EPISODE 401    THE SHORT AND HORRIFIC LIFE OF GEORGE EVERITT GREEN, HOME CHILD ,  PART FIVE

alan skeoch

august 2021

George Green

MR. MCKINLEY, sworn and examined by Mr. Mackay

Did you know the boy George Green?

Yes

Did you see him when you were sewing grass seed.

I did not see him.

Did you hear him?

Yes.

Doing what?

First he was calling the cows, then he semed to go back to the house and then I heard Miss Findlay scolding

and then I heard blows and the boy crying.

How many blows?

Several…five or six

Followed by what?

Crying

You could not see them?

They were at the other side of the house…fully 80 rods away.

Would the blows necessarily be very severe to enable you to hear them 80 rods away?

They would have been.

Do you remember pulling peas?

We were busy pulling peas and I heard Miss Findlay start to scold and I heard blows again.

Ordinary scolding?

Swearing…and I heard the blows again and the boy crying same as before.

What were the blows on the first occasion like?  Slaps of the fist?  What did they sound like?

Like as if you were chastising a horse with a stick or rope..

  Can you give me another date?

Mr, Mackay seemed to get worried.  Mr. Tucker defended Rose Findlay by creating doubt. 

Was it a horse she hit and not ‘George Green? Was George simple minded?

EPISODE 407:  “YES, NOLAN, OLD ENGLAND DOES EXIST!”

alan skeoch

Dec. 2017

Jan. 2018

This is Nolan Skeoch who has just turned  fifteen.  Without her love  affair with horses  OLD  ENGLAND  would never have  been

found.  She  was the  trigger for the search.  Not because she  was interested in the roads, pubs or folkways. But because  she

owned  the  horses and  the foals for which we were searching.  This story is a birthday  gift to you Nolan.  Of course Your mom 

is deeply involved in your life.  Not to be forgotten for she  found this little bit of Old England.

SIX CANADIANS IN SEARCH OF OLD  ENGLAND

alan skeoch

Dec.  2017

SIX CANADIANS in search for Old England. left to right:  Marjorie Skeoch, Kevin Skeoch, Nolan Skeoch, Morgan Skeoch, Gabriela Skeoch

and below them  Alan Skeoch ending a pint of  Old  England’s best bitter.

Once upon a  time two  months  ago as 2017 wound down and  2018 was about to be born six of us, Canadians,

decided to see if Old England still existed.   We had  criteria.  We had  doubts that Old England existed anymore.

1) Old  England had  to be found within a two  hour  drive of London.

2) Old  England would have ancient roadways … narrow and  deeply incised with towering oaks obscuring the sun.

3) Old England had to have  tiny villages with wood  bedecked bars  and  easy access to ancient ales.

4) Old  England had  to have slate or tile roofed barns with pigeon  roosts  and at least one large guard dog

5) Old England  had to have lots of horses of all ages

6) Old England  had to have rain otherwise the deep green of the countryside could not thrive.

7)  Old  England  had  to have wild creatures co existing with domesticated creatures.

8) Old  England  had to have a sense  of  mystery, even tension.

9) Old England must serve roast beef  with Yorkshire Pudding and trimmings 

So we  drove  westward from Muswell Hill and  Crouch End towards the hills of  Surrey.  We passed  beneath the thundering jetways of Heath Row international airport which raised doubts that Old England could be found.  Not to worry.

 The deeper we got into Surrey the narrower  were the roads and the more mysterious the land appeared as large oak trees spread their branches.  These were the same oaks that were harvested as timbers for the British Navy and the clipper ships that took our kin to Canada long years ago.  \

The road became a time tunnel.  These were medieval roads unchanged save by a skiffle of asphalt. 

This trip was becoming mysterious…magical.   Our very own  time machine.  These  same  roads had been travelled  by Romans long long ago

and centuries later medieval carts  had rumbled along in those long ages when most people lived on tiny farms and never ever saw big cities.

Then we cut through a leafy laneway where an ancient farm was protected by this Rhodesian  Ridgeback, a dog whose breed  reputation was unsavoury  But

this guy was lonely…glad to see us.

Looks like a pigeon apartment building.  Likely is.  There was a time when the gentry enjoyed  a  plate of baby pigeons when fine  dining.  Probably why

they  drank so much  and got that foot disorder called gout.   Subnamed “revenge of the pigeons”  

Now  this  is  really Old England.  Look at the  roof of the barn dead centre…heavy red tiles sloping almost down  to the ground.  Those white doorways  were

once homes  of  small domestic animals…pigs perhaps.  The harvest barn designed for a  team of horses with a wood  wagon  piled high with air dried  hay  or

hand tied sheaves  of grain ready for hand  threshing.  Old England.  Is that Thomas  Hardy peering through the title window on the left?  

The intense  oak doors to the threshing floor are studded with heavy hand  made bolts (nalls>) .  Must be a reason. Escapes me though.  Maybe the doors

were stolen from a moated castle long gone.

A couple of thousand red tiles  artfully arranged on the roof.  Only oak  framing could hold this roof in place.  

Eureka!  The horses!   Gabriela pulled  aside a plank door incised  in a huge pilaff square hay bales.  And there they were.  the foals…Five of  them. Tucked away a modern corrugated iron exercise barn.  Tow belonged to Nolan and Gabriela.

 “Why two? Was one  foal not enough? Why buy a second one?”

“I was afraid  he  would  be lonely.”

‘but there are five here…all this years  foals.”

“I did not know that at the time.”

‘Are they expensive?”

“That tanned coloured one certainly is … worth 30,000 pounds…$50,000 dollars.”

“You paid that for a foal?”

“No mine were very cheap…not everyone wants a foal.”

“What happens to unwanted foals.”

“Let’s not go there, Alan.”

(end of  conversation)  

“Is htis the $50,000 foal…colt is better name  now…getting bigger.”

“Yes, beautiful.  Rare colour…reason for price.”

“Is he  going to bite Marjorie?”

