There are certain references in my diaries which, although not particularly relevant to any topic, amuse me. This one, for example, occurred while I was visiting Montreal:
On Sunday morning, I got up early and went to the 8:30 communion service at st. James on St. Catharine's Street (Montreal). There weren't many people there (about 25), and we sat in the choir stalls as we do at St. Paul's on Wednesday nights. I remarked how odd the Rector appeared when giving his sermon; he seemed to be preaching to an invisible audience in the empty pews, and virtually ignored looking at us who were in the choir stalls right next to him. Perhaps he was rehearsing for the 11:00 o'clock service. Easter Sunday, 1991.
The patterns of my life are all too painfully clear to me upon reviewing my diaries. Equally disappointing is how little changes over the years.
When I was dining with Charles (Crichton) last night, he mentioned that he was trying to get out of Ottawa, perhaps to get a job in New York. It occurred to me how unusual it would be for me to consider a move from Almonte. And some people are rather surprised when I tell them that I have every expectation of living here for the rest of my life. It's as though they think there is something better “out here”. The only thing that I can imagine being any better would be to have the Ocean at my door, but other than that, nothing. I have all the office, house, car and furnishings I could possibly imagine. The only thing I'm short on is cash. And holidays. January 16, 1986.
Shortly before I entered University at Glendon Hall in Toronto in 1967, my mother took me to Flesher Furs on Bank Street in Ottawa to purchase a racoon coat. At that time the business was operated by Mr. and Mrs. Israel (“Izzie”) Flesher with the assistance of their two daughters, Patricia (“Patty”) and Suzanne (“Susie”). Patty and I seemed to have hit it off quite well from the start, and over the following many years, sometimes only “between husbands”, we would socialize and work together on legal matters. Patty has a wonderful sense of humour, though very dry. She has an incredible sensitivity to what is below the surface of other people. To her credit, she is an extremely hard worker, and as one might expect, sober. Susie tends to be a bit more serious about life, though she too has a quick wit. I recall one instance in particular when I decided to drop around to her lovely mansion on Barlow Crescent in Dunrobin to see her new Rolls Royce automobile. When I arrived, Susie just happened to be about to leave her property (in a Jeep), but she turned around to have me into her home. Before we went inside, I asked her to show me the Rolls. She then opened up one of six garage doors, and there it was, a baby blue Rolls Royce. When I said how wonderful it looked, she replied, “Well, you know, people just think it's a Mercedes!”. She had one of the newer models that did, I suppose, look a bit like a Mercedes, but much larger. When we got inside, I was rather surprised to see that a table for eighteen was fully set. However, after I asked her whether she were having a dinner party that evening, she said no, she just liked to have the table set. If that wasn't enough, we then went into another room, which contained a smaller, though set, dining table. Then followed the tour of the mansion, its ultra-suede covered walls, the masses of drapes and chandeliers, lovely sitting area on the second floor overlooking the Ottawa River, with a yacht parked outside, the indoor swimming pool, the hundred foot long living room with Group of Seven paintings hanging about, and on and on. Amidst all this lavishness, I said to Susie, “You must really enjoy going to New York City, with all the places to shop, Bergdorf Goodman, Saks Fifth, Bloomingdales...”. “No”, she replied, “I have never been to New York City, and I certainly wouldn't go to Bloomingdales!”. “Why?”, I asked her. To which she replied, “My father-in-law owns it!”. This apparently astounding statement took me aback for a moment, at least until I collected my thoughts enough to remember that Susie had been married to Jacques Campeau, Robert Campeau's son. It's not everyday that you hear a comment like that. And she said it quite innocently, just as she had when she had been at my office one day and I noticed a set of car keys she had which seemed to resemble my own. When I asked her where she had bought her car (thinking it was a new Oldsmobile like my own), she said Montreal. “Montreal!”, I said, “Why there?”. To which she retorted, “That's the closest Rolls Royce dealership!”.
