{"id":5715,"date":"2020-09-12T13:51:41","date_gmt":"2020-09-12T17:51:41","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/alanskeoch.ca\/?p=5715"},"modified":"2020-09-12T14:14:01","modified_gmt":"2020-09-12T18:14:01","slug":"episode-116-violence-in-my-life","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/alanskeoch.ca\/?p=5715","title":{"rendered":"episode 116 VIOLENCE IN MY LIFE"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n
Note:  You may be sick of this biography.  Fine.  Don\u2019t read it.  Simple.  <\/div>\n

<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n

EPISODE 116   VIOLENCE IN MY LIFE  Part One<\/p>\n


<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
Sometimes  my imagination takes over in my life.  Memory can be faulty but always contains<\/div>\n
a kernel of truth or perhaps some events are so shocking that they get locked into our brains<\/div>\n
and are easy  to recall.  In this picture I must be eight years old.  Visiting our grandparents<\/div>\n
farm which was a very safe place to be in the turbulent 1940\u2019s.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
What you see here is  not remotely connected to my real world.  This picture was taken in <\/div>\n
western Alaska  in 1959 when an  American Mining company armed  our crew with 30-06<\/div>\n
rifles in case we were attacked by Kodiak  bears.  We never carried the rifles  Just stacked<\/div>\n
them where the helicopter dropped us.  There was no need for violence against the bears\u2026<\/div>\n
their guts were stuffed  with dead  or dying salmon.  Playing guns  as  a child had no <\/div>\n
connection  with playing guns as an  adult.  Two different worlds that did  not cross.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
alan skeoch<\/div>\n
sept  2020<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
Violence is something I have tried to avoid all my life.  I just thought about that<\/div>\n
this morning while wrapped around Marjorie in our bed.  There are people that<\/div>\n
admire violence and try to replicate it in their daily life.  I know that. I have seen<\/div>\n
that.  I have been the receiver of violence on a few rare occasions.  Most of  the<\/div>\n
time I have found ways to avoid violence.  Like running although I cannot find<\/div>\n
a  memory of running away from violence.  I just try to avoid violence whenever<\/div>\n
such a situation arrives.  \u2018Chicken shit\u2019, was once the term.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
What in hell\u2019s half acre ever made me think of that this morning?  I have no answer.<\/div>\n
But one violent incident came to mind.  Perhaps the incident should be left to the<\/div>\n
end of this story.  But I am going to put it at the first.  <\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
University life offered so many things to do other than sit in the library and try<\/div>\n
to become an intellectual like Emmanuel Kant.   Or a writer<\/div>\n
like Hemingway or Steinbeck.   Or even a poet of folk life like Robert Frost.<\/div>\n
Lots  more things to do than read  books in other words.  Best thing was to chase<\/div>\n
after Marjorie.  Not the only thing though.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
So one day I joined a make up basketball team at Hart House.  Victoria college<\/div>\n
boys against University College boys.  Just for fun.  I was  not a basketball star\u2026<\/div>\n
can\u2019t even remember ever getting any points in that career.  <\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
We were playing fast.  Running up and  down the floor.  Offence then defence. For some<\/div>\n
strange reason a UC kid took offence at one of our players and he hit him with<\/div>\n
his  fist.  Our player hit back.  The two of them tumbled and wrestled with lots of<\/div>\n
expletives like \u201cYou son of a bitch\u201d and \u201cbastard\u201d between blows.  It was not nice<\/div>\n
so for some reason I  cannot explain I decided to break up the fight.  To pry them<\/div>\n
apart.  To be the peacemaker, a role I admired in the larger world of the United Nations.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
Peacemaking did not work.  Instead the UC guy turned on me.  He grabbed  me<\/div>\n
by the throat with both hands and began to strangle me.  I remember so clearly<\/div>\n
falling to the floor and looking up at  his face.  I knew him.  At least I knew \u2018of him\u2019<\/div>\n
because his family were famous  lawyers in Toronto.  His face seemed joyful.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
He kept pressing on my throat.  Choking me.  For no reason other than the<\/div>\n
love of  violence.  How to survive?   I think I faked  passing out\u2026or maybe<\/div>\n
I did pass out for a moment.  <\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
I know that memory may seem trivial to any person reading this story but<\/div>\n
it was not trivial to me.  What I saw in his face was  a love of violence.<\/div>\n
He liked beating people up  That was why he played  basketball on that<\/div>\n
