Mom's Many Miles

Having been on a bit of a nostalgia kick recently, I find myself with a few additional recollections, and this is one of them.

We lived about a kilometre from my school or about 0.6 miles in what was essentially downtown Montreal. My mother must have kept quite fit in those days because she would walk that distance 8 times a day — morning, twice at lunch, and afternoon, each occasion requiring a round trip. She did this to escort me to school and back. In total, she would have walked almost 8km or 5mi per day all through grade 1 and into grade 2 before we moved to the suburbs. She also walked me in Kindergarten, but she got off lighter because that was only a half day and so she was only required to make 4 round trips for a measly 4km or 2.5mi.

Up until that move early in grade 2, we lived in the inner city. Not that it seemed too dangerous in those gentler times, but it was still what it was — inner city. And not only was it inner city, but it was a bit of a convoluted route, if I recall, along with quite a bit of traffic to contend with. This is why she walked with me.

Largely, I think because I sensed some anxiety from my elders, I was reluctant to walk it alone, and I'm sure that my parents were also reluctant. I could have done it though as witnessed by one time that I did.

As a bit of a respite for mom, I was once to accompany a somewhat older neighbourhood boy to walk home with me one lunch hour. I guess, however, my younger class got out for lunch a little earlier than the rest of the school because when I got outside and waited for a bit, I thought that maybe he had gone ahead without me because there were no other kids around. So, I struck off on my own and actually managed the walk quite well as a 5 years old although I was a tad nervous.

Even now, as I look back, it makes me a bit apprehensive to have attempted that solitary walk on my own in that environment at that young age, but I had a pretty good grasp of my bearings, even then.

So, after that failed attempt, back and forth Mom continued to go, 4 round trips daily for a total of 8 trips in all. A few times, I recall something like kind of a soup kitchen for kids near the school that she took me to in order to save herself one round trip, but I don't think we did that too often.

Early on in grade 2, we moved to the suburbs, and with that route also being easier, I was sent out on my own, which I didn't mind at all, for I was surely a big boy by then. I'm not sure whether that would happen in these super-parented days, but times were more laissez-faire back then.

The school that I went to was called Victoria, and judging by the following screen capture from Google Street View, it was a fine building, built in 1887 with an addition mainly for a gymnasium in 1911. It has been re-purposed from an elementary school in present times, becoming an adjunct to Concordia University for awhile. Presently, it is a school for tourism and hotel management according to this article: Victoria School.

Oddly enough, 5 years or so after we had moved from the area, I joined a scout trip that met in the very same school, which was, in fact, still functioning as a school in the late fifties and early sixties. The reason that my scout troop was so far from my suburban home at the time was that I joined the troop sponsored by my former downtown church and with which I still maintained some ties.

The Kindergarten room was behind the window to the right of the door, and I spent grade 1 in the room to the left.

Also from street view, this is how our residence from back then looks now, the one we walked back and forth to and from.

And this is what it looked like back then, or at least this is what Grampa and I (and Skippy) looked like sitting on the front steps. I'm sorry to say that I haven't, at this point, come across a photo of more of the house.

On the Same Page

There is no particular connection between these and the previous photos (of Bill and Sadie) except that they were on the same page of the photo album.

Grampa Quinlan and Uncle Charlie in 1945: Grampa would have been about 65-66 years old, younger than I am now. Uncle Charlie, brother to my mother, was my only real uncle although there were others, like Bill, whom I called uncle. (I had no aunts either. Although my mother and uncle had two sisters, they both died very young.) Uncle Charlie would have been about 30 years old, give or take.

Grandfather, Arthur Joseph Quinlan, with distant uncles. A number of Arthur's wife's Robinson clan had migrated to and settled in Saskatchewan. These two uncles, which they were to my mother although once removed if I understand, were visiting. From left to right: David Robinson, Don Robinson, Grandfather Arthur Quinlan (with the stuffy), and Tom Broadbent. Tom had married a Robinson woman.

Notice the baldness in the Robinson clan. With baldness on that side as well as my paternal side, I didn't have much of a chance.

Also on the same page is a photo that I have posted before. It is my uncle and me at Christmas 1954 when I was 7 years old.

Elsewhere in the album are two more photos of me in that outfit on that same Christmas Day. The first is with my dad. I think I was smiled-out at this point.

Bill and Sadie

I showed this photo yesterday as part of my Candy Syrup post, but now I wish to say more about the people and also add a few more photos.

I said in that other post that the photo was circa 1952, but in now reading my mother's notes, I see that it was taken on January 29 1954. I was 6 years old and had a very bad haircut.

The occasion, also according to my mother's notes, was Bill's birthday, and apparently, this was an annual event — the celebration, I mean although, obviously this also applies to his birthday. I don't remember any other occasions although I do remember this one and Bill being funny (unless that was the year before). I must have been bobbing around excitedly, and he boomed, "For Pete's sake, sit down." I took it humorously and laughed a lot about it. By the next January, we had moved from my grandfather's house, and I don't know if they had another of these celebrations, but if they did, I wasn't involved.

