The Skates

Michael had learned many valuable things from his parents. How to tie his shoes. How to fix a flat tire on his bicycle. How kindness mysteriously attracts kindness. How gladness to be alive and self-sufficiency could help you overcome just about anything the world might capriciously send barreling your way.

Every Saturday morning, Michael would find his small allowance laying patiently beside the cookie jar: fifty cents a week. This sum had been recently topped up on his tenth birthday. A ten cent increase. In his eyes, it was huge. In return, Michael was expected to help with the dishes, take out the garbage and keep his room as tidy as a young hurricane could reasonably be expected to.

With a little planning, and some judicious delayed gratification, he could make his allowance last the whole week. Following his mother’s advice, he set aside thirteen cents per payday, tucking the funds away in the old Orange Pekoe tea tin he kept hidden on the top shelf of his bedroom closet. He was saving for a new banana seat and monkey bars for his bike. The rest of the cash he blew, a little at a time.

Down to Karl and Anne’s corner store he would ride every day after school to stare at the cornucopia of dazzling candied confections arrayed beside the cash register: blackballs, three for a penny; Kraft caramels, on cent apiece; Swedish Berries; miniature ersatz ice cream cones of pure sugar ecstasy; gummy bears and Turkish Delight. The choices were so difficult, it often took more than ten minutes to choose a nickel’s worth of the dentist’s best friends.

It did not take long for Michael to learn that he could supplement his allowance by using his boundless imagination and a little initiative. In the summers, he would pick blueberries to sell to Mrs. Crockford for more than a very fair price. In the spring, he would hire himself out to wash windows. He would rake leaves in the fall and shovel driveways in the winter. “If you really set your mind to it” he thought “a ten year old kid could live the life of Riley.”

In of the winter of 1965, while exploring the Sports Department in the Canadian Tire store on Cassells Street, he was stopped dead in his tracks. In Aisle 6, without warning, he fell in love for the third time in his life. It wasn’t with Lise Payette or Suzette Tremblay this time. No, this time it was different. There, on the top shelf of Aisle 6, sat a pair of tan and black Bauer Supreme 400’s, skates so beautiful he could already imagine scoring a thousand goals in his first PeeWee season, and then getting drafted, as the youngest player ever, to lead Davy Keon, George Armstrong and the rest of his beloved Maple Leafs to another Stanley Cup.

Michael just had to have those skates. Only one thing was holding him back. The skates, those beautiful skates, carried a price of $32.95, on sale. With a bit of quick arithmetic, he calculated that he needed to supplement his Orange Pekoe fund to the tune of $8.19. He could ask his parents for a loan and it would probably have been granted with an agreed upon repayment schedule.

“I’m going to do this on my own” he concluded. “I will just shovel some extra driveways. Maybe expand to Albert Street.”

Armed with his unconquerable determination, Michael ran home, but not without one last glance at the objects of his desire, as they waited, patiently, for him on the top shelf. He leapt up the back steps of his house, threw off his snow boots and immediately checked the paper for the weather reports. Looked like snow in two days. Nine inches or more. Woo hoo!

Now Michael knew there would be competition in the driveway shoveling market. Any North Bay kid with a little ambition would be out in two days, scouring the neighbourhood for business.

“I know what I’ll do” he mused. “I’ll go out right now and knock on doors. Offer a 10% discount to anyone who will sign up today for my future shoveling services. Beat the competition to the punch. Corner the snow shoveling market.”

Out he went and knocked on every door on Angus Street. Mr. Antrim signed up. He would be out of town for the rest of the week and it would ease his pregnant wife’s mind knowing the driveway and walks would be cleared should the predicted snow come. Then it was off to Terra Incognita, also known as Albert Street. It was just a couple of blocks from his house but Michael had never tried to do business outside his customary bailiwick. This did not deter him. A young entrepreneur must learn to face uncertainty with a smile and persistence.

On his twenty third sales pitch, Michael thought he had found a taker. Mrs. Simms answered her door. She w a seventy five year old widow who lived alone in a tiny well-kept bungalow next to Ste Anne’s school. She still worked six days a week as the short order cooking genius at the Delmar Restaurant on Main Street. She loved her job and her customers loved her. Mrs. Simms needed to keep working even though her tired body kept begging her to retire. Unfortunately, her pension was too miniscule for her to keep up her property and allow her to live independently. To Mrs. Simms, her independence was sacred.
Michael had often seen her, always walking with a slight limp wherever she went. He would have been surprised to know that she spent half her waking hours on her feet so that she would be a burden to no one.