winter afternoon at Hart House.  The bible says something about \u201cBlessed<\/div>\n
are the peacemakers for they shall inherit\u2019\u2026something or other.  Not true<\/div>\n
I realized that day<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
So this story is going to be about my confrontations with violence in my<\/div>\n
82 years of life on this earth.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
I have avoided violence all my life except maybe in kindergarten.  Seems I dimly<\/div>\n
remember getting pushed  on the stairs at Kent Public School and pushing back<\/div>\n
at some other five year old.  A very misty memory.  Reinforced by the fact the<\/div>\n
teacher commented the fact to my mother.  A tale I find hard to believe.  My <\/div>\n
only sharp memory of kindergarten was the teacher saying. \u201cAll fright children,<\/div>\n
time  for your nap, everyone put your heads on the desk.\u201d  And that is hardly<\/div>\n
a violent memory.  Seemed stupid to go to school and then fall asleep with my<\/div>\n
head  on the desk.  I may have resisted  But I did not rebel.  <\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
Violence was all around me as a youngster.   The larger world of incredible<\/div>\n
violence  was World  War II of which my brother and I were largely unaware.<\/div>\n
We lived in a climate of  make believe violence for we loved playing \u2018guns\u2019<\/div>\n
together.   In the winter of 1944 we built a big snow fort on the front lawn of <\/div>\n
18 Sylvan Avenue and then defended imaginary attackers with guns made out<\/div>\n
of broomsticks.    This  was not violence nor was it training for violence.  This<\/div>\n
was imagination and fun.   Mom took us to the movies regularly where we watched<\/div>\n
Slip Mahoney and the Bowery Boys act out silliness.  Then walking home in<\/div>\n
the dark on Fall or winter evenings  Eric and I would play \u2018guns\u2019 without even<\/div>\n
thinking of the deeper meaning of  that foolishness.  I remember being shot<\/div>\n
by Eric on one of those nights\u2026imaginary bullet hit me\u2026and I died in a<\/div>\n
great dramatic sprawl through a pile of leaves ready to be burned. Lucky<\/div>\n
I did not land on some dog turds.  But the drama was great.  Made greater<\/div>\n
by a woman  passing by who  really thought I was hurt badly or dead.<\/div>\n
Until mom came along saying, \u201cJust the boys playing guns\u201d<\/div>\n
We  lived  in a cocoon of non violence at home.  Protected and  secure<\/div>\n
and loving.  Made so mostly by mom but reinforced by Dad when the horses<\/div>\n
were not running at Dufferin  Racetrack across the park from our house.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
Mom  and dad seemed pleased  with having a  baby around.   So they wove a cocoon around me\u2026and later around Eric.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
Mom made all our clothes.   She also enriched our imaginations.  Dad was a gambler and the kind of  father<\/div>\n
I wished most children could have had.  Eric  and I remember them both with great affection. They protected us.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
Eric and I loved playing guns.   It was  an  imaginary world for us.  Occasionally the two worlds  collided  as in this picture taken<\/div>\n
at the cannon that protects Howard House in High Park from American invaders.  We  were around  10 or 11 years  old.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
Outside the cocoon there was violence.  The real world scared me.  People <\/div>\n
did nasty things to each other in that real world.<\/div>\n
It was easy to separate the two  worlds by the way.   Some psychological<\/div>\n
whizz bangs will say I am wrong.   Will believe that imagination can be<\/div>\n
a learning ground for violence.  Bull shit!<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
Comfort\u2026security\u2026non-violence.  Encouraged by Grandma and Grandpa Freeman who provided an escape from<\/div>\n
the gang warfare we  witnessed in Dufferin Park in the postwar years of the 1940\u2019s<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
At Kent Public School I could have gotten the shit knocked out of me<\/div>\n
were it not for my friend Karl Slalberg.  Karl and his mom lived in a<\/div>\n
tiny apartment\u2026two rooms I think\u2026in a house on a street north of Bloor<\/div>\n
St.   I know that because his mom had  me over a couple of times.<\/div>\n
Karl got into some kind of trouble.  \u201cJuvenile  Delinquent\u201d was the term<\/div>\n
used I think.   That mystified  me because he was such a nice kid.  No father<\/div>\n
around.   But Karl protected me.  Funny because he must have  been the<\/div>\n
same age  as me.  Perhaps Grades 3 or 4 when we were 8 or 9  years old.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cAlan, we could earn a lot of marbles with this cigar box.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cHow?\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cCut little pieces out \u2026 some big, some small\u2026all holes in<\/div>\n