On Sunday morning, I got up early and went to the 8:30 communion service at st. James on St. Catharine's Street (Montreal). There weren't many people there (about 25), and we sat in the choir stalls as we do at St. Paul's on Wednesday nights. I remarked how odd the Rector appeared when giving his sermon; he seemed to be preaching to an invisible audience in the empty pews, and virtually ignored looking at us who were in the choir stalls right next to him. Perhaps he was rehearsing for the 11:00 o'clock service. Easter Sunday, 1991.
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The patterns of my life are all too painfully clear to me upon reviewing my diaries. Equally disappointing is how little changes over the years.
When I was dining with Charles (Crichton) last night, he mentioned that he was trying to get out of Ottawa, perhaps to get a job in New York. It occurred to me how unusual it would be for me to consider a move from Almonte. And some people are rather surprised when I tell them that I have every expectation of living here for the rest of my life. It's as though they think there is something better “out here”. The only thing that I can imagine being any better would be to have the Ocean at my door, but other than that, nothing. I have all the office, house, car and furnishings I could possibly imagine. The only thing I'm short on is cash. And holidays. January 16, 1986.
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Shortly before I entered University at Glendon Hall in Toronto in 1967, my mother took me to Flesher Furs on Bank Street in Ottawa to purchase a racoon coat. At that time the business was operated by Mr. and Mrs. Israel (“Izzie”) Flesher with the assistance of their two daughters, Patricia (“Patty”) and Suzanne (“Susie”). Patty and I seemed to have hit it off quite well from the start, and over the following many years, sometimes only “between husbands”, we would socialize and work together on legal matters. Patty has a wonderful sense of humour, though very dry. She has an incredible sensitivity to what is below the surface of other people. To her credit, she is an extremely hard worker, and as one might expect, sober. Susie tends to be a bit more serious about life, though she too has a quick wit. I recall one instance in particular when I decided to drop around to her lovely mansion on Barlow Crescent in Dunrobin to see her new Rolls Royce automobile. When I arrived, Susie just happened to be about to leave her property (in a Jeep), but she turned around to have me into her home. Before we went inside, I asked her to show me the Rolls. She then opened up one of six garage doors, and there it was, a baby blue Rolls Royce. When I said how wonderful it looked, she replied, “Well, you know, people just think it's a Mercedes!”. She had one of the newer models that did, I suppose, look a bit like a Mercedes, but much larger. When we got inside, I was rather surprised to see that a table for eighteen was fully set. However, after I asked her whether she were having a dinner party that evening, she said no, she just liked to have the table set. If that wasn't enough, we then went into another room, which contained a smaller, though set, dining table. Then followed the tour of the mansion, its ultra-suede covered walls, the masses of drapes and chandeliers, lovely sitting area on the second floor overlooking the Ottawa River, with a yacht parked outside, the indoor swimming pool, the hundred foot long living room with Group of Seven paintings hanging about, and on and on. Amidst all this lavishness, I said to Susie, “You must really enjoy going to New York City, with all the places to shop, Bergdorf Goodman, Saks Fifth, Bloomingdales...”. “No”, she replied, “I have never been to New York City, and I certainly wouldn't go to Bloomingdales!”. “Why?”, I asked her. To which she replied, “My father-in-law owns it!”. This apparently astounding statement took me aback for a moment, at least until I collected my thoughts enough to remember that Susie had been married to Jacques Campeau, Robert Campeau's son. It's not everyday that you hear a comment like that. And she said it quite innocently, just as she had when she had been at my office one day and I noticed a set of car keys she had which seemed to resemble my own. When I asked her where she had bought her car (thinking it was a new Oldsmobile like my own), she said Montreal. “Montreal!”, I said, “Why there?”. To which she retorted, “That's the closest Rolls Royce dealership!”.
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My brother-in-law, Edward Marion Hladkowicz, has distinguished himself over the years in many ways, among them being his talent for giving me extraordinarily silly gifts at Christmas, his very good sense of humour (including the jokes that go with it), his huge success on the tennis courts of the several Ottawa clubs, and his unfathomable patience as a husband and parent. Following is but a hint of all this:
Lindy called on the 'phone tonight, crying. Ed has lost his job. It's a real shocker for us all. The economic situation is not good. My own staff are being cut back as well. We haven't had any new business for quite some time, even though the past week was busy with a couple of small mortgage matters. I felt just terrible for Lindy. She's thinking about going back to work herself if she has to, but you can tell she doesn't want to. And I'm sure Ed must be finding it very hard to take, even though he is strong and has a good sense of humour (viz., when he called Lindy from the office today to tell her, he said he had good news and bad news; the good news was that he would be home for Christmas). December 4, 1991.