“Good morning, ma’am. It’s a lovely day isn’t it?”

“It certainly is, young man” replied a bemused Mrs. Simms.

“Ma’am, I’m saving up for a new pair of skates. I am hoping to earn what I need, by providing to my neighbours, services of the highest quality. Today, I have for you the best offer in the history of Angus…I mean Albert Street.”

“Yes, dear?” smiled Mrs. Simms.

“Well, it’s supposed to snow on Tuesday. Nine inches. For $1.80, a 10% discount from my regular price, I will shovel your driveway and steps better than anyone ever has. No obligation. If not done to your satisfaction, I will keep returning until you are happy with my work.”

In her mind, Mrs. Simms was thinking how nice it would be to come home from work on Tuesday, knowing she could rest her sore feet and tired shoulders, without having to clear her driveway first. Yet, money was too tight for such an imaginary luxury.

“That is a marvelous offer, dear. But it’s one I can’t afford. Besides, the exercise does me good.”

There was short pause and she continued.

“What is your name, little businessman?”

“Michael. Michael Paynter.”

“I’m glad to make your acquaintance, Michael Paynter. My name is Margaret Simms.”

As she extended her soft hand, Michael took it gently and gave it the requisite three business-like pumps, taking out just enough intensity to ensure no injury was caused.

“If you have moment, come inside, Michael. I’ll be right back.”

Mrs. Simms disappeared for a moment to another part of the house. The kitchen, where he was standing, was immaculate. The smell of fresh bread cooling suffused his hungry nostrils. Soon, Mrs. Simms returned with her purse.

“It’s not much. But put this into your new skates fund. Score your first goal for me.”

Michael did not want to take the shiny dime from someone who needed to be very careful with her money. On the other hand, to refuse her generosity would be terribly unkind.

“Thank you, Mrs. Simms. My first three goals will be for you.”

Off our young entrepreneur went, turning the dime around thoughtfully in his pocket. He kept knocking on doors well into the evening. He had managed to sign up three more customers. He couldn’t wait for the snow to start falling.
Right on schedule, huge flakes of crystalline gold began to fall. Michael squirmed at his desk all day Tuesday, until, at last, the bell rang, releasing him to start earning money for his new skates. He ran home to grab his shovel. First call: Mrs. Antrim’s. He was done in forty five minutes. Without wasting a second, he galloped to Albert Street. By the time he finished his fourth driveway of the day, he was exhausted. And he still had to do the one at home. But the sound of coins clinking in his pocket reminded him it was all worth it.

As he made his way home, he saw Mrs. Simms slowly moving the heavy mess left by the snow plow. How tiny she looked.

“Mrs. Simms. Let me help you.”

“Hello, Michael Paynter. You should head home for supper, dear. I can manage just fine.”

Before she had completed her sentence, Michael started digging. The job was done quickly.

“I’m afraid I cannot pay you today, Michael. I don’t get paid until Saturday.”

“No thank you, Mrs. Simms. This just helps me get into hockey shape. Besides, I owe you three goals. I’m getting my new skates this Thursday and we’re playing the Kiwanis team on Friday. Under the lights at Laurentian Playground. 7pm. My uncle Tom and my parents are coming to watch. Can’t wait. See you, Mrs. Simms. Wish me luck. I’ll let you know how we do.”

After school on Thursday, Michael raced downtown to buy his new skates. What beauties they were. That night, without telling his mother, he slipped them on and carefully slid his way under the covers.

Friday night could not come soon enough. Kiwanis put up a good fight but, in the end, Michael’s team triumphed by a score of 10-9. He and his new skates had scored two goals and hit a post. His debt to Mrs. Simms would surely be paid off by the next weekend. As he walked home after the game, he made a note to drop by Mrs. Simms’ place the next evening, once she had returned from her shift at the Delmar.

At 6:30 pm on Saturday, Michael made his way over to Albert Street to tell Mrs. Simms all about his two goals, the goal post, the big victory and how he would have her third goal by next week’s game.

“That’s odd” he thought. “Mrs. Simms doesn’t own a car.”

He continued up the driveway and knocked on the door. In a few seconds, an unfamiliar face appeared.

“May I help you?” inquired a handsome middle aged women.

“Is Mrs. Simms at home? I’ve come to tell her about the game.”