which a marble could get through with difficulty.\u201d<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cOh, that game.  The big boys play it every day at recess\u2026lots of<\/div>\n
cigar boxes put against the wall.  Get the  marble through the hole<\/div>\n
and  win  “Two  for  One\u201d for the big hole or \u201cFive for One\u201d for the little <\/div>\n
hole.  Miss the holes and lose your marble.  Most of us lose our marbles.\u201d<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cRight.  So let\u2019s set up our own cigar box.  Win lots of marbles.\u201d<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
So we did.  Karl got the cigar box ready\u2026cut the holes, wrote numbers<\/div>\n
above the holes.  We took our place against the school wall and invited<\/div>\n
marble gamblers to take chance.  Big payoff\u2026maybe five to one or higher.<\/div>\n
Karl left me in charge of the cigar box often.  One particular time, however,<\/div>\n
got ground into my memory.  I stood beside the box and a big guy..maybe<\/div>\n
a kid as ancient as ten or eleven years old\u2026this big guy rolled his marble<\/div>\n
right into the big pay off hole.  I owed him ten marbles.  Ten marbles!<\/div>\n
I had no marbles.  We expected to earn marbles.  We expected  marble<\/div>\n
gamblers to lose most of the time.  We expected  to build  up our capital<\/div>\n
starting at zero.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cOK, kid, you owe me ten marbles.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cI can\u2019t.  I have no marbles.\u201d  I said weakly, my knees trembling.<\/div>\n
\u201cPay up!\u201d  he  demanded.  <\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
Then things got really nasty.  Other boys gathered around.  I was about to<\/div>\n
be punched when Karl arrived.  He was a great fighter.  An even better threatener.<\/div>\n
Nothing happened.   Maybe Karl said he would pay tomorrow or just Karl\u2019s<\/div>\n
presence defused  the situation.   I learned a big lesson that day.  A couple of big <\/div>\n
lessons.  First, do not make promises you cannot deliver.  Second, violence<\/div>\n
is easy to trigger\u2026harder to reduce.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
I know this sounds silly but the memory is clear\u202675 years after the fact.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
I had an even earlier memory of violence.  A memory that today I find hard<\/div>\n
to believe.  Did this really happen?  Grade one maybe.  Six or seven years old.<\/div>\n
Our nice teacher  gave all of us a cucumber from his  garden.  Male teacher I<\/div>\n
seem to recall although that does not matter.  A cucumber.  Small one.  What a<\/div>\n
prize.  But how can I get it home for mom?   <\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
Getting home each day was difficult because I had to cross through Dufferin<\/div>\n
Park.  That meant crossing the ravine that ran  at right angles blocking the route to our house<\/div>\n
In 1944 or 1945.  Our house at 18 Sylvan Avenue was  almost right inside the<\/div>\n
park.  It has been demolished now sadly.   Crossing that ravine was like crossing<\/div>\n
no man\u2019s land in our imaginary world of cops  and robbers or cowboys  and Indians.<\/div>\n
Only this ravine was real and the boys hiding there were very real.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
Often They frisked  me to see what they could steal.  Getting the cucumber home<\/div>\n
was going to be very difficult.  I  seem to remember even being stripped in these<\/div>\n
no man\u2019s land  confrontations.  Could  I get the cucumber home for mom?<\/div>\n
How?   Then a solution came to me.  My shoe!   I hid the cucumber in my shoe<\/div>\n
and managed to get it home.  It must have been a small cucumber but it was a<\/div>\n
great victory.   The violence .. potential violence .. in that ravine remains a<\/div>\n
powerful memory even today.   <\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
Must be true because the City Parks sent a crew to cut down the bushes and<\/div>\n
trees in that ravine.  Today  it is just a dip in the grass of Dufferin Park.  Some\u2019<\/div>\n
of the ravine has been in filled with subsoil to make a skating rink.  Did the<\/div>\n
city do this because of the dangers.  Or is that just my imagination.  Did  any of<\/div>\n
this really happen?  It must have.  How big was that cucumber in my shoe?  Did<\/div>\n
I walk with a fake limp?  Would mom make us a cucumber sandwich?<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
Dad made a lot of mistakes in his life\u2026some of which I have told in earlier<\/div>\n
Episodes.  Most of them were funny in retrospect.  But one that I remember<\/div>\n
was anything but funny.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cRed, can you babysit the boys tonight\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cI  will be working late.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cOK\u2026Harumph\u201d<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
Dad did not play games with us.  He treated us as miniature adults<\/div>\n