“Don’t you know difference between nuzzling and  biting, Alan. These cols

are all nuzzlers.  They like people.  They think they are people.’

“Believing that is akin to believing in UFO’s, Gabriela.  He is eating Marjorie’s scarf…smells silk worms maybe.  Keep him the hell away from me.””

“This is  our colt.  Knows us and loves us.  From the moment he dripped from his mother we have been with him.

Horses  are smart and  have wonderful memories.  Raise a horse with love and gentleness and he will respond  in kind.”

“When can  Nolan  ride him?”

“That is a slow process…perhaps  a year or more.”

“Then what can  you do now?”

“Hug him.”

“Hug?””

Here give him a hug.”

“Horses do not like me. Sorry, not a hugger.”

“He knows that…see how he looks  at you.”

(end of conversation)

“Alan, tis is George…a Spanish show horse…fully trained…has more dance steps in his  head than Fred  Astaire had in his feet.”

“Why are you spraying him with cold water?”

“Cool him down.”

“Why would  he need cooling?  Is he hot tempered?”

“You can be a  pain, Alan.”

“How can I get out of this barn?  He may bite  or kick me.  Marjorie’s horse tried to kick me one.  Jealous,  I think.”

“Why would  a horse  be jealous of  ou?”

“He had been gelded.  I had  not.”

“Stupid  comment.”

“Is  George a gelding or a stallion?”

‘Go take your pictures…we are busy.”

“But how  can I get by?”

“Sit on a  bail of bedding and pout…but stop your infernal chatter.”

(end  of  conversation)

This is me on George in the exercise ring.  He was trying to throw me off but I had a grip of steel. My knees pressed tight to his ribs. He got quite agitated.

See that white rail fence?  Well, he got up to speed and  took a gallop right at the fence…then flew in the air clearing all  three rails  and  landing on spongy creek

bed just below.  Being an  expert rider I leaned  forward when we cleared the  rails.  Then we splashed our way up a creek doing threes and  jumping boulders.

George knew I  was  boss by then.  Fearlessly we climbed through the pastures  going at a clip so fast that it seemed we were doing the steeplechase at

Epson Downs…with the Queen watching and  Philip cussing.  “Who is that ass  on Georg? Rides like a western cowboy…giving George the Go Go  Go with his  knees in the ribs.  The bastard  might win for God’s sake and  my money is  on another, damn it.”  

Imagination is a wonderful thing.

Really tis is  Kevin exercising George in the show ring.  I was safe cowering behind the fence.

All the horses on this  farm were cared for by a man and a  woman who rented  the barns. They are not

wealth landlords more members  of the horsy set at Epsom Downs.  They live in a small cottage

beside the stables.  Really one big room.  A really comfortable room rich in colour and redolent

with the aroma of horses.  Comfortable.   Nice people.  ’Twas always  thus  in Old England as well.

Then our visit came to an end.  Slight rain fell as  George went back to his  big room with new straw bedding spread and

old straw had been  trundled to the manure pile.  Raising horses is not all riding and  jumping.  Most of the time

Nolan spends with her horses is spent cleaning out the stalls so the  horses live in comfort.  Remember that if

you buy a horse.  You need  to like  the smell of horse  manure.

So, this  part of  our search for Old England ended and we  ‘saddled up’ the Volvo, tightened the reins. hollered “Go” and

ambled  our way out the farm laneway to the tunnel of time below.

Much of  Old England  still exists…if you have the time to ramble around.  It helps to own  a few horses.

But Old England pub dinners…a must.  So we galloped the Volvo to a nearby village with narrow  laneways

and  whitewashed walls.  And  shop’s with quaint names like ‘Mad Jak’…see below.

What about the beef?  Coming below.

Plates piled high with slabs of well done beef slithering in fat accompanied by huge Yorkshire puddings and as many pints of

ale that the police would  allow ( one pint )    Old England lives!

Post Script:  Kevin giving George his exercise.  Seen it before.  But look beyond. Look at the tangle of trees…places where

the wild  animals of England  can coexist with humanity and  domestic  creatures.  That is where a family of badgers lives right now in  2018.

For how long?

THAT FOREST IS ALIVE?  MAYBE NOT!

“Any sign  of wild  animals around  here?”

“Whole bunch of badgers.”

“Badgers? How  do you know?”

“See them sometimes … like when we came back suddenly one day … whole family of them right here at the stable … seemed to be  playing.”

“What happened?”

“They took off fast for the hill …  wooded … lots of badger holes up  there.”

“I thought they were nocturnal.”

“They are…it was  dusk when we saw them last.”

“How many?”

“maybe six or seven…more.”

“I read in the Guarsdian that they are dangerous.”

“Not to us.  Used  tp be dangerous…blamed for spreading  bovine Tuberculosis…whole milk right from the cow’s udder was linked  to TBin humans… milk was pasteurized by force in 1950 …Badgers linked to the spread of  bovine TB…killing cows is  not popular…better to kill badgers.”

“All the badgers?”

“Big cull underway…20,000 to  be killed…kiliing on right now right now…”

“No kidding?”

“Nope a few years ago  the plan was 5,000…farmers  wanted more, conservationists wanted less.  Looks like

the farmers won.”

“Holy  Smoke..how many badgers are there?

“Who  knows for  sure…estimate is 40,000…half of  them  to be killed…gas and snipers.”

“Your badgers?”

“No the cull has not reached  us…ours  are safe for now.”

“No cows around here just lots of horses…and badgers.”

(end  of conversation…beginning of deep thought)

“Sad isn’t it?  No one is even sure  bovine TB is spread  by badgers.”

“They are secretive creatures…mind there  own business.”

“But they do  carry the T.B.”

“You know, our world is  getting more  and more frightening.”

“Do  you still believe Old England  can be found, Alan.”

“Only a tiny fragment…like this horse farm.”

“No room for the natural world  anymore.”

“Natural  world…what do you mean  by that?”

“The world of Old  England where there remained untended forest and moors and  miles and miles  of stone 

fences shielding  all kinds of  life not just badgers…and thousands of  hedgehogs.”

