do  not know really.

2)  Like the robber who got into my workshop and stole
some of my power tools….electric saw, electric drill, etc….
a full arm load gone.

It was winTer time with fresh snow so I was able to track the thief
down through our backyard, across the little creek, up through the
wilderness  park, out to Hurontario.

And right to the bus stop where the tracks ended  and the thief
got away.   Ridiculous.   He probably sold all the tools for five
or ten dollars.

But what would  I have done if  I found him?  Think about that.
Best he was  not found  and confronted.

3)  Like the robber who got my cellphone from our truck.
Stupid of me to leave it there but such stupidity is common
in men. Less so in women, my wife says.

The cell phone was gone.  Then we heard  from neighbours
that they had been robbed as well.  Much bigger take from
them.  My cell phone was worth nothing so it was thrown
away in the road ditch where it was  found by me.

I checked the calls.  Turned out there were  five calls
to the robbers friends.  Names given.  Clues  given.
Long conversations registered.   What to do?
I  visited the local police station.  

“I think the thieves  can be traced, officer…information
on my cell phone.”
“We do not have time for small incidents like this.”
“What if I do  the tracing?”
“I would not recommend that.”

4)  Like the time we parked our car in Marseilles, France.
All of us…6 people.  Relieved to find such a nice parking spot.
Tired and hungry.  Looking around.  

“Can you help me?”  (might have been in French)
“Sorry,, we just arrived here ourselves.”
(followed  by  some brief small talk…MEANWHILE
on the other side of the car a thief made a
quick clutch  and  grab …got Marjorie’s purse
with a little money but, worse, all her cards and
I.D.   There were ripples  of that robbery long after due
to the info the robber may  have sold to computer thieves.)

It happened so fast…done in less  than a few seconds.
The nice person talking with us was the front man or woman…not
sure which sex but I think female…we did not even suspect the front person until long
afterward.   What we learned, however, was that the choice parking
spot in the City of  Marseilles was  part of the scam.

5) Like the time Marjorie was  sort of mugged  by women thieves
in Slovakia.  That also  happened quickly.  Kevin  noticed  me in trouble
first. 

“Dad is  being mugged out there…quick, I’ve got to get to him.”

I wasn’t being mugged.  Just surrounded  by a bunch of middle
aged women.  Pressing in on me.   Gabbling. Pretending something.
Maybe getting into my pockets with skilled hands.  Nothing happened
though. 

“No problem, Kevin…kept my hand on my wallet.”

The real robbery was happening in the Women’s washroom
where Marjorie had  gone.  As  slick as a banana peel a cluster
of women pressed Marjorie.  When they got what they thought was
her wallet they vanished fast.  

“I was mugged in the washroom.”
“What did they get?”
“My glass case…I think they thought it was my wallet.”

 Talking in Slovak which was natural.  Tough looking
women suspected  later as being Roma (Gypsies).

As  fast as  a  whistle they frisked Marjorie and got what
they thought was her purse.  Then Kevin, our son who was teaching
English in Slovakia just when the Soviet Union was in collapse,
then Kevin came running out cursing…and the women shot off
in various  directions.

“Mom, do not stand around…you look like a tourist.”
“What do you expect me to do?”
“Stick  with me.”

6, 7, 8…LOTS of little robberies.  We have all had them.  Scams
are now as common as fleas on the neighbours dogs and cats.

GAME:  FIND  THE TOURIST FROM PICS BELOW.  (HINT: MARJORIE
SEEMS TO LIKE THE COLOUR RED


WHERE IS THIS STORY GOING?

Next Episode 109:  OUR BIG ROBBERY…DEVASTATED BUT WHAT TO DO



EPISODE 108 FEAR OF COVID19 HAS MADE ME LEERY OF BARBER SHOPS…THE RESULT?

EPISODE  108    FEAR OF COVID 19 HAS MADE ME LEERY OF BARBER SHOPS…THE RESULT?


EPISODE 108

SO I have sent you 108 stories…episodes….
TONIGHT I am too tired to do another so Marjorie thought
some of you might wonder what i look light….with or
without hair.   Thanks Brad  for sending the pic with the
curly red hair.


A confession:  Even though the episodes take a lot of time writing the
script and then searching through a thousand  or more photos to
try and bring the scripts to life…even though these stories  take a lot
of work.  I enjoy doing them.  Recording events that have affected
our tiny microcosmic community has and will continue to be
quite  enjoyable.  Just knowing that some of you take the time to
read them is flattering indeed.  I know some of you, like  Bill
McKay, only look at the pictures.  That is why Episode 108 is
so short.   No reading  required.

I believe the ten years spent in the mining game…Game? I believe
those glimpses of Canada were worth recording.   And then there 
is the Victor Poppa diary of sex and bombing in World War II.
Those adventures  would never have seen  the light
of day without the help of Covid 10.  And, oh yes, My dad, Red Skeoch,
was an unconventional father proud of his two sons in
a backhanded way.  “One is a gutsy bugger and the other
is as stupid as Joe’s dog.”  Dad  really new how to flatter
people.   No one would remember Dad except the people
he borrowed $20 from.  My brother and I thought our mother’s 
name was Methusala until we  discovered that was  the oldest
person in the Bible.  Mom was one year older than Dad, hence
the name Methusalum.  (Dad added the ‘um…sounded better…he would have
modernized the whole Bible were it not for the fact he found
the Daily Racing Form more interesting.

You want to know where the spark came from?  Voltaire, the
French author, wrote a book titled  Candide in which an innocent
and  naive young lad, Candide,  set out to see the world with his teacher,
Pangloss, as a guide.  What does  Pangloss  mean?
Big Mouth.   Voltaire’s affectiom for teachers was limited.
Those of you in isolation might like to find the book.  Not
hard to read. Some Chapters are only 2 pages long.