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When I was having a particularly difficult financial time myself in the early part of 1992, I recorded the following snippets:
Lindy 'phoned last night and offered me $10,000 without interest if I needed it, as long as I took the kids for the summer! January 29, 1992.
Franz dropped in last week to show me his new remote telephone, which he secretly demonstrated by calling my telephone automatically, and then hanging up. Not the sort of joke I need last week when the 'phones weren't ringing at all. February 10, 1992.
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Franz is of course more than a friend. He is my physician:
My second hernia operation was more pleasant than the first one. Mostly because the anaesthetic was less aggravating to me after the operation. And I didn't have to sit around worrying in the hospital for four hours before the event. I got up at six o'clock on last Thursday morning (elective surgery seems to be done on Mondays and Thursdays in Almonte), showered, put on loose fitting clothes, then walked down to the Hospital on Spring street. I was admitted through the Emergency Door, since the front door doesn't open until eight o'clock (I was reminded of that on Wednesday morning when I went for my pre-surgery blood work, and sat on the little bench where confirmed smokers repose outside the confines of the Hospital). I was taken to a back part of the Hospital which was quite unfamiliar to me, except when I recalled that that was the area in which I had visited Karen Stringer-Ferraris when she had her babies. It turned out there were three of us in this large back room, waiting for the knife (not from the same surgeon), and I was the first on the chopping block. The other gentleman (Jim Reid) was a very cheerful 65 year old who was there for the removal of some fat tissue from his thumb, and I couldn't help but overhear (when he was being asked the usual “chart” questions) that he had had several operations in the past, including hernia, haemorrhoids, and something else. It all took a bit of the wind out of my sails, as I sat there preparing to collect my red badge of courage. Mrs. Joan Southwell was the Nurse who paid particular attention to me, and she simple couldn't have been nicer nor more helpful. She did, I noticed, make a point of touching me whenever she rounded the end of the bed. This type of contact was clearly calculated to relieve anxiety in the waiting patient, and it worked. I was asked to shave my belly myself this time, which I thought was rather an improvement over the submission to the undignified process which I had endured last time (not to mention the previous nurse not even shaved the hair uniformly on both sides of my gut, as I did this time). I lost track of time, but it must have been around eight o'clock when I was put onto the stretcher type bed and wheeled out into the hall, down the elevator, into the operating theatre, where Franz began sticking needles into me, and that's the last I remember until I was back in my first bed upstairs, feeling happy that the ordeal was over. May 17, 1993.
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The omnipresent concern for maintenance and acquisition of the material world (and all that that entails):
The new carpet and touch-up painting have been completed in the rental office, and the place looks good. Dale Dunning has been commissioned to complete the drop box. The new sheers have been installed. Elmer Foster has been asked to set up the “Fire Lane” sign properly beside the building. Bruce Monteith is working on a new garbage bin. I have ordered a fan for my bedroom. Not much business. I should be bankrupt within twenty-four hours. July 13, 1993.