“Room  for all kinds of creatures in Old England.  Not so many people back  then.”

‘Victims  of our  own  success are we not?”

“What do  you mean?”

“IF  ALL THE LIVING CREATURES ON THIS  PLANET WERE PUT ON A PERCENTAGE  GRAPH, DO YOU KNOW

WHAT PER CENT OF WILD ANIMALS REMAIN?”

“No Idea, but lots I assume.”

“Wrong…dead wrong.”

“THREE PER CENT…AND GETTNG SMALLER…a tiny diminishing fraction”

“WHAT ABOUT THE OTHER 97%?”

“30% IS  HUMAN BIOMASS AND  67% IS  DOMESTIC  ANIMAL  BIOMASS.”

“Where did you get that?”

“read it the other day in Scientific American… magazine for  scientists and  people like  us.”

“So  what should  be done about the badgers?”

“Vaccination…some are being  vaccinated…but thousands are being  culled…nasty word “CULL”

“Are scientists sure  badgers  are at fault?”

“Nobody is sure of anything.”

TEST QUESTION”: WHAT PERCENTAGE OF  LIVING THINGS ON EARTH ARE CLASSED AS WILD?

“I wonder  how Badgers were treated  in  Old England?”

“Not much  better than today.  People  would catch  badgers, put them in cages, then let them go

in the middle of  a bunch  of dogs.  To see who would die first.  Betting money.  Outlawed in 19th century.”

“What about those nice children’s books about Billy the Badger?”

“Just that…children’s stories such as  Wind in the Willows.  Children grow  up which  does not mean they necessarily get better.

Note:  The history of  badgers is fascinating…I  have  barely touched the surface.

alan skeoch

Feb.  2018

EPISODE 407:  “YES, NOLAN, OLD ENGLAND DOES EXIST!”

alan skeoch

Dec. 2017

Jan. 2018

This is Nolan Skeoch who has just turned  fifteen.  Without her love  affair with horses  OLD  ENGLAND  would never have  been

found.  She  was the  trigger for the search.  Not because she  was interested in the roads, pubs or folkways. But because  she

owned  the  horses and  the foals for which we were searching.  This story is a birthday  gift to you Nolan.  Of course Your mom 

is deeply involved in your life.  Not to be forgotten for she  found this little bit of Old England.

SIX CANADIANS IN SEARCH OF OLD  ENGLAND

alan skeoch

Dec.  2017

SIX CANADIANS in search for Old England. left to right:  Marjorie Skeoch, Kevin Skeoch, Nolan Skeoch, Morgan Skeoch, Gabriela Skeoch

and below them  Alan Skeoch ending a pint of  Old  England’s best bitter.

Once upon a  time two  months  ago as 2017 wound down and  2018 was about to be born six of us, Canadians,

decided to see if Old England still existed.   We had  criteria.  We had  doubts that Old England existed anymore.

1) Old  England had  to be found within a two  hour  drive of London.

2) Old  England would have ancient roadways … narrow and  deeply incised with towering oaks obscuring the sun.

3) Old England had to have  tiny villages with wood  bedecked bars  and  easy access to ancient ales.

4) Old  England had  to have slate or tile roofed barns with pigeon  roosts  and at least one large guard dog

5) Old England  had to have lots of horses of all ages

6) Old England  had to have rain otherwise the deep green of the countryside could not thrive.

7)  Old  England  had  to have wild creatures co existing with domesticated creatures.

8) Old  England  had to have a sense  of  mystery, even tension.

9) Old England must serve roast beef  with Yorkshire Pudding and trimmings 

So we  drove  westward from Muswell Hill and  Crouch End towards the hills of  Surrey.  We passed  beneath the thundering jetways of Heath Row international airport which raised doubts that Old England could be found.  Not to worry.

 The deeper we got into Surrey the narrower  were the roads and the more mysterious the land appeared as large oak trees spread their branches.  These were the same oaks that were harvested as timbers for the British Navy and the clipper ships that took our kin to Canada long years ago.  \

The road became a time tunnel.  These were medieval roads unchanged save by a skiffle of asphalt. 

This trip was becoming mysterious…magical.   Our very own  time machine.  These  same  roads had been travelled  by Romans long long ago

and centuries later medieval carts  had rumbled along in those long ages when most people lived on tiny farms and never ever saw big cities.

Then we cut through a leafy laneway where an ancient farm was protected by this Rhodesian  Ridgeback, a dog whose breed  reputation was unsavoury  But

this guy was lonely…glad to see us.

Looks like a pigeon apartment building.  Likely is.  There was a time when the gentry enjoyed  a  plate of baby pigeons when fine  dining.  Probably why

they  drank so much  and got that foot disorder called gout.   Subnamed “revenge of the pigeons”  

Now  this  is  really Old England.  Look at the  roof of the barn dead centre…heavy red tiles sloping almost down  to the ground.  Those white doorways  were

once homes  of  small domestic animals…pigs perhaps.  The harvest barn designed for a  team of horses with a wood  wagon  piled high with air dried  hay  or

hand tied sheaves  of grain ready for hand  threshing.  Old England.  Is that Thomas  Hardy peering through the title window on the left?  

The intense  oak doors to the threshing floor are studded with heavy hand  made bolts (nalls>) .  Must be a reason. Escapes me though.  Maybe the doors

were stolen from a moated castle long gone.

A couple of thousand red tiles  artfully arranged on the roof.  Only oak  framing could hold this roof in place.  

Eureka!  The horses!   Gabriela pulled  aside a plank door incised  in a huge pilaff square hay bales.  And there they were.  the foals…Five of  them. Tucked away a modern corrugated iron exercise barn.  Tow belonged to Nolan and Gabriela.

 “Why two? Was one  foal not enough? Why buy a second one?”

“I was afraid  he  would  be lonely.”

‘but there are five here…all this years  foals.”

“I did not know that at the time.”

‘Are they expensive?”

“That tanned coloured one certainly is … worth 30,000 pounds…$50,000 dollars.”

