McDonald Charlie

Charlie McDonald was born in Ottawa and raised in Cornwall. He joined the Ontario Provincial Police in 1968, and retired after thirty-four years,service. His interests include writing, reading and geneology; and has been working on a series of short stories and poems. Charlie and his wife, Nancy have recently moved to Long Sault,where they enjoy the small-town charm and walking their golden retrievers.

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THE MISSION

Moe and I stared at it for months. From our second-storey classroom we watched the laborers move from one girder to another with the ease of a squirrel scampering along a telephone wire.

It was as if they were working with a life-size Meccano set. The constant rat-tat-tat of the riveters played havoc with our teacher’s sanity.

Now, you have to realize this was about 1957, before television and long before computer games. Kids back then made their own fun; whether it was playing tag, hide-and-seek, or in this case, we had developed a plan; one which called for courage, strength and downright stupidity.

Our mission…to climb the city of Cornwall’s newly erected water tower located at the corner of Ninth and Marlborough Streets. You can just imagine the thoughts rolling around in our eight year old brains.

This was the tallest structure we had ever seen. It was in fact about 130 feet from the ground to the top of the huge storage tank which sat atop eight legs. Running up the centre of the water tower was a tube about 10 feet in diameter. I guess the water moved from there up to the holding tank. Fashioned around this tube was a spiral staircase which ran from ground level to a catwalk about 100 feet above. However, there was a problem. There was a door blocking the entrance to the stairs. We had to find a way to get over the top.

Since the tower had just been painted, there were several planks strewn about, we found one long enough to prop up against the door at a 30 degree angle. This allowed Moe and I to pull ourselves up hand –over-hand until we reached the top of the wall, then it was just a matter of lowering ourselves to the nearest stair. Once we there we were home free.

As we climbed, we could see our second-storey classroom at St.Paul’s school. Hey, this was neat. We could even see our homes. I lived on Ninth Street, while Moe lived on Gloucester.

You know, with all our planning, it never dawned on us someone may have actually spotted us during our mission. Being only eight or nine at the time, the idea of climbing the tower seemed terrific, but, as we continued our ascent, the realization of how high we were entered our minds. Neither of us had much experience with heights. Sure, we had climbed trees, telephone poles, and even the occasional bridge, but, this was the first time we had been so high. One hundred feet doesn’t seem like much when you’re in a tall building, just try holding on to a thin steel rail that wraps itself around a steel column. I remember staring at the huge under belly of that giant reservoir, wondering what would happen if it sprung a leak. (I seem to recall a story about a flood coming from the tower some years later).

We had only about 20 steps to go before reaching the catwalk that led to the outer edge of the tower. I don’t recall exactly what made us stop – it could have been fear – or maybe it was the fact a small crowd had gathered at the base of the tower. They were yelling something, but, I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

Anyway, we started back down. It wasn’t long before the local constabulary was there. He was shouting at us to come down. I guess he couldn’t make out what we were doing, it didn’t matter. We wanted to come down. Both of us had to go to the bathroom. In what seemed to take forever, we climbed over the door and into the arms of the law.

This wasn’t our first run-in with police, and certainly not the last. To think that some ten years later I would become a police officer!

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THE DAY THE CIRCUS CAME TO TOWN

When I think of my childhood years, (the 1950’s and 1960’s) growing up in Cornwall, some of my fondest memories were the times the circus came to town. Our house was located on Ninth Street, about three blocks east of the CNR railway station. This was fortunate, because the entire circus had to roll past our home in order to reach the old military training grounds on Marlborough Street. I thought about the arrival for days, and I had a plan. I would set my alarm for four thirty in the morning so I could watch the troupe go by. When I went to bed, I was as nervous as a kid on Christmas Eve, tossing and turning in an attempt to fall asleep. Sleep finally came, but, not for long. At around four o’clock I was awakened by a strange noise, as if something was being dragged down the street. I jumped out of bed and peered out the window; through the darkness I could make out the shapes elephants, circus wagons and large trucks.