really or as interlopers who got between him and the horses racing<\/div>\n
at Dufferin Racetrack.  He would have preferred to take us to the racetrack<\/div>\n
but no horses were running at night.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
That particular night he decided to fill in the time by taking us to a<\/div>\n
movie at the Doric theatre down at College and  Dufferin.  Dad  was not<\/div>\n
a motion picture movie buff.  He  did not even look at what was<\/div>\n
playing.  Mom, on the other hand, pre selected our movies as<\/div>\n
mentioned earlier.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
I will never forget that Doric movie. It scarred me for life  I came out<\/div>\n
terrified.  I wanted to run out before it ended but Dad  made me stay.<\/div>\n
I think he was half asleep.   <\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
This memory is graphic.   Not imaginary.  I can see in my mind the time<\/div>\n
and the place.  The dark night .  The Doric  theatre which was a run down <\/div>\n
movie house.   What I remember clearest however was the horror of that film.<\/div>\n
Some sinister people operated a dual business.   They performed civil<\/div>\n
marriages \u2026 couples in love tying the knot.  Loving  couples.  Especially<\/div>\n
couples with no kinfolk to get in the way.  After the marriage ceremony<\/div>\n
the couples were murdered.  Their bodies kept in a dark place at the <\/div>\n
back of the business.  Why murdered?  So they could  be robbed I think.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
The murders terrified me so  much that for weeks, months afterward<\/div>\n
I would not go to a movie theatre.  Not even a silly Bowery Boys movie.<\/div>\n
I had nightmares about the movie and  still do.  <\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
I think Dad thought I was a bit touched in the head.  He did not<\/div>\n
see the movie.  Mom wondered what had  happened as I was  white<\/div>\n
in the face and trembling.  Gutless some of you might say.  I did  not<\/div>\n
like violence.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
We saw lots of violence.  Eric and I.  It was all centred  in Dufferin Park<\/div>\n
where groups of \u2018big guys and  big girls\u201d  congregated.   <\/div>\n
Dufferin Park was  Beanery Gang territory.  Lots of things happened<\/div>\n
there.  Seems I remember being under a forsythia bush in the ravine <\/div>\n
watching two people tossing around each other in sexual paradise.<\/div>\n
That memory must be close to reality as well since Eric and I collected<\/div>\n
used  safes at one point.  (Sheiks was the brand name as I remember).<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cMom, they make great balloons.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t touch those dirty old things.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cBut mom!\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cGarbage..put them in the garbage now.\u201d<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
The jumping around under the forsythia bushes did  not seem that violent.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
The violence came when the Junction gang invaded  Beanery Gang territory.<\/div>\n
Gangs fought viciously.   Gang fights?  Was it plural\u2026i.e many gang fights.<\/div>\n
Or was it just one  gang fight that we saw.  Likely just one which my  imagination<\/div>\n
has pluralized.  <\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
It was very violent.  Weapons were involved Knives and lead pipes\u2026.perhaps<\/div>\n
baseball bats.  Which memories  are most graphic.  Which memories are likely real<\/div>\n
in other words.   One stands out.  A gang member was trying to protect his girlfriend<\/div>\n
\u2026fighting some guy face on when another guy came up from behind and hit him<\/div>\n
over the head with a lead pipe.  He dropped to the ground.   Another incident<\/div>\n
occurred near our house on Sylvan Avenue when a police officer caught one of the<\/div>\n
gang members and  had him spread eagled on the squad  car hood.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
How true was this?   The strange thing is that I cannot find written records<\/div>\n
of these gang fights.   Seems  they would be big news.   Are they only in my mind.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
So graphic to me.  Just down Gladstone Avenue was the home of the Simmons<\/div>\n
family whose boys were gang members as I remember.  Toenails Simmons was<\/div>\n
in jail I think.   His brother showed Eric and  I how to make a knuckle duster<\/div>\n
out of a  sharpened roofing nail and some white  medical tape.  <\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cJust hone the nail to a sharp point with a file\u2026needle point\u2026then<\/div>\n
put the flat part of the nail on your finger.  Bind it there  by winding <\/div>\n
white tape around it.  Make sure the tape covers the sharpened <\/div>\n
point.  If a fight happens then your fist becomes a  better weapon . one <\/div>\n