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Our family (that is, my parents, my sister and I) have not traditionally been big on pets. I suspect this is largely because my parents moved around so much, but more pointedly because my Mother would never have tolerated an animal in her living room (she barely withstood people in her living room). Nonetheless when I was reasonably beyond the reach of my mother's influence (physical only, of course), I made the move to buy my first dog, Lannie. And then came my French bulldog, Monroe. But before my sister finally got a mut from the dog pound (to placate my nieces and no doubt to overcome the possible accusation which my sister and I have levelled at our own mother for years), my father “acquired” a cat which he named Alphonse (he seemed to have a predilection for exotic names, particularly French, which perhaps explains his romantic interest in my mother). It is my understanding that Alphonse was discovered one very cold winter night under the steps of a neighbour's home across the street from my parents. The cat was making a crying sound. My father (animated by that same altruism which has sent him flying to friends and family for years in time of need) decided to rescue it, and I can only surmise that he instantly created some sanctuary or manger for it in the garage (because I have no doubt whatsoever that my mother would never have allowed the creature into the house - even if it were 20 below, starving and Christmas Eve). In fact, even my father had taken up personal quarters in a combination of the garage and the basement of the house, where his indicia of human existence and activity would be the least obstructive and obvious, or clash with the draperies and furniture. This sanctuary for the cat graduated over time, as did the tangible affection between my father and the cat. Alphonse's residence (which Dad called the cat house, for lack of a better description) was soon adapted to the changing seasons. The cat house, which by now had been moved out-of-doors, was fully enclosed (with a covered doorway); and, in the winter, it was equipped with a bare electric light bulb and carpeted walls, which likely kept the creature very warm. In the summer, in keeping with my father's affection for the latest of features in automobiles, the entire roof could be swung upwards on hinges and propped open for ease of passage of the evening breezes, while still affording a considerable measure of security. Alphonse wallowed in the attention, and he was particularly fond of having his fur combed by Dad brushing him with a very stiff little broom, while Alphonse rolled around on the garage floor or surface of the driveway. Regrettably, Alphonse began to get old and unhealthy looking, and one day my father came into my office (on one of his regular visits to polish my brass sign) and languidly announced that “Alphonse has gone into space whence his ancestors come.” I noted in my diary of July 19, 1993, “He almost seems relieved. He dismantled the cat house instantly.” I guess for a man who has lost friends in the war and friends over time, it was not a devastating blow, but I could not help but think that the passing of the little beast had left a hole in his heart. But one could never be entirely sure about such trite affection, for I remember when I first got Munroe and brought the dog to my parents to show them, the only thing my father said when I asked him what he thought was, “Take him back.”. This apparent disinterest is, however, unsupported by my father's other subsequent habit of visiting my office and always taking Monroe out for his morning constitutional. Such, I suppose, is the way of love and affection in our family: Don't tell me, Show me!
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The Almonte business community has, for most of the approximate quarter-century I have spent in it, been hounded by efforts to mobilize itself for the common good of it members.
At a recent meeting at the Arena Hall, it was decided to go ahead with plans for a Chamber of Commerce. The main actors behind it are Marie Dunn, Carolyn MacLaren and Sid Bateman. Garth Teskey, the new President of the Almonte Business and Professional Association, chaired the meeting. January 28, 1983.
About the same time, we also had a Board of Management hovering around in the wings. This was really little more than a hang-over from the days when the Town of Almonte Act (1953) had been passed by the provincial government as a private member's bill (signed by G. M. Dunfield, Mayor and R. J. France, Clerk) to rewrite the last Will and Testament of one James Dunlop Gemmill who had left a sizeable chunk of land in the middle of Almonte to the Town for what amounted to “bird sanctuary” purposes (actually, the original bequest had been from Gemmill to his widow, Winnifred Knight Dunlop Gemmill). “Gemmill Park” (as it is now called) has since become a rather nice subdivision, bordering the rather attractive remnants of the “park”. With that accomplished, the Board of Management (which had been set up to oversee the development of “the Park”) really ceased to have any compelling purpose, and, like the Senate, its members foregathered once a year to do little more than “show up” as a sort of roll-call to legitimize its existence. Later, we would pick up the enthusiasm that the Town of Perth had apparently caught with considerable success in its downtown heritage revitalization. However, our own efforts in this regard were fraught with difficulty from the beginning because of fairly wide-spread disapproval of more costs being levied against the local businesses, much less the prospect of getting shop owners to commit themselves to repainting their respective facades. When the attempt to establish a formal committee failed, one of the main antagonists, Mr. Jeff Hirst, was railroaded into becoming the leader of a non-paying committee to do virtually the same work, but without outside paid assistance. His promises of support from other members of the business community likely did not pan out. So it was no surprise that, after that, yet another organization, called the Business Improvement Area, was set up through the passage of a motion by Town Council to designate a specific area of the central commercial core as a BIA, which entitled us, at a moderate expense - or at least at a moderate interest rate, to certain provincial funding to spruce up our commercial area. This organization eventually also came under serious attack by many of the businesses, particularly those who had the larger businesses and were therefore responsible to pay the largest portion of the debt. Some businesses simply ignored the debt charge on their tax bill altogether, and I may never know the end of that one! Finally, like so many things in life, the whole affair seems to be coming full circle, and yet another attempt is being made to set up a Chamber of Commerce, this time involving the additional communities of Ramsay Township and Pakenham Township with which Almonte amalgamated on January 1, 1998 to form the new Town of Mississippi Mills.