“You paid that for a foal?”

“No mine were very cheap…not everyone wants a foal.”

“What happens to unwanted foals.”

“Let’s not go there, Alan.”

(end of  conversation)  

“Is htis the $50,000 foal…colt is better name  now…getting bigger.”

“Yes, beautiful.  Rare colour…reason for price.”

“Is he  going to bite Marjorie?”

“Don’t you know difference between nuzzling and  biting, Alan. These cols

are all nuzzlers.  They like people.  They think they are people.’

“Believing that is akin to believing in UFO’s, Gabriela.  He is eating Marjorie’s scarf…smells silk worms maybe.  Keep him the hell away from me.””

“This is  our colt.  Knows us and loves us.  From the moment he dripped from his mother we have been with him.

Horses  are smart and  have wonderful memories.  Raise a horse with love and gentleness and he will respond  in kind.”

“When can  Nolan  ride him?”

“That is a slow process…perhaps  a year or more.”

“Then what can  you do now?”

“Hug him.”

“Hug?””

Here give him a hug.”

“Horses do not like me. Sorry, not a hugger.”

“He knows that…see how he looks  at you.”

(end of conversation)

“Alan, tis is George…a Spanish show horse…fully trained…has more dance steps in his  head than Fred  Astaire had in his feet.”

“Why are you spraying him with cold water?”

“Cool him down.”

“Why would  he need cooling?  Is he hot tempered?”

“You can be a  pain, Alan.”

“How can I get out of this barn?  He may bite  or kick me.  Marjorie’s horse tried to kick me one.  Jealous,  I think.”

“Why would  a horse  be jealous of  ou?”

“He had been gelded.  I had  not.”

“Stupid  comment.”

“Is  George a gelding or a stallion?”

‘Go take your pictures…we are busy.”

“But how  can I get by?”

“Sit on a  bail of bedding and pout…but stop your infernal chatter.”

(end  of  conversation)

This is me on George in the exercise ring.  He was trying to throw me off but I had a grip of steel. My knees pressed tight to his ribs. He got quite agitated.

See that white rail fence?  Well, he got up to speed and  took a gallop right at the fence…then flew in the air clearing all  three rails  and  landing on spongy creek

bed just below.  Being an  expert rider I leaned  forward when we cleared the  rails.  Then we splashed our way up a creek doing threes and  jumping boulders.

George knew I  was  boss by then.  Fearlessly we climbed through the pastures  going at a clip so fast that it seemed we were doing the steeplechase at

Epson Downs…with the Queen watching and  Philip cussing.  “Who is that ass  on Georg? Rides like a western cowboy…giving George the Go Go  Go with his  knees in the ribs.  The bastard  might win for God’s sake and  my money is  on another, damn it.”  

Imagination is a wonderful thing.

Really tis is  Kevin exercising George in the show ring.  I was safe cowering behind the fence.

All the horses on this  farm were cared for by a man and a  woman who rented  the barns. They are not

wealth landlords more members  of the horsy set at Epsom Downs.  They live in a small cottage

beside the stables.  Really one big room.  A really comfortable room rich in colour and redolent

with the aroma of horses.  Comfortable.   Nice people.  ’Twas always  thus  in Old England as well.

Then our visit came to an end.  Slight rain fell as  George went back to his  big room with new straw bedding spread and

old straw had been  trundled to the manure pile.  Raising horses is not all riding and  jumping.  Most of the time

Nolan spends with her horses is spent cleaning out the stalls so the  horses live in comfort.  Remember that if

you buy a horse.  You need  to like  the smell of horse  manure.

So, this  part of  our search for Old England ended and we  ‘saddled up’ the Volvo, tightened the reins. hollered “Go” and

ambled  our way out the farm laneway to the tunnel of time below.

Much of  Old England  still exists…if you have the time to ramble around.  It helps to own  a few horses.

But Old England pub dinners…a must.  So we galloped the Volvo to a nearby village with narrow  laneways

and  whitewashed walls.  And  shop’s with quaint names like ‘Mad Jak’…see below.

What about the beef?  Coming below.

Plates piled high with slabs of well done beef slithering in fat accompanied by huge Yorkshire puddings and as many pints of

ale that the police would  allow ( one pint )    Old England lives!

Post Script:  Kevin giving George his exercise.  Seen it before.  But look beyond. Look at the tangle of trees…places where

the wild  animals of England  can coexist with humanity and  domestic  creatures.  That is where a family of badgers lives right now in  2018.

For how long?

THAT FOREST IS ALIVE?  MAYBE NOT!

“Any sign  of wild  animals around  here?”

“Whole bunch of badgers.”

“Badgers? How  do you know?”

“See them sometimes … like when we came back suddenly one day … whole family of them right here at the stable … seemed to be  playing.”

“What happened?”

“They took off fast for the hill …  wooded … lots of badger holes up  there.”

“I thought they were nocturnal.”

“They are…it was  dusk when we saw them last.”

“How many?”

“maybe six or seven…more.”

“I read in the Guarsdian that they are dangerous.”

“Not to us.  Used  tp be dangerous…blamed for spreading  bovine Tuberculosis…whole milk right from the cow’s udder was linked  to TBin humans… milk was pasteurized by force in 1950 …Badgers linked to the spread of  bovine TB…killing cows is  not popular…better to kill badgers.”

“All the badgers?”

“Big cull underway…20,000 to  be killed…kiliing on right now right now…”

“No kidding?”

“Nope a few years ago  the plan was 5,000…farmers  wanted more, conservationists wanted less.  Looks like

the farmers won.”

“Holy  Smoke..how many badgers are there?

“Who  knows for  sure…estimate is 40,000…half of  them  to be killed…gas and snipers.”

“Your badgers?”

“No the cull has not reached  us…ours  are safe for now.”

“No cows around here just lots of horses…and badgers.”

(end  of conversation…beginning of deep thought)

“Sad isn’t it?  No one is even sure  bovine TB is spread  by badgers.”