“The game?”

Michael told the woman about the dime and the promised goals. For quite a while, the woman said nothing.

“Are you Michael?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“My name is Amelia Simms. My mother told me a lot about you. You made quite an impression on her.”

There was another long pause. Michael could tell something was not right. The words were not coming easily to Amelia.

“Michael, my mother passed away last night. A neighbour found her on the path to the playground. She had fallen into the snow and I guess she couldn’t get back up. She had called me from her work on Friday to tell me she wouldn’t be home till late. She told me she was going to see her little Davy Keon dazzle all of Laurentian playground in his new skates.”

Philosophers' Walk

This first week of spring, I had the pleasure of spending a couple of unstructured days in Toronto. My wife had work to do there and I went along for the ride. The ride happened to coincide with weather we usually associate with summer.

The city was awash in people strolling, lingering at outdoor bars and cafes and gladly shedding their winter carapaces in favour of much more comfortable clothing. The sunshine and warm air seemed to caused an outbreak of big city happiness.

Toronto is one of my favourite places in the world. Sure, it has crazy traffic, startling noises and lots of people: a lot more people than a small town dweller is accustomed to. But if your eyes are open and your antenna are up, it will reveal many jewels of impressive beauty.

My customary mode of transportation in Toronto is the Orthotically-Corrected New Balance Running Shoe. Not that the Shoe ever sees much running anymore. On this day, I start out near College and Yonge, where the old Maple Leaf Gardens has been taken over by Ryerson University. The building now houses the largest Loblaws I have ever seen. Is that Eddie Shack in the pop section?

North up Yonge I amble, past hundreds of small shops selling everything from bongs, to shoes, to manicures, to falafel, to trips to Cuba and beyond. Across Bloor and into Yorkville I swing. The whole tenor changes in a matter of a few feet. Everything morphs into the high end. Here, you can get your hair cut for $300 plus tax; $400 plus tax if you want styling gel. Beautiful suits and dresses send out their siren songs. Many cost more than my car. There are more walking sunglasses, Coach purses and cosmetic surgery per square meter here than anywhere else in Canada.

After about half an hour of promenading, I proceed north on Hazelton Lane. The homes, most of them Victorian semis, are right out of Architectural Digest. The facades are impeccable and the landscaping of the tiny front yards flawless. Compared to the clatter of Yonge , walking along Hazelton Lane is an oasis of pure calm.

Eventually, I end up at the University of Toronto, after making sure I pass by the Brunswick House, site of many an emptied tray of draft. Everything about the university exudes excellence, even those buildings whose days of glory have long past. I walk in and out of buildings at random. I am a touristic voyeur enchanted by intricate stonework, vaulted and coffered ceilings, old mahogany railings and the ghosts of those deceased Canadian scholars who gave this place its reputation as one of the best universities in the world. I look at pictures of the 1922 U of T Men's Rowing Team and try to imagine their lives. I check out their haircuts and notice they are not much different than my own. I read the plaques which so eloquently summarize the origins of Massey College and Hart House. I feel myself achingly envious of every first year student.

As I am about to leave the university grounds, I pause to sit quietly on a bench flanking Philosophers' Walk, before exiting this amazing cocoon for the freneticism of Bloor Street. Philosophers' Walk, a Zen Garden of improbable serenity, runs behind the Faculty of Music and the Royal Ontario Museum. Barely audible strains of Bach and Beethoven waft through the air. A few lone students sit, their backs against ancient elms, lost in Paradise Regained and William Butler Yeats. A professor passes by, absent-minded, rehearsing an afternoon lecture soon to be delivered. Everything seems to slow down here.

As the unaccustomed warmth of the March sun envelops me, I close my eyes. My thoughts turn to freedom and the human condition. I think about how lucky we are to live in a country which, although it has great faults and will always be a work in progress, puts so much value on the life of the mind. Because it is in the mind that the seeds of human potential first appear and take root. I take pride in the fact that where I live, places like the University of Toronto exist to allow people to explore, to create, to experiment, to fail, and to exchange ideas in an environment where the only true guiding principles are respect for others, kindness, curiosity and an unbridled desire to contribute in making this country and this world a better place for everyone.

The Contest

For almost fifty years, my father owned an upholstery business in North Bay. To this day, it amazes me how many times a week I run into people for whom he has done work. Invariably, they tell me that their chesterfield or chair is still in fine condition. My father taught me many lessons. One of the most important was “the pleasure of quality remains long after the price is forgotten.” In everything he did, my father’s craftsmanship was never less than excellent.