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One of the first local organizations I had anything to do with when I arrived in Almonte in June of 1976 was The Almonte Community Co-Ordinators (a.k.a., “The Hub”), which is a collection of very dedicated volunteers (mostly women) who gather used goods and clothing for sale to the general public at extremely reasonable prices. To avail themselves of the privilege of insurance coverage as well as the benefit of certain charitable donations, I completed their incorporation. As one might expect, after completion of the organizational minutes of the corporation, I never saw the minute book again. That is, not until 1998 when they careered the purchase of the Royal Bank building on the corner of Mill and Bridge Streets in Almonte. It may at first blush appear quite fantastic that a charitable organization in the business of selling cheap used articles would be capable of purchasing the former home of a bank (the Royal was moving to the new shopping centre on the outskirts of Town). For valuation purposes, the building was appraised at about $170,000, which is no small change for any local organization. To the continuing credit of The Hub members, through a long and sometimes tedious process, they successfully managed to convince the senior Royal Bank managers to make a donation of the building to The Hub, which of course was able to issue a tax deductible receipt in an amount equivalent to its value. Dealing with the Royal Bank senior managers at “Star Ship Command” in Toronto is much like dealing with senior officers of the Canadian Pacific Railway - it seemingly takes for ever to accomplish even the smallest detail. The Hub involved me in the process as their lawyer shortly after they had come to a verbal agreement with the Bank about the subject matter. Over the next five months, we hammered out a formal agreement of purchase and sale, including lease details for the Bank's ATM (which they wished to continue to maintain on the premises); and dealt with a myriad of details arising from the purchase, title investigations, tax matters, and a related commercial lease of a portion of the property to the new dentist, Dr. Naji Louis, who purchased the practice of retiring Dr. James Coupland. When the deal finally closed, a party was held on a glorious summer day outside the building to celebrate the success of the ladies (though I should mention that there are in fact a few men who are involved with The Hub, people like Frank Thomas whose wife, Julia, is an active member of the organization). While it is perhaps unfair to credit any one in particular with the success, I cannot help but note that the bulk of my dealings were with Janet Duncan and Fern Martin, who, apart from both being very entertaining, are power houses of energy, and without them it just would not have happened.
In connection with local incorporations, I noted the following in my “office” diary on December 19, 1984:
Last week, I prepared the Application for Incorporation (and appurtenant by-laws) fortheMississippiValleyTextileMuseum. Iusedbasicallythesameformofby- laws as I had prepared for the Elizabeth Kelly Library Foundation. The Applicants for the MVTM are Gerald Wheatley, Herb Pragnell and John Dunn. I attended upon them to review and execute the documents. I shall send them by special delivery to Toronto for processing.
Out of my “office” diaries comes this bit of humour:
Mrs. Thomson told me a funny story about a bunch of well-lubricated ladies at the Legion, one of whom was dancing with a gentleman, who had his artificial arm pulled off by the lady. January 29, 1985.
I have just read some old newspaper clippings about the late Dr. Archibald Metcalfe, given me by a relation of his, Mrs. Jean More (who was in to see me about a Will, etc. for her and her husband, Logan More, the Roads Superintendent of the Township of Ramsay). I acted for the Estate of Isabel McKenzie Guthrie, who was Dr. Metcalfe's nursing assistant (and relative) from Edinborough, Scotland. She lived in Dr. Metcalfe's house (where Bob Wilson, Accountant, now lives). January 31, 1985.