“They are secretive creatures…mind there  own business.”

“But they do  carry the T.B.”

“You know, our world is  getting more  and more frightening.”

“Do  you still believe Old England  can be found, Alan.”

“Only a tiny fragment…like this horse farm.”

“No room for the natural world  anymore.”

“Natural  world…what do you mean  by that?”

“The world of Old  England where there remained untended forest and moors and  miles and miles  of stone 

fences shielding  all kinds of  life not just badgers…and thousands of  hedgehogs.”

“Room  for all kinds of creatures in Old England.  Not so many people back  then.”

‘Victims  of our  own  success are we not?”

“What do  you mean?”

“IF  ALL THE LIVING CREATURES ON THIS  PLANET WERE PUT ON A PERCENTAGE  GRAPH, DO YOU KNOW

WHAT PER CENT OF WILD ANIMALS REMAIN?”

“No Idea, but lots I assume.”

“Wrong…dead wrong.”

“THREE PER CENT…AND GETTNG SMALLER…a tiny diminishing fraction”

“WHAT ABOUT THE OTHER 97%?”

“30% IS  HUMAN BIOMASS AND  67% IS  DOMESTIC  ANIMAL  BIOMASS.”

“Where did you get that?”

“read it the other day in Scientific American… magazine for  scientists and  people like  us.”

“So  what should  be done about the badgers?”

“Vaccination…some are being  vaccinated…but thousands are being  culled…nasty word “CULL”

“Are scientists sure  badgers  are at fault?”

“Nobody is sure of anything.”

TEST QUESTION”: WHAT PERCENTAGE OF  LIVING THINGS ON EARTH ARE CLASSED AS WILD?

“I wonder  how Badgers were treated  in  Old England?”

“Not much  better than today.  People  would catch  badgers, put them in cages, then let them go

in the middle of  a bunch  of dogs.  To see who would die first.  Betting money.  Outlawed in 19th century.”

“What about those nice children’s books about Billy the Badger?”

“Just that…children’s stories such as  Wind in the Willows.  Children grow  up which  does not mean they necessarily get better.

Note:  The history of  badgers is fascinating…I  have  barely touched the surface.

alan skeoch

Feb.  2018

Note..this episode is far too long …SOME DID NOT GET FULL ARTICLE SO I CUT

MANY ILLUSTRATIONS…HOPE IT WORKS  NOW

EPISODE 402    MAKE ROOM FOR HEROES: AN INTERVIEW WITH JOHN RICKER 

alan skeoch

august 2021

JOHN RICKER…EDUCATOR…A MAN WITH HEROES IN HIS LIFE

AT THE END OF THIS EPISODE TRY AND RECORD THE HEROES IN YOUR LIFE

In 1986 I wrote a very juvenile article about John Ricker;  Uncovered by pure chance today, August

5, 2021…35 years later.  Who is John Ricker?  In a word I would say he is an educator.  Much more than

that of course…husband, professor, philosopher, administrator, veteran, father, grandfather, author, Order of Canada, friend.  But he remains

to me a teacher…my teacher.   Years ago the CBC wanted to interview me on the place of history in

the Ontario curriculum (or some such thing like that).  A reporter came to Parkdale Collegiate and was

questioned by our vice principal.  “Why would you want to see him, he is only a teacher?”  True.  I was

and always have been ‘only a teacher’.  Rather proud of the fact.  Early in my career I may have had

ambitions for higher positions in the educational pyramid.  Maybe later…maybe if I get bored teaching.

That never happened.  I never wanted to be anything but a teacher.  I owe that to John Ricker.

He made all of us feel teaching was the noblest of professions when he taught teachers at the

faculty of eduction way back in 1963.  Made us proud and nervous. Would we measure up?

Believe it or not, we still meet monthly at John’s house with a group of friends.  I am 82.  John is 95.

Very senior ciitizens who gather at our Castlefield Insttute to consider world events and laugh a lot.

Teachers all …even if one is a judge and another a surgeon.

There was no reason for me to find this interview among the dusty files in our cellar.  Pure chance.

Rather wonderful though.  Not because of what I wrote.  Not my words.  It is the pencilled comments

that John Ricker scribbled all over the manuscript and then went on and on shedding light on the

need for all of us to have heroes we admire.

“What do think of teachers, John?”  What a hopelessly dull question.  I wish I had not asked.  But

John began to scribble furiously.    The scribbles deciphered.

“Most teachers are bright…even though some are terribly dull and stupid.”  Classic Rickerism.

Seems like a contradiction.  But it is John Ricker taking himself seriously but not that seriously.

There is room for argument.  “Teachers are bright enough if they are in an atmosphere that

applies the right kid of pressure and tension on them.”  Internal pressure it seems for the next

comment was a bit surprising.  “The problem is that teachers don’t recognize their own heroes.

For some reason many teachers are afraid to say they have heroes.”

“We fail to ferret out the time-servers and frauds.  But even worse, we don’t make a fuss of

our heroes.  No room for heroes it seems .  But the heroes are there…masters of their craft

who continue to grow and change,  When talking about teachers many agree that teachers

are terrible…except for ‘so and so’  God, my whole life was changed by old Mr. X. “

JAMIE HEMSTEAD JUST LOVeD OUR SCHOOL…JUST LOVED IT…YOU CAN SEE IT IN HIS FACE.

“Why is it that we don’t have monuments to these heroes? You rob a bank and you get a column

in the newspaper, perhaps even your picture.  But the teacher who changes the way an 

individual functions for the rest of his or her life earns no more than an aside in what  tends

to be a blanket denunciation of  teaching and teachers.”

“There are teachers who are incompetent. But I don’t think they are a problem because there

are ways to get them out of schools even though they aren’t used often.  Many think they should be.

A more serious problem is what to do about the much larger number of marginally competent

teachers who just go through the motions and have a negative impact on students.”

JOHN RICKER’S HEROES

“I had two outstanding teachers in elementary school….Miss Warrander and Mr. Henry.