I could barely contain myself, and not wanting to wake anyone, I crept downstairs and sat on our front porch. For what seemed to be hours, trailer after trailer slowly made their way to Dingwall’s field. I couldn’t wait for daylight, but, I knew parents would never let me out of the house at this early hour. Finally, eight o’clock rolled around. It was time to call Maurice, we called him Moe, and together we ventured off to see the circus being set up. Huckleberry Finn had nothing on us, when it came to being adventurous. In our short seven years on earth, we had hopped a moving freight car, swam in the St. Lawrence, which was quite a feat because Moe couldn’t swim, but, that’s another story. Now, here we were about to witness elephants with harnesses helping to erect the big top, and roustabouts setting up the ferris wheel. We thought we had died and gone to heaven. From that moment I knew what I wanted to do with my life. Just imagine, traveling from town to town, all that delicious circus food, AND you got paid!

The speed at which the crew set up the tents and rides was incredible; at about eleven thirty in the morning everything was set to go. I remember staring at the banner atop the big tent, it read, RINGLING BROTHERS,BARNUM AND BAILEY CIRCUS. Of course, that didn’t mean anything to us, except this was really exciting. We strolled around the grounds for a short while, then, made our way home for lunch; after all, it was only a short walk. After eating our lunch in record time, we made our way back to the circus.

I was reading the other day that of all our senses, the sense of smell is the strongest and retained in our brain the longest time. I mention this just to describe the total assault on our senses. There was the hollering of the barkers as they tried to entice the curious to their sideshow. We watched in amazement as trainers led the elephants, giraffes, bears, lions and monkeys into the big top. What I remember most vividly were the smells, the freshly spread wood chips, the hot dogs, and of course the sweet aroma of cotton candy wafting through the air.

One of the carnies must have felt sorry for us, here were two seven year olds with barely a dime between us, and we probably looked for all the world like the urchins from a Charles Dickens novel. He motioned to us, can you imagine, two young kids being approached by a total stranger. Times were different then. He gave us two tickets to see the show. Before we could say anything, a clown with a sad looking face escorted us tour seats. Someone later told me that clown was probably none other than the world famous Emmett Kelly. This was every young boys dream come true, sitting almost front row centre watching the greatest show on earth. There were the midgets, the clowns, not to mention the elephants, lions and bears.

Now, I’m not sure how long we were there, but, I recall the surprise when we got out and it was dark. We weren’t too concerned because we only lived around the block. However, some conscientious adult must have thought we were lost. In what seemed just a few moments, Moe and I were rather unceremoniously placed in the back seat of a police car and driven to the station. The station was an old building that didn’t have any accommodations for big-time criminals like ourselves, so we were escorted to a cell, but, the door was left open. By this time I was getting nervous, I hadn’t planned on this happening. One of the officers told us not to worry because our parents were on their way to pick us up. Moe and I looked at each other with THAT look that comes from experiencing what happens when one gets into trouble; we had been there before. At about nine-thirty in the evening, my mother arrived to take us home. We sat in the car not saying a word. Moe was dropped off at his house. I didn’t have the nerve to say good-bye, good luck or anything. About thirty seconds later, we got to our house and there was my father waiting on the front porch. Isn’t that ironic, the same porch where fifteen hours earlier I sat watching the circus pass by. I can’t remember if it was the fly swatter or my dad’s belt, it was the quickest send off to my room I ever had. As I lay in bed, I wondered what other adventures lay in store for me.

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THOUGHTS FROM A QUIETER TIME

A while back, one of my sons asked me what we did for fun when I was growing up. I must confess, I had to think about that for a few moments. With all the advances in our high tech world, sometimes I think that we, (the older generation), downplay what we did as children. In my opinion, we are devaluing the importance of growing up in a quieter, more innocent time.

As children growing up in the nineteen fifties and sixties, there seemed to be all the time in the world to do things. I don’t ever remember hearing the word STRESS uttered by my parents. Anyway, I’m getting away from the topic. What did we do for fun?

I remember that Saturday mornings were great; the house was usually very quiet.

Being the oldest of four children meant that I had the run of the place. My breakfast usually consisted of a bowl of corn flakes, toast and some juice.

A quick glance at the clock reminded me that the cartoons started at eight o’clock; of course everything was in black and white. It wasn’t uncommon for a few of the neighbour kids to drop by, as we had the only television set on our block. There we were, four or five of us huddled watching FURY, ROY ROGERS, and MIGHTY MOUSE.