Some of the happiest times I can remember were (not surprisingly) spent with friends. Especially if one grows up, as I did, in an environment which was isolated from immediate family; and, latterly, my life has been what many would label as that of a “single person”. Whatever the reason for, or category of, my life, friends were critical. Even as far back as my early school days in Alberta in the early 1960's, I remember my friend, Ken Stickland, distinctly. In fact, the memory was revitalized almost twenty-five years or so later when I heard Ken giving an “opinion” on a radio programme on CBC. I went to the trouble of trying to locate him in Alberta, got a number in Edmonton, called it, connected with a woman whom I asked if she were the wife of Ken, which she said she was, and then to my entire astonishment, she told me she had heard Ken speak of me often! Within months, Ken and I reunited for dinner in Almonte, when he was visiting Ottawa on business connected with agricultural matters. Other friends, like Nick Glassow and Max Marechaux, of whom I have spoken earlier, were the authors of many a twisted trail down the garden path in my boarding school days. And the tradition continued with Michael Apigian and Jo-Anne Trudeau in undergraduate days at Glendon Hall. Most recently, with the pressures of business being what they are, and my relative
Last week, I prepared the Application for Incorporation (and appurtenant by-laws) fortheMississippiValleyTextileMuseum. Iusedbasicallythesameformofby- laws as I had prepared for the Elizabeth Kelly Library Foundation. The Applicants for the MVTM are Gerald Wheatley, Herb Pragnell and John Dunn. I attended upon them to review and execute the documents. I shall send them by special delivery to Toronto for processing.
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Out of my “office” diaries comes this bit of humour:
Mrs. Thomson told me a funny story about a bunch of well-lubricated ladies at the Legion, one of whom was dancing with a gentleman, who had his artificial arm pulled off by the lady. January 29, 1985.
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I have just read some old newspaper clippings about the late Dr. Archibald Metcalfe, given me by a relation of his, Mrs. Jean More (who was in to see me about a Will, etc. for her and her husband, Logan More, the Roads Superintendent of the Township of Ramsay). I acted for the Estate of Isabel McKenzie Guthrie, who was Dr. Metcalfe's nursing assistant (and relative) from Edinborough, Scotland. She lived in Dr. Metcalfe's house (where Bob Wilson, Accountant, now lives). January 31, 1985.
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Some of the happiest times I can remember were (not surprisingly) spent with friends. Especially if one grows up, as I did, in an environment which was isolated from immediate family; and, latterly, my life has been what many would label as that of a “single person”. Whatever the reason for, or category of, my life, friends were critical. Even as far back as my early school days in Alberta in the early 1960's, I remember my friend, Ken Stickland, distinctly. In fact, the memory was revitalized almost twenty-five years or so later when I heard Ken giving an “opinion” on a radio programme on CBC. I went to the trouble of trying to locate him in Alberta, got a number in Edmonton, called it, connected with a woman whom I asked if she were the wife of Ken, which she said she was, and then to my entire astonishment, she told me she had heard Ken speak of me often! Within months, Ken and I reunited for dinner in Almonte, when he was visiting Ottawa on business connected with agricultural matters. Other friends, like Nick Glassow and Max Marechaux, of whom I have spoken earlier, were the authors of many a twisted trail down the garden path in my boarding school days. And the tradition continued with Michael Apigian and Jo-Anne Trudeau in undergraduate days at Glendon Hall. Most recently, with the pressures of business being what they are, and my relative
isolation in Almonte, special times with friends most often happen more by design than accident. A case in point is my friendship with John Fitchett. John is a well-educated man, with at a Master's Degree in Education, and he combines his education, well-read nature and native intellect in a way which many would consider enviable. He has that ease of expression and analysis which only comes from inherent ability and a good measure of worldliness. In addition, John too favours the good life, and the two of us have dedicated a considerable amount of our spare time to devising ways of pursuing that very goal, but, thankfully, always bestowing upon our evil endeavours the mantle of intellectual propriety. So, for example, we have had a number of outings together, in cities like Ottawa, Toronto and Montreal, where we purchase advance tickets to whatever particular art show happens to be running at the local fine arts gallery. Contemporaneously, we ensure that we visit the finer troughs and oases of refreshment. Most recently, in 1999, John, Denis Arial and I booked a large suite at the former Four Season's Hotel (now part of the Omnia International chain) on Sherbrooke Street. We visited the Neuvieme restaurant at Eaton's (which, as the name implies, is located on the ninth floor of the old department store on St. Catharine's Street; actually, I am sad to report that the restaurant has since been closed). The restaurant, for those who are not familiar with it, was an historical venue and was in fact only recently the subject of an in-depth journalistic review for television. It was created very much along the lines of a stately dining hall in the Titanic, being long and relatively narrow, very high ceiling, and decorated with lovely lamp fixtures and wall sconces of the era. There was an elevated area at the far end of the hall, on which is located a grand piano; and, on the day we lunched there, a very accomplished musician, whom we later met and who informed us he was a music student at McGill, was performing the finest of classical pieces as background for the clatter of silverware, chatter of the regular blue-rinse crowd and noise of waiters and platters and so on. In keeping with what was an obvious custom of the regular patrons, we enjoyed a number of martinis, before tucking into the regular fare of chicken pot pie, salmon in a cream sauce, and the like. The linen service, the excellence of the attentive staff, and the entire exuberance and abundance of the scene made for a thoroughly enjoyable luncheon.