Two in secondary school….Miss McDermid and Mr. Nation

Three in university…Frank Underhill,  Donald McDougal and Earl Birney.”

“By far, the most outstanding was Miss McDermid at Parkdale Collegiate.  What made her

outstanding was that she was unquestionably a scholar.  There was no possibility that what

she taught one year would be the same the next year.  She took delight in her subject and

was determined that we students would share it .  Tough material did not deter her for a moment.

She knew what she wanted to achieve and pursued her goal —and us — relentlessly.  We 

struggled and grumbled but loved her classes.   I think we recognized that this quietly forceful

woman  was a vitally exciting person and her dedication to learning had made her this way.

Every lesson revealed her fascination with the creative aspects of life.  Though a Scot, I doubt very

much that she knew for sure what her salary was.  I think she was probably surprised that

people paid her to spend her life doing what she loved.  It’s when reflecting on the Miss

McDermids who have enabled  the profession that I resent most of the teacher charlatans

who would really rather be doing something else.”

John, could you describe this teacher hero in general terms?

“Sure,the first obligation of  a teacher is to convince his or her students

that the creative aspects of human experience are exciting.”

NOTE:   Respect is basic.  John Ricker did not say this explicitly but the word hero assumes respect .If there is no respect, mutual respect, i.e. student respect for a teacher and the reverse teacher respect

for his or her students then education does not occur. 

“To be so excited by the curriculum that the teacher becomes an exciting person in the school

whether teaching the chemistry of the DNA molecule or (Voltaire’s Candide).  Money is

not that important.   Good teachers often do not know what they earn.  They are astounded

that anyone would pay them to teach.”

John maintains we all have our teacher heroes but for some reason keep them hidden.

 Let’s get them out in the open.  

JOHN RICKER’S HEROES:  BIRNEY, UNDERHILL AND MACDOUGAL

WHO IS EARL BIRNEY?

A spider’s body
limp and hairy
appeared at the bottom of my coffee 
The waiter being Castilian
said passionately nothing
And why indeed should apologies
be made to me 
It was I who was looking in
at the spider
It might be years
before I slipped and drowned
in somebody else’s cup

Poet-tree

i fear that i shall never make
a poem slippier than a snake
or oozing with as fine a juice
as runs in girls or even spruce
no i wont make not now nor later
pnomes as luverlee as pertaters
trees is made by fauns or satyrs
but only taters make pertaters
& trees is grown by sun from sod
& so are the sods who need a god
but poettrees lack any clue
they just need me & maybe you 

From The Hazel Bough

I met a lady
on a lazy street
hazel eyes
and little plush feet 
her legs swam by
like lovely trout
eyes were trees
where boys leant out 
hands in the dark and
a river side
round breasts rising
with the finger’s tide 
she was plump as a finch
and live as a salmon
gay as silk and
proud as a Brahmin 
we winked when we met
and laughed when we parted
never took time
to be brokenhearted 
but no man sees
where the trout lie now
or what leans out
from the hazel bough

The Bear On The Delhi Road

Unreal tall as a myth
by the road the Himalayan bear
is beating the brilliant air
with his crooked arms
About him two men bare
spindly as locusts leap 
One pulls on a ring
in the great soft nose His mate
flicks flicks with a stick
up at the rolling eyes 
They have not led him here
down from the fabulous hills
to this bald alien plain
and the clamorous world to kill
but simply to teach him to dance 
They are peaceful both these spare
men of Kashmir and the bear
alive is their living too
If far on the Delhi way
around him galvanic they dance
it is merely to wear wear
from his shaggy body the tranced
wish forever to stay
only an ambling bear
four-footed in berries 
It is no more joyous for them
in this hot dust to prance
out of reach of the praying claws
sharpened to paw for ants
in the shadows ofdeodars
It is not easy to free
myth from reality
or rear this fellow up
to lurch lurch with them
in the tranced dancing of men

WHO WAS FRANK UNDERHILL?

A nation is a body of people who have done great things together in the past and hope to do great things together in the future.

Frank Underhill

Frank Underhill (1889-1971) practically invented the role of public intellectual in English Canada through his journalism, essays, teaching, and political activity. He became one of the country’s most controversial figures in the middle of the twentieth century by confronting the central political issues of his time and by actively working to reform the Canadian political landscape. His propagation of socialist ideas during the Great Depression and his criticism of the British Empire and British foreign policy almost cost him his job at the University of Toronto. In Frank Underhill and the Politics of Ideas, Kenneth Dewar demonstrates how Underhill’s thought evolved from his days as a student at Toronto and Oxford, to his drafting of the Regina Manifesto – the founding platform of the leftist Co-operative Commonwealth Federation – to his support of his long-time friend Lester Pearson’s Liberals in the 1960s. Not willing to be bound by partisan loyalties, his later shift toward the political centre dismayed many of his former allies. The various issues Underhill confronted, Dewar argues, were connected by the pioneering role he played as an intellectual and by his social democratic vision of politics. Dewar also reassesses Underhill’s historical work, focusing on how it differed from the new professional history practised by his younger colleagues. Intelligently written and thoroughly researched, Frank Underhill and the Politics of Ideas delivers important insights into twentieth-century political life and innumerable lessons for twenty-first century Canada. 

JUST MY THOUGHTS…BASED ON VERY LITTLE RESEARCH

For some Bizarre reason the word ‘socialism’ angers many Americans.  Perhaps because they associate socialists too closely with Stalinism

and the excesses of Soviet communism.   Half a century ago Isaac Deutscher said that political change can only come from the turbulence of

free thought in the United States.  I remember that.  Even if it seem unlikely today.

To listen to Trumpists the word socialism is akin to the ideas that are found in the  depths of evil.  Underfhill was a socialist

who became a Liberal.  For that he paid a price.  Seems to me that John Ricker took the same

path only did not have to pay the price of alienation.  John Ricker gets a thrill out of the freedom

of thought…does so with humour and joy…fears not the turmoil of ideas.  Revels in them as Underhilll

must have done.