But more about Bill and Sadie, particularly Bill.

They, Bill and Sadie, were both of the Robinson clan, as was my maternal grandmother, who was by now deceased. They were sibling-cousins who lived together their whole lives.

Bill was born without thumbs, so his mother wanted nothing to do with him. Sadie's parents took him in and raised him as their own, which is why I described them as sibling-cousins.

They both worked, even her as I recall, even though working women weren't as common in those days. He looks successful and apparently did alright in business.

Bill and Sadie lived together in an apartment in Montreal, and I vaguely recall dropping in once a few years later.

I last saw Bill and Sadie at their retirement cottage in Glen Robertson in 1963, near where the Robinson clan had lived in Eastern Ontario, not far from Cornwall. In the nine years between these photos and then, he aged quite a lot. (See colour photos at the end.)

I have a few more photos from that same page in that photo album. Judging from the clothes, the table setting, and my bad haircut, they were taken on the same evening.

And look, here are Grampa and me seemingly looking through a photo album. Maybe I became interested in photography at and early age. I would love to know what photos we were looking at.

My memory is that these next two photos are from that 1963 visit that I mentioned earlier. I was almost 16 years old and, thankfully, had a better haircut by this time. I am beside my mother in the first photo. We had visited Montreal after moving to Toronto a year earlier and dropped in to see them on our way home.

More than the folks, I recall that he had a stack of Montreal Gazette newspapers. Football season was beginning, and I scoured those papers for news of the Montreal Alouettes.

If I recall correctly, Bill lived longer than Sadie, and I remember my mother sharing a letter from him or just news from a letter some years later. I can even remember that he ended the letter writing, Myosotis, which is the Latin name for Forget-Me-Not flowers. Cute, eh?

Edit: I really should read my mother's notes more carefully. Sadie passed away on March 19 1976 and Bill on December 29 1976.

Candy Syrup

I guess I was a pretty scrawny child, and with my predilection for eschewing certain kinds of foods (of which I recently posted in Strange Tastes), my mother decided that my diet required fortification.

What she did was purchase a product called Neo Chemical. To entice me and my very fussy taste buds, she called it Candy Syrup. Someone else has described it below.

For those of you who have never heard of it before, Neo chemical Food was a thick sticky liquid only slightly more runny than molasses. It was loaded with all kinds of nutrients. The joy of it was dipping the spoon into the jar and twirling it around to capture all the drippy stings then quickly putting it into the mouth and slowly sucking the spoon clean.

I don't recall the taste as being joyful (as above), but I it was palatable enough, and the application of Candy Syrup to my body became an evening ritual.

She would tell me and the dog that it was Candy Syrup time. She'd give me a spoonful, and the dog would come running to lick the spoon.

I don't know how long we did this, and my memory in general is vague. In fact the only memory I have is being given my portion in the dining room next to the kitchen. And I'm not even sure whether it's a first-hand memory or whether it is a memory of my mother telling me about it a few years later and me then envisioning this. But I think it was the former — an actual memory.

If my memory is correct, it was served in this room at least that once in a space somewhat behind the lady in the picture.

Just by way of note, this was the house that I lived in with my parents, grandfather (to my right) and uncle (not shown) from about the ages of 2 to 7.  The two other adult are Bill and Sadie, cousins of each other and, therefore of my mother as they were related to her mother.          (circa 1952)

I don't know when the ritual was abandoned or why exactly, for I am almost certain that she didn't ply me Candy Syrup after the age of 7.

On the other hand, I do remember some attempts to force feed me cod liver oil. The phrase, "Gag me with a spoon," comes to mind.

Whatever the case, the supplements must have worked because I am no longer scrawny.

The Ups and Downs of Memory

My reading jogged my memory last night. A boy pushed a button in an elevator, and while he was taken up or down, I was whisked across time, back about 60 years. I remembered my own elevator experience way back then. I may have thought about it once or twice over the years, but if I had, it had not been for a long time, but that one little act jogged my memory.

My parents and I had taken a little trip from Montreal to Cornwall, Kingston and Brockville in Eastern Ontario. We visited Old Fort Henry in Kingston, toured the Thousand Islands from Brockville, and visited extended family in Cornwall as well as toured some of the new St Lawrence Seaway.

But the boy in the book, pushed the button in the elevator.

And that hurtled my mind back across the years to the Cornwallis Hotel in Cornwall. At least I think Cornwall was the place and Cornwallis was the name. I don't think it was the Revere Hotel in Brockville, but I suppose it could have been. Whichever it was, the elevator totally fascinated me.

You see, I could push the buttons and ride it myself at will. And I loved it.

Up until that point, my experience with elevators was limited to multi-storied department stores in downtown Montreal, and in those buildings, young ladies piloted the elevators.