There were five kids in my family. My brother Stu and I were the oldest, born exactly a year apart on the eve of our mother’s birthday. March was always a really good time for presents and cake. When we were teens, my brother and I worked in our father’s shop. We worked after school, Saturday mornings and during summer weeks when we couldn’t convince the boss that a half-day golf holiday was in order.

Our favourite job was picking up and delivering furniture. Instead of having to listen to Sammy Davis Junior rot our teeth with “The Candy Man” on CFCH, the official workplace radio station, we got to drive around in the delivery van bopping to Deep Purple’s classic Machine Head on the new 8-Track stereo we cajoled the boss into buying for us.

One fine July afternoon in 1973, Dad was putting the finishing touches to a chesterfield Stu and I would be delivering somewhere later that day in the south end of town. At the time, CFCH was running a radio contest. The station had a mobile unit that would rove about town, broadcasting live. The contest was simple. You had to follow the mobile unit over the radio. At some point, around 3pm each day, the unit would stop and the announcer would say something like:

“ This is Dash Steel broadcasting live from the 600 block of Beverly Street. The first person to approach the CFCH Pepsi Challenge Mobile Unit and answer a skill testing question will win a two month supply of Pepsi Cola and Hostess Potato Chips, what a snack, with big blue letters on a silver pack.” Party on.

Week after week, we followed the unit on the shop radio, wishing we could win. On this particular day in July, about 2:30 pm, Dad was done his work on a beautiful white velvet couch. As was the usual practice, we draped the couch in clear plastic for protection during delivery.

Now my brother Stu is quite competitive. The same could be said for me. It was always a competition to see who would have to walk backwards during the loading process. As soon as the boss said “Time to go, boys”, we would wrestle our way to the better end of the chesterfield or chair which would allow the winner to carry the furniture while walking frontward. I can’t remember who got to the better end first on this day, but the person stuck going backward had a plan. As soon as the couch cleared the shop doors, Mr. Backward would turn sharply to the left and force Mr. Frontward to swing into the backward carrying position. The ploy worked: until we reached the loading doors on the van. Then, the new Mr. Backward turned sharply to the right to force the forward walker to make the difficult step up into the van. “No way, buddy!” thought the lifter in the more difficult position. There we were in the parking lot, swinging around this delicate white velvet couch, backward and forward, trying to win this crazy game. I think we ended all the way up the Albert Street hill before Dad threatened to take away the 8-Track. We had managed to execute in a quarter of a mile, what should have been done in fifty feet. Our poor father. He had had to watch, stunned, as his idiot sons put two weeks of meticulous work into jeopardy as they zigged and zagged, laughing, up the street.

Eventually, the chesterfield was safely deposited in the delivery van. I got to drive because, right after lunch, I had grabbed my dad’s keys, knowing there was an afternoon delivery in the works. As you can see, furniture delivery is a very competitive sport.

When I turned on the van, the radio came to life.

“The CFCH Pepsi Challenge Mobile Unit is now on the 100 block of Janice Street.”

Janice Street was very close by but was in the opposite direction to where we were supposed to go. Stu looked at me. I looked at Stu. We made a beeline for free pop and chips.

By some miracle, we were the first to arrive. The announcer asked my brother:

“What’s your name, young man?”

“Stu Walpole.”

“Stu Walpole, for two months of Pepsi Cola and Hostess Potato Chips, what a snack, with big blue letters on the silver pack, who won the 1967 Stanley Cup?”

My brother, a rabid Leafs’ fan, with the socks and underwear to prove it, answered the skill testing question correctly.

“Stu Walpole, you are today’s big winner. Congratulations.”

Now everybody knows that teenagers don’t always think things through. It is a common defect. While we were chasing fabulous CFCH prizes, Dad was back at the shop listening to our non-compliant work adventure over the airwaves.

At 3:36, Stu and I returned to our workplace, with the amplified sounds of “Smoke On The Water” ringing deliciously in our ears. No Sammy Davis Junior for us when we were driving, unless absolutely necessary. As we entered the shop, there was our father, head down at the sewing machine, whistling to some tune on the radio. Slowly, he looked up with what appeared to be a heaping helping of paternal disapproval, but, in reality, was barely disguised bemusement at head-shaking teenage hijinks.

“How did the delivery go, boys?”