WHY DO SOME PEOPLE CONSIDER SOCIALISM FRIGHTENING?  

Socialists choose cooperation to competition, and favour collectivism over individualism. The defining, value of socialism is equality, socialism sometimes being portrayed as a form of egalitarianism. Socialists consider that a measure of social equality is the essential assurance of social stability and cohesion, and that it supports freedom in the sense that it gratifies material needs and helps for personal development. The socialist movement has conventionally articulated the interests of the industrial working class, seen as systematically troubled or structurally disadvantaged within the capitalist system. The objective of socialism is to lessen or abolish class divisions.

WHO ARE MY HEROES?

“Alan, I thought this Episode was about John Ricker not Alan Skeoch.”  :

“Good point Marjorie”

“Then why continue?”

“Because I would just like to give my heroes a good airing.”

“Boring, Alan…drifting into boredom”

“You might be right we seem to be living in an anti-heroic time where humans that were

once leaders have their statues desecrated with paint and their figures decapitated.”

“You know something, Alan, you might have hit on something. We all have heroes 

but rarely say so.”

“That is the point John Ricker made.”

“Just who are your heroes?”

(If you do not want to read about my heroes then start listing your own herroes>)

I am such a shallow person …no great depth of political insight like Ricker.  A child of the

1950’s.  Part of a generation of undeserved wealth earned by the fires of the Great Depression

and the sacrifices of so many lives in a war soon to be a footnote.

I have a lot of heroes.

In elementary school there were two.  Miss Sharpely who loved us  and Mr. Hambly who

made earth science come alive.  He hung a huge wasps nest in his room to which some fired

paper clips from elastic bands.  But meant no disrespect.

In secondary school there were more

Evan Cruickshank

Roberta Charlesworth

Maida Schroeder

Duncan Green

Fred Burford

Wally Little

In the university of Toronto there were heroes of a different sort

Marcus Long , philosopher…

Marjorie Hughes, open arms, open heart…made me a lucky man

Dr. Norman Paterson, geophysicist who made science exciting 

Voltaire, Steinbeck, Michener, Kant, Rousseau and a host of others not least of

which was Eric Fromm’s book  The Sane Society.  Somewhere in the book

Fromm argued that everyone should get the same wage. Then people would

choose careers they love rather than careers that paid the most money.  And we 

would be a happier people.

When I said that to my friends they thought I was nuts.

and later in post grad

John Ricker

Andrew Lockhart

Desmond Morton

Phyllis Morgon

If I had to choose one high school mega hero, it would be Evan Cruickshank.  Although

I never noticed it at the time “Crooky” taught me to think for myself

with three little words  “I don’t know,”  I was not a person that devoted 

myself to homework.  Skipped doing it whenever I could which was

often.  I meant no disrespect to my teachers.  There just was not enough

time to do everything…sports, dancing, dating girls, reading for pleasure, earning

a little money.  So I skipped homework and accepted the odd detention

for doing so.  One detention was memorable.  Roberta Charlesworth

kept me after school to serve a detention in her room.  Seemed easier

to serve it in the girls gym where there were females in bloomers to look

at.  Roberta Charlesworth was the girls coach.  Next day she called me

to the front of the class…I always tried to find a middle seat…why did

she want me?  She promptly lifted me off the ground by my ear.  “When

you serve a detention with me you do it here in this room not in the girls gym.

I respected her as a teacher….one of my teacher heroes in spite of my

sore ear..

But “Crooky” takes  the prize with his simple “I don’t know”

technique.  I respected him.  Stood in awe of him at times.  His explanation

of Marxian socialism stays with me to this day.  

One day however I got up my nerve to ask him about some event

in history that intrigued me.  Crooky would surely know.  Bt he did not.

He even confessed “I don’t know” which sent me scurrying to the library

that evening just to help Crooky out.   Not to suck around. I did that

out of respect.   Later I discovered that his ‘I don’t know’ may have

been deliberate but I was never sure.  “Crooky” asked big time questions.

But he was also humble…open minded.

John Ricker became a hero as well.  He conveyed a deep love for

big questions.  The kind that start simply but lead to universal truths.

I was very sorry when I heard that John had become Dean of

the Faculty of Educaton.  That meant he would no longer be facing

down classes of new teachers.  Teaching.  I even told him so John could make us think

about history from many angles.  Made us realize we were taking on

a sacred trust by shaping young people.  He had respect.  Without

respect , as I mentioned, no solid teacher-student learning can occur.

One of his methods was similar to Crooky but different also.  When a 

student asked John a question there was often a pause…a dead silence 

in the room while John considered his answer.  In 1963 the silence was aided

and abetted by drawing on a cigarette and then reaching for his coffee cup.

Dead and total silence when he did that.   W were like the Israelites waiting

for Moses to bring word from on high.  And John consumed books like a

bull does ensilage with one different. The ideas in a good book went to

his brain and not his stomach.

Life takes curious twists and turns.  Most surprising of these twists and

turns is that both  Evan Cruickshank and John Ricker became good

friends.   Peers in the pursuit of knowledge.  Shapers of the minds

of students.  Both of them pushed me towards Parkdale Collegiate.

“If you teach at that school, you will never want to leave, Alan.”

So true.

NOW FOR THE CHALLENGE

Who are your heroes?

REMEMBER THE SODER IN THE COFFEE CUP?

WHO IS EARL BIRNEY?

A spider’s body
limp and hairy
appeared at the bottom of my coffee 
The waiter being Castilian
said passionately nothing
And why indeed should apologies
be made to me 
It was I who was looking in
at the spider
It might be years
before I slipped and drowned
in somebody else’s cup

WHAT IS THE BEST SCHOOL?  EASY TO ANSWER…THE BEST SCHOOL IS THE SCHOOL YOU ARE TEACHING IN TODAY…MAKE

IT THAT WAY.  NOT YESTERDAY’S SCHOOL OR TOMORROW’S SCHOOL.  THE SCHOOL YOU ARE TEACHING IN TODAY IS

BEST AND YOU HAVE A DUTY TO MAKE IT SO.