blow with the fist and the nail pops through and cuts the other guy.\u201d<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
Mom feared Eric  and  I would  get drawn into the gangs.  That <\/div>\n
was why we moved  to 455 Annette Street in 1948 or 1949.<\/div>\n
How she managed to do that is one of the wonders of our lives.<\/div>\n
She did it \u2026bought a small rather begraggled house in a very nice<\/div>\n
neighbourhood.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
END PART ONE:  VIOLENCE IN MY LIFE<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
P>S.   I nearly forgot the Robertson’s Candy Truck heist.  That was also <\/div>\n
a lesson in violence.  Rather a lesson in how to avoid violence.  Eric  and<\/div>\n
I witnessed  a bunch of boys stealing boxes  of candy bars from the<\/div>\n
back  of the Robertson Candy truck.  They got a few boxes and then ran<\/div>\n
like hell down Dufferin.   We knew who they were.  We saw  what happened.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
A policeman came and asked for witnesses and  Eric and  I did the <\/div>\n
right thing.  Or the wrong thing.  <\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cAny witnesses?\u201d said the cop<\/div>\n
\u201cWe saw what happened\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cDid you see who stole the the candy?\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cDo you know where they live?\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cWill you take me there?\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cYyyyes.\u201d  (less confident voice)<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
So he  drove us down to the thieves house on Dufferin just<\/div>\n
below College St.  The policeman knocked on the door and<\/div>\n
a woman answered.  <\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
\u201cDo you have boys?\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cI do.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cCan I see them for a moment?\u201d<\/div>\n
(two boys came to the door)<\/div>\n
\u201cAre these the boys that stole the boxes candy?\u201d<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
That was when I became aware that Eric and i had<\/div>\n
made a big mistake.  We were snitching big time.  <\/div>\n
We were also inviting violence if these boys decided<\/div>\n
to get even.  We were scared.    Nothing bad really<\/div>\n
happened.  We were not punched out as I remember<\/div>\n
but we were scared.  We deserved to be punched out<\/div>\n
I thought. <\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
Since then I believe that policeman was not thinking<\/div>\n
straight by putting Eric and I in  danger.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
P.P.S.   In another disgusting moment of potential  violence<\/div>\n
I became  aware of the courage of my brother.  We had<\/div>\n
been surrounded  in the park by a group of tough kids.<\/div>\n
We knew them but did not associate with them.  I think I<\/div>\n
best not tell the full story however.  Suffice it to say they<\/div>\n
had disgusting plans for us.  First they picked on Eric and<\/div>\n
he Refused their orders no matter what.  And he<\/div>\n
was prepared to fight even if outnumbered and likely to lose\u2026<\/div>\n
even with my help.  I had thought the wiser course was to<\/div>\n
run away but that would  have been difficult.   They backed<\/div>\n
down eventually so nothing really happened except I was proud<\/div>\n
of my brother.  These same boys  had broken into a fort<\/div>\n
we had made out of wooden barrels and scrap  lumber.<\/div>\n
They used the fort as a toilet.<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Note:  You may be sick of this biography.  Fine.  Don\u2019t read it.  Simple.   EPISODE 116   VIOLENCE IN MY LIFE  Part One Sometimes  my imagination takes over in my life.  Memory can be faulty but always contains a kernel of truth or perhaps some events are so shocking that they get locked into our […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-5715","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/alanskeoch.ca\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5715","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/alanskeoch.ca\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/alanskeoch.ca\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/alanskeoch.ca\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/alanskeoch.ca\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=5715"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/alanskeoch.ca\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5715\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/alanskeoch.ca\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=5715"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/alanskeoch.ca\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=5715"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/alanskeoch.ca\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=5715"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}