At around ten o’clock, we would get on our bikes and ride around town. I’m sure some of us imagined we were riding out trusty steed as we raced to see who would be the first to get to Central Park.

Swimming was just one of the many activities open to us. Quite often, we would find a ball and bat and walk to Alexander Park, which was located on Adolphus between Eighth and Ninth streets. The park was a marvelous place, there were always kids wanting to play ball. If that didn’t meet your fancy, you could swim in the wading pool, swing, or play on the teeter-totter. I’m sure a sociologist could explain the curious interaction among the kids. There was some interesting jostling for position on the playground equipment. The big kids always got the swings first and wouldn’t share until they were bored. In the winter, the club house was a haven for us; it was heated, and interestingly enough was segregated, the girls occupied the south end while the boys used the north. A city employee would flood the rink, with hose in hand; he would rhythmically move side to side ensuring the entire ice surface was covered. After a snowfall, it was never a problem finding volunteers to remove the snow. At night, the lights and music came on, reminds me of one those old fashioned Christmas cards.

In the summer, getting around town was easy, as I mentioned earlier, most of us had bicycles. Bikes gave us so much freedom. In the daylight hours, we would pedal our way to the Silver Bridge, located at the foot of Marborough Street, or, to the east end of the city way past the Courtauld’s plant. It was possible to bike ten or fifteen miles, and we never got tired.

After supper, we would congregate for a game of hide and seek. Strangely enough, even some of the bigger kids would join us. This wasn’t a game for the faint of heart; there were fences to jump, garage roofs to climb and dogs to outrun. Sometimes, this game would last two or three hours. I don’t remember anyone ever getting hurt.

On rainy days, we would gather at someone’s home for an all day game of monopoly. Since homes were smaller, most games were played at the kitchen table. It was a hub of activity, with so much going on. Most of the families in our neighbourhood were large; the Constantineau’s had about seventeen children, not to mention the three or four of us who were playing the game. I was amazed how everything worked out; there were kids in diapers being cared for by the older ones. While that was happening, someone was baking bread. We just sat there and salivated, not able to wait for the baking to be done. Fresh bread and homemade jam; life just didn’t much better.

I remember raspberry picking. It was a real community affair, with about fifteen of us, including for or five of the mothers. We must have made quite a sight, marching up Ninth Street, armed with pots and pans. There was an area just east of the Hotel Dieu hospital that had many raspberry bushes. In a very short period of time, our little group had our containers filled with delicious red and black raspberries; of course, half the fun was eating while we picked. It was exciting to think of the many different recipes where those berries could be used. To this day, one of my favorite desserts is raspberry pie with ice cream.

One summer, someone got the idea that we should build racing carts. It’s truly amazing what could be found in garages and basements. We found neat stuff like plywood, wheels and rope. It took us about two weeks, but, in that time we made three carts, nothing fancy, but, they worked. With someone pushing with a broken hockey stick, we pretended we were on some giant race course. We raced them down the hill on Ninth Street just west of Marlborough Street.

Once, when we got bored of our carts, we tried rolling large tires we had found. It was fun to see how far they would roll before falling over. Some of you might have guessed what happened next. Now, I don’t remember who came up with this brain wave, but, someone volunteered Moe to get inside the tire. Since Moe was one of the smaller boys, he fit inside the tire nicely. It wasn’t long before we were pushing the tire towards the hill on Ninth Street. Let me first state that we were not rocket scientists. We figured if we let the tire go, it would roll a few feet then fall over. That’s NOT WHAT HAPPENED! The tire rolled, but, suddenly it veered to the right, directly into the path of traffic, with a gaggle of kids in hot pursuit. One of us managed to tip the tire, and out came Moe, a little unsteady on his feet, but, none the worse for wear. Wouldn’t you know it; one of the neighbors witnessed our escapade, and by the time we got home for lunch, the news had already preceeded us. It wasn’t a pretty sight. There was my mother, fly swatter in hand, issuing strict orders to never do that again. I can honestly say that I never did THAT again, but, that wasn’t the last time I was lectured about my behavior.