I cannot, however, say that all our dining engagements have been as successful. Years ago when I attended Glendon Hall, and even before when I had been at St. Andrew's College, I had on several occasions dined at what was then one of Toronto's better known private dinner clubs, Carmen's on Alexandra Street off Yonge near Carleton. Though I had heard that the Club was no longer private, when John and I made arrangements to visit Toronto for an exhibit of the Barnes collection of impressionist paintings at the Ontario Gallery of Art, I not unnaturally suggested we go to Carmen's. I had, after all, celebrated my 21st birthday there when I was 18, and I had nothing but the fondest memories of the place, the thick smell of garlic bread, just dripping with the juices; the steaks and lobsters displayed in mahogany cabinets behind leaded windows, the quaint fireplaces in each of the various rooms, all housed in the beautifully maintained grand old Toronto home. Accordingly, I called ahead from Almonte, made the reservations by telephone, and confirmed them in writing. John and I were at the time staying at the Royal York Hotel, and in keeping with a tradition which John had established on previous outings, we enjoyed some whiskey and soda as “dressing drinks”, then headed off to Carmen's, appetites whetted, full of anticipation. From the very moment we arrived at the restaurant, things got off to a bad start. First, when we materialized in the front hallway from the cab, there was no one there. When, finally, the hostess appeared, her unforgettable opening words were, “The name?”. This uncaring and unprofessional introduction practically put me through the roof, but rather than make a scene, we advised her of the reservation name, after which, without so much as inviting us to follow her, she headed off in what we only surmised was a direction we were to follow, which we did. There then ensued an unduly long time before we were even asked about a cocktail, and during which, being thus undistracted, I was able to observe to my horror that we were surrounded by people who were clearly not dressed for dinner as I remembered it at Carmen's, but more for a bus tour outing to Howard Johnson's. Even this, however, I was able to submerge, more, I am sure, because I did not want to draw John's attention to it, though I would have been a fool to think he hadn't noticed. Nonetheless, the evening proceeded. The next many minutes were drawn out with very slow service, but when we at last got through our hors d'oeuvresand onto our main course of filet mignon, we thought we might have some smooth sailing, but alas, such was not to be the case. When the waiter brought our bottle of wine, he dropped it onto the candlestick in the middle of the table. There was no great mess, other than the smashing of the glass candlestick, but it was disruptive. And, then, as if by sheer irony, when I looked up over John's shoulder, I noticed a fully clothed fireman or two standing behind him. At first, I thought they had come as a result of our incident with the candlestick, but then I discovered to my complete astonishment that they were pitching about a stretcher, which they had now miraculously managed to expand in the limited space between our table and the one behind, and they appeared to be loading the lifeless body of an elderly lady onto it. She must have suffered a heart attack. It was all too much! The whole evening had acquired a none too pleasant dream-like quality, nursed along as it was by the numerous drinks John and I had consumed in the pregnant pauses between courses. So, you can imagine when all this was over, and Carmen himself drew up a chair at our table to ask us “How was dinner?”, I was more than prepared to tell him. Actually, I think he had asked John first, and John rather politely side-stepped the issue; I, however, let him know that I was only too willing to fill in the survey questionnaire, and I wasn't about to succumb to the pusillanimity of John on this particular point. When I began with the problem with the hostess, Carmen interrupted me to ask if I would care to tell her to her face. John, I could see from the corner of my eye, knew this was not a good idea, but I saw little in the way, and I plowed forward. Well, to make a long story short, the evening ended by Carmen and the girl bolting abruptly from the table amid cries that he had one of the best restaurants in Toronto and invitations that we needn't pay for our dinner, which, to John's horror, I rebutted as an unnecessary and unwelcome charity; we stormed out of the dining room, halted long enough in the corridor to slap a wad of money into the hands of the pursuing waiter, and found ourselves quite energized once again on the wet autumn streets of Toronto wondering what the hell that had been all about.