The stories will keep coming.

God, I wish I did not get a haircut today.  My curls were better
than Justin Trudeau’s.  Vanity.  All is Vanity.

alan skeoch
Sept. 2020

P>S>  And some  of you are  writing stories as well.  Great.
I feel justified.

PPS   Thanks Brad for sending this photo … the one with the
curly hair.   Marjorie took the other…the picture  with no hair.

EPISODE 107 DAISY, I WILL MISS YOU FOREVER.


EPISODE  107    DAISY, I WILL MISS YOU.


alan skeoch
August 2020

NOTE:   DAISY DIED A LONG TIME AGO…MAYBE 1983 OR 1984.   
SHE WAS A WONDERFJUL DOG.  WHEN SHE DIED I DID A SPECIAL
MEMORIAL FOR HER ON CBC RADIO.  A LOT OF PEOPLE CRIED.
ONE MAN, DRIVING ON HIGHWAY 401, HAD TO PULL OVER ON THE
SHOULDER;   OUR STUDIO PEOPLE SUDDENLY DISAPPEARED  AND
I FOUN MYSELF ALONE.  WHERE DID THEY GO?  THEY WERE CRYING
AS WELL.   PEOPLE WHO LISTENED TO ME ON THE RADIO OFTEN REMEMBER
MY MEMORIAL TO DAISY.   SO  HERE IS A PART OF IT FROM MEMORY.’


THE DAY THAT DAISY DIED…THE MUSIC STOPPED

WELL this is a sad day Daisy.  Tears  are flowing at our house.’
 You are gone and there is a gaping hole in our lives.
You were a good dog…a great dog…a loyal dog…a smart dog…but most of  all
you were  our dog.  And now you are gone leaving us with the memories.

YOU were born in Meaford when they still made cannons at the place.   The nights
were lit up with molten metal.  Cannons for historical sites. You were 
Not exactly pure bred…mostly Labrador with other genetic sweetener.  I wonder if
the mixed breed result was why your were so  intelligent.  You  bore us two
litters  of pups whose progeny might be still around.

You know what I remember best?  Sure, you do.

The day I bought that old tread mill near Cooperstown, New York State.
You showed  an interest right away…nosing the machine.  I thought some
previous  owner had left a scent but that was not the case at all.  You
knew how  the machine worked  and  were anxious  to give it a go



It took me some time to  be aware of your interest, Daisy.  But by pure
chance i asked  “Want to get up on the treadmill, Daisy?”

I expected you to balk.   Expected  that training a dog like you
to run a treadmill would take time and patience and loads of
rewards.  Not you, Daisy.  You jumped up right away…lucky
I had the hand  brake locked or you might have spun off backwards.

You walked  up the treads to the top and  looked over at me
as if to say, “Let’s get going, we  have work  to do.  We are now
a team.”

So I hooked the giant tuning fork to a fanning mill handle…put a load
on the break mill and said  “Up you get Daisy.”

No more  prompting.  You hopped up and  I released the brake and
presto…we had two  19th century machines in all operation.  You moved
those treads with slow  and steady certainty.  We were in the grain
cleaning  business so to speak.  Lots of nice  rattling noises.  That did
not bother you Daisy.  Your tail registered  contentment.  Swish…swish.

In those years Daisy we went to a lot of  small fairs.  Those were
the 1980’s when  many retired farmers  spent their idle hours getting
ancient machines humming for summer tourists.  We were part of
that showmanship.

Here is Daisy at the Canadian National Exhibition with Marjorie and Andy. Do you 
ever look contented Daisy.  Your treadmill is hooked to a fanning mill.

Daisy, do you remember that blunder I made at Sherwood Gladys
Hume’s Family Farm Festival?    I should not have let my mouth
talk while my brain was disengaged.    

Remember  Daisy?  We had a  large crowd clustered around ready
for your performance.    I said, “OK , Daisy, up you go.”
 And you  performed perfectly as  usual.  No indication of fatigue.
Very proud  of  your work.  Tail wagging at first and then serious  grain
cleaning.

Remember that woman in the audience?  She was  mad  as a  wet hen.
Mad at me, not you.  She loved  you and  was certain  I was abusing 
you.  She did not know much about dogs, did she?  She did  not know
that dogs  like to feel valued…to feel helpful…to feel  important…to be
understood.

Remember how incensed she was Daisy.   Remember how
she demanded  I stop the tread  mill.  Demanded I get you
off the machine.

Remember how  I ignored her at first.  Kept you on the machine.
as it clattered away.  Remember her yelling,  “How long are
you going to leave that poor dog on that machine. It’s abuse.
Stop.   How long must the poor dog labour?”

Remember my  stupid  answer.  “I leave her on the machine
until she drops  dead, then I go down to the SPCA and get
another dog.”   A  smart ass comment.   Really wish I had not
said it but the devil got my tongue.

Remember her reaction.  “I am going to get the police…the
Humane society…”  And away she went.  Of course she never
came back.   I said “That’s  enough for now Daisy, take a break,”
And I engaged the brake leaver.  You  jumped  down and some
of the crowd  came over to pet you.   Remember how important 
you felt?   

I was  always so proud of you Daisy.  I will miss  you forever.

alan skeoch
Sept   2020




NEXT EPISODE       HOW ABOUT OUR FANNING MILL COLLECTION…LARGEST COLLECTION OF  GRAIN
CLEANING MACHINES IN THE WORD.


WINTER IS COMING