little life was full of summers with pail and shovel, sand sifters and sand moulds, playing on the shores of Lake Ontario while mother and her friends unwrapped picnic lunches on the plaid car rug Dad left behind. The water was never very warm, but I didn’t go too far as a toddler. I loved the feel of the rounded pebbles under my feet as I ran up and down the shoreline, teasing the incoming waves. If I found a piece of glass known to us as “coloured stones,” clouded and worn smooth by the water’s motion, I’d run and show it to Mother. She’d obligingly acknowledge it while comparing tans with her friends. Those were lazy days — no husband from Monday to Friday for her to hurry home to prepare meals for, and no housework to speak of in the frugally furnished apartment.
Sometimes, Mother would give me forty-five cents to buy a quart of milk at the corner store. Hershy Taylor, a little boy who lived in our building, would often accompany me. At that time, Toronto’s Jewish population was only 45,200. One of the oldest synagogues in Toronto was only about ten blocks from our apartment building. But it wasn’t called a synagogue then. It was named the Orthodox Beach Hebrew Institute — a more neutral label chosen to deflect the attention of the Canadian German Party who were putting up swastikas everywhere in the area. Things were tough for Jews in Toronto then. In 1933 the Swastika party put up signs near the Balmy Beach clubhouse with the words, “Heil Hitler.” These same party organizers lobbied to literally keep Jews off the beach. Fortunately, their efforts failed, but Hershy’s parents must have felt the hatred. They persevered in this hostile environment, eventually expanding their small dry-cleaning business on the southwest corner of Wineva and Queen into the largest one in the Beach.
Mother was kindly disposed to Jews. Before marriage she’d been a coat and dress model for a Spadina manufacturer. “There’s nobody better to work for than Jewish people,” she’d say. Then after a dramatic pause, she’d underline “If they like you.” She claimed, “My boss and his wife treated me just like a daughter when I modelled coats for them.” I could picture her in the Spadina showroom, her marred complexion compensated for by beautiful dark brown eyes, lovely body, and gorgeous legs. That, combined with her cocky defiant air, gave her verve. Anything she wore looked good.
One morning my mother sent me to buy milk. Hershy and Jackie Keenan, another neighbour, trudged along with me. What was in my mother’s mind sending a four-year-old to buy milk in a glass bottle? One of the boys who insisted on carrying it dropped it just as we got to our front door. Milk and glass splattered over the walkway. When I rushed in to tell my mother, the two boys denied they had anything to do with it. I was shocked my two friends would lie. My parents had told me lying was a sin. It was even more shocking that anyone would do so when it cast someone else in a guilty light.
The perfidy of friends didn’t end there. A few days later, one of the boys and I were coming through the back alley after buying some candy. The boy stopped, pulled down his pants, squatted, and did a huge bowel movement on the pavement. I was fascinated, because the only ones I’d ever seen till now were always floating in toilet water. When we got home, I rushed in to tell my mother about the remarkable pavement presence of “Number Two.” She in turn told the boy’s mother. All four of us hurried back to the scene of the crime. The evidence was still there, in its pristine, sculpted state. The culprit started to cry and denied it was his. Worse still, he said it was mine!
“No, it’s not, it’s not.” I cried to my mother, as once again I was betrayed by a friend’s lies.
Mother was very quiet the rest of the day. When I went to bed that night, I realized she wasn’t sure whether to believe me. I felt utterly powerless because there was no way to prove to her that I was telling the truth.
In their own way, by their own lights, they tried to care for you tried to teach you to care for objects of their caring.
— Adrienne Rich, “Meditations for a Savage Child,” from Diving into the Wreck
I wasn’t a total angel. My first conscious act of disobedience occurred when I was four. On the weekends my father would take me sledding down the gentle slopes beside Balmy Beach Canoe Club. Some other children would go down the hill sitting backwards on their sleighs.
“Daddy, I want to go that way down the hill.”
“No, Lorraine. You’ll hurt yourself if you do.”
Ignoring his warning, I went down — backwards. It was an uneventful ride. No bumps or collisions. Yet as I trudged up to the top of the hill, I felt blood running out of my nose. Where had the nosebleed come from? Is that what happened when you disobeyed? The mysterious power of parental prohibition was indelibly impressed on my mind.
Balmy Beach Canoe Club as it looked in the 1930s. Beacher and Canada Sports Hall of Fame athlete and sports writer Ted Reeve stands in back row, second from left.
Those outings with my father were special because he was away all week. Life normally had a regular routine, although one night in July 1936 that routine was altered. Small changes have a huge impact on childish minds. My parents took me down to the hill above the Balmy Beach Canoe Club and said we were going to sleep outside that night. This, to me, was a grand adventure. Their reasons were practical and necessary however. The temperature had soared to 105 degrees Fahrenheit (almost 41 degrees Celsius). It was the worst heat wave in Canadian history. My mother was pregnant with my sister Suzanne and my father knew we had to get out of our hot basement apartment. So we slept out under the stars surrounded by scores of other Beachers. With no air conditioning available then, 542 Ontarians eventually died. Our proximity to the waters of Lake Ontario saved us.
The baby carriage was always placed outside our basement apartment window. That way, if the baby cried, my parents could hear it.
One of Dad’s letters from 1941 when he was still on the road. He’d get only a small commission on the $110 dollar order!
Most of my time was spent with my mother. Thursday was a special day in my week. Mom and I would sit at the kitchen table in our basement apartment. There’d be an accumulation of letters my dad had sent her that week. She’d read each one aloud in sequence. When she’d finished, I’d join her in the ending I knew by heart. “I miss you and the baby. As ever, your adoring Neil” followed by eleven big Xs. That “as ever, your adoring Neil” was the final phrase in every letter he sent all the sixteen years he was travelling. I knew my mother treasured these letters because she kept them for the rest of her life. Whenever the inevitable strains of marriage would temporarily overtake her and my dad, she’d read one or two of them, reliving the flush of their early love.
These letters kept me close to my dad even though Mom was the constant physical presence. Dad was “on the road” Monday to Friday, a travelling salesman perfecting his pitch as he worked solely on commission for Sutherland Press, his employer in St. Thomas, Ontario. He’d stop at every small business in his territory and convince the owners, under the guise of buying gas, a sandwich, a packet of Sweet Caporal cigarettes, or getting a haircut, to look at his samples.
“What do you think