But in this hotel, I was the pilot. What a turn-on!

I found every excuse I could to leave our room in order to pilot that elevator.

We moved away from Montreal a few years later, and at some point I am sure that those department store elevators must have been switched over to self-operating models.

Also, department stores as I used to know them eventually disappeared, and if floors did have to be changed in say a two-floor store like Sears, escalators rather than elevators became the norm.

My last experience with department store elevators was in the summer of 1965 or 66 in downtown Toronto. My girlfriend at the time had a summer job at the upscale Eatons Department Store on College Street, and I visited her there once. Guess what? Her job was elevator operator. I had pretty much forgotten that too ... because my elevator may not go all of the way to the top any more.

Strange Tastes

Just thinking about taste this morning and how different we all are. What is a strange taste to one becomes perfectly normal to another. And vice versa.

Sue likes maple flavour in things, like ice cream, for example. Shauna (daughter) likes it in coffee-type drinks, like maybe a latte. I like maple syrup on pancakes or French toast only and decidedly don't prefer it otherwise. Why I like it in one form and not another, I know not.

Danica like plain vanilla ice cream, and while I don't mind it, I prefer chocolate. Meanwhile, if vanilla is all that we have in the house, Sue usually won't bother with it. If we stop for an ice cream cone somewhere, she will invariably order Pralines and Cream or something close to that, while I will always get something chocolaty, like Rocky Road.

Neither JJ nor Danica will accept gravy on the turkey or potatoes at Christmas dinner. It grieves me a little that they will never experience Christmas dinner that same way that the rest of us do.

Speaking of turkey, I love the skin of a roasted bird. But I can't think of anyone else in my circle who shares this taste. We went out for rotisserie chicken the other day, and as usual, Sue discarded the skin, and as usual, I snapped up her discards. I think the best taste is in the skin.

We are a bit like Jack Spratt and wife, except I am the wife to her Jack Spratt who can eat no fat. She will almost gag on something fatty as you might find in a steak. Meanwhile, I usually love the fatty bit as long as it isn't gristly.

She likes white wine while I prefer red. She wishes that she could like red more as it is said to be healthier, but she just can't.

She likes veggies. I don't. For a long time, I lauded her for eating raw carrots with almost every lunch because they're so good for you. Eventually however, it dawned on me that she actually likes raw carrots, so I needn't praise her at all for this (although she definitely deserves my praise for an infinite number of other attributes). The only way that I really like carrots is if they are roasted and soft and no longer taste like carrots, and it amuses some people if I say that I don't like a dish of carrots because they still taste like carrots.

But if we serve roasted carrots to the kids, particularly JJ, it becomes necessary to offer him plain raw carrots instead, and he always always always prefers them this way.

Speaking of JJ and others in the family, he will enjoy munching on a whole hard-boiled egg. But I can hardly stand to look at someone eating a hard boiled egg. Meanwhile, I like eggs scrambled or fried, but he doesn't. Neither does Danica. Funnily enough, I can accept an egg salad sandwich, which is just a boiled egg chopped up.

We were out at a restaurant with extended family. My brother-in-law shocked me when he ate his veggies first, before they could get cold. There is almost nothing less appetizing to me than plain, boiled veggies on a plate. I can stomach (barely) some boiled veggies if they are smeared with butter, but except for corn, it's still a bit of a struggle for me.

I wish I were different because those veggies are good for a body, but I can hardly manage them. However, when veggies are cooked what I call properly in the right dish, I can enjoy them quite a bit. I have made a nice, tasty veggie lasagna for example. If Sue smears a cheesy crust on cauliflower, I don't mind it, but broccoli is still problematic even baked with cheese. I can manage it, but I for sure don't love it.

We have the kids and Sha for supper almost every Monday, and I was shocked recently when Danica had a second helping of garden salad. Raw. No dressing. This almost disturbs me. lol

Animal Clips 3

A well trained cat

Happy Valentine's day...!! ♥️😃😺 pic.twitter.com/mqGVbv7jXp

— Stefano S. Magi (@StefanodocSM) February 14, 2018

It takes a cat to free the dogs

This cat is trying to break his dog siblings out of jail 😹 pic.twitter.com/2FyHqMTG6y

— The Dodo (@dodo) February 12, 2018

When your cat has a pet of its own pic.twitter.com/l5Xgzgs94q

— HUMOROUS ANIMALS (@CUTEFUNNYANIMAL) February 15, 2018

Finally. A cat that would do well at a carnival.

World smartest cat .. 👍🙏🐈 pic.twitter.com/LIE9TA2GV9

— Mindfulness Wellness (@HealingMB) February 24, 2018

Alright! Final Finally. I couldn't not add this next one of a cat who likes to be curled.

More entertaining than actual curling in #PyeongChang2018 Happy #Caturday on this #SaturdayMorning pic.twitter.com/gABrXevRwK

— Gladstone (@TreasuryMog) February 24, 2018