A LOT OF MY HEROES AT THE UIVERSITY OFTORONTO WERE ON OUR FOOTBALL TEAM….ABOVE

PRINCIPAL SHIELA HAMBLETON WAS A VERY KIND AND SHARING HERO…LED BY EXAMPLE

HEROES IN MY LIFE CAME IN ALL KINDS OF SHAPES AND FORMS…TEACHERS AND STUDENTS. 

Alan skeoch

august 6, 2021

Sent from my iPhone

EPISODE 402    MAKE ROOM FOR HEROES: AN INTERVIEW WITH JOHN RICKER 

alan skeoch

august 2021

In 1986 I wrote a very juvenile article about John Ricker;  Uncovered by pure chance today, August

5, 2021…35 years later.  Who is John Ricker?  In a word I would say he is an educator.  Much more than

that of course…husband, professor, philosopher, administrator, veteran, father, grandfather, author, Order of Canada, friend.  But he remains

to me a teacher…my teacher.   Years ago the CBC wanted to interview me on the place of history in

the Ontario curriculum (or some such thing like that).  A reporter came to Parkdale Collegiate and was

questioned by our vice principal.  “Why would you want to see him, he is only a teacher?”  True.  I was

and always have been ‘only a teacher’.  Rather proud of the fact.  Early in my career I may have had

ambitions for higher positions in the educational pyramid.  Maybe later…maybe if I get bored teaching.

That never happened.  I never wanted to be anything but a teacher.  I owe that to John Ricker.

He made all of us feel teaching was the noblest of professions when he taught teachers at the

faculty of eduction way back in 1963.  Made us proud and nervous. Would we measure up?

Believe it or not, we still meet monthly at John’s house with a group of friends.  I am 82.  John is 95.

Very senior ciitizens who gather at our Castlefield Insttute to consider world events and laugh a lot.

Teachers all …even if one is a judge and another a surgeon.

There was no reason for me to find this interview among the dusty files in our cellar.  Pure chance.

Rather wonderful though.  Not because of what I wrote.  Not my words.  It is the pencilled comments

that John Ricker scribbled all over the manuscript and then went on and on shedding light on the

need for all of us to have heroes we admire.

“What do think of teachers, John?”  What a hopelessly dull question.  I wish I had not asked.  But

John began to scribble furiously.    The scribbles deciphered.

“Most teachers are bright…even though some are terribly dull and stupid.”  Classic Rickerism.

Seems like a contradiction.  But it is John Ricker taking himself seriously but not that seriously.

There is room for argument.  “Teachers are bright enough if they are in an atmosphere that

applies the right kid of pressure and tension on them.”  Internal pressure it seems for the next

comment was a bit surprising.  “The problem is that teachers don’t recognize their own heroes.

For some reason many teachers are afraid to say they have heroes.”

“We fail to ferret out the time-servers and frauds.  But even worse, we don’t make a fuss of

our heroes.  No room for heroes it seems .  But the heroes are there…masters of their craft

who continue to grow and change,  When talking about teachers many agree that teachers

are terrible…except for ‘so and so’  God, my whole life was changed by old Mr. X. “

“Why is it that we don’t have monuments to these heroes? You rob a bank and you get a column

in the newspaper, perhaps even your picture.  But the teacher who changes the way an 

individual functions for the rest of his or her life earns no more than an aside in what  tends

to be a blanket denunciation of  teaching and teachers.”

“There are teachers who are incompetent. But I don’t think they are a problem because there

are ways to get them out of schools even though they aren’t used often.  Many think they should be.

A more serious problem is what to do about the much larger number of marginally competent

teachers who just go through the motions and have a negative impact on students.”

JOHN RICKER’S HEROES

“I had two outstanding teachers in elementary school….Miss Warrander and Mr. Henry.

Two in secondary school….Miss McDermid and Mr. Nation

Three in university…Frank Underhill,  Donald McDougal and Earl Birney.”

“By far, the most outstanding was Miss McDermid at Parkdale Collegiate.  What made her

outstanding was that she was unquestionably a scholar.  There was no possibility that what

she taught one year would be the same the next year.  She took delight in her subject and

was determined that we students would share it .  Tough material did not deter her for a moment.

She knew what she wanted to achieve and pursued her goal —and us — relentlessly.  We 

struggled and grumbled but loved her classes.   I think we recognized that this quietly forceful

woman  was a vitally exciting person and her dedication to learning had made her this way.

Every lesson revealed her fascination with the creative aspects of life.  Though a Scot, I doubt very

much that she knew for sure what her salary was.  I think she was probably surprised that

people paid her to spend her life doing what she loved.  It’s when reflecting on the Miss

McDermids who have enabled  the profession that I resent most of the teacher charlatans

who would really rather be doing something else.”

John, could you describe this teacher hero in general terms?

“Sure,the first obligation of  a teacher is to convince his or her students

that the creative aspects of human experience are exciting.”

NOTE:   Respect is basic.  John Ricker did not say this explicitly but the word hero assumes respect .If there is no respect, mutual respect, i.e. student respect for a teacher and the reverse teacher respect

“To be so excited by the curriculum that the teacher becomes an exciting person in the school

whether teaching the chemistry of the DNA molecule or (Voltaire’s Candide).  Money is

not that important.   Good teachers often do not know what they earn.  They are astounded

that anyone would pay them to teach.”

John maintains we all have our teacher heroes but for some reason keep them hidden.

 Let’s get them out in the open.  

WHAT IS THE BEST SCHOOL?  EASY TO ANSWER…THE BEST SCHOOL IS THE SCHOOL YOU ARE TEACHING IN TODAY…MAKE

IT THAT WAY.  NOT YESTERDAY’S SCHOOL OR TOMORROW’S SCHOOL.  THE SCHOOL YOU ARE TEACHING IN TODAY IS

HEROES IN MY LIFE CAME IN ALL KINDS OF SHAPES AND FORMS…TEACHERS AND STUDENTS.