I cannot, however, say that all our dining engagements have been as successful. Years ago when I attended Glendon Hall, and even before when I had been at St. Andrew's College, I had on several occasions dined at what was then one of Toronto's better known private dinner clubs, Carmen's on Alexandra Street off Yonge near Carleton. Though I had heard that the Club was no longer private, when John and I made arrangements to visit Toronto for an exhibit of the Barnes collection of impressionist paintings at the Ontario Gallery of Art, I not unnaturally suggested we go to Carmen's. I had, after all, celebrated my 21st birthday there when I was 18, and I had nothing but the fondest memories of the place, the thick smell of garlic bread, just dripping with the juices; the steaks and lobsters displayed in mahogany cabinets behind leaded windows, the quaint fireplaces in each of the various rooms, all housed in the beautifully maintained grand old Toronto home. Accordingly, I called ahead from Almonte, made the reservations by telephone, and confirmed them in writing. John and I were at the time staying at the Royal York Hotel, and in keeping with a tradition which John had established on previous outings, we enjoyed some whiskey and soda as “dressing drinks”, then headed off to Carmen's, appetites whetted, full of anticipation. From the very moment we arrived at the restaurant, things got off to a bad start. First, when we materialized in the front hallway from the cab, there was no one there. When, finally, the hostess appeared, her unforgettable opening words were, “The name?”. This uncaring and unprofessional introduction practically put me through the roof, but rather than make a scene, we advised her of the reservation name, after which, without so much as inviting us to follow her, she headed off in what we only surmised was a direction we were to follow, which we did. There then ensued an unduly long time before we were even asked about a cocktail, and during which, being thus undistracted, I was able to observe to my horror that we were surrounded by people who were clearly not dressed for dinner as I remembered it at Carmen's, but more for a bus tour outing to Howard Johnson's. Even this, however, I was able to submerge, more, I am sure, because I did not want to draw John's attention to it, though I would have been a fool to think he hadn't noticed. Nonetheless, the evening proceeded. The next many minutes were drawn out with very slow service, but when we at last got through our hors d'oeuvresand onto our main course of filet mignon, we thought we might have some smooth sailing, but alas, such was not to be the case. When the waiter brought our bottle of wine, he dropped it onto the candlestick in the middle of the table. There was no great mess, other than the smashing of the glass candlestick, but it was disruptive. And, then, as if by sheer irony, when I looked up over John's shoulder, I noticed a fully clothed fireman or two standing behind him. At first, I thought they had come as a result of our incident with the candlestick, but then I discovered to my complete astonishment that they were pitching about a stretcher, which they had now miraculously managed to expand in the limited space between our table and the one behind, and they appeared to be loading the lifeless body of an elderly lady onto it. She must have suffered a heart attack. It was all too much! The whole evening had acquired a none too pleasant dream-like quality, nursed along as it was by the numerous drinks John and I had consumed in the pregnant pauses between courses. So, you can imagine when all this was over, and Carmen himself drew up a chair at our table to ask us “How was dinner?”, I was more than prepared to tell him. Actually, I think he had asked John first, and John rather politely side-stepped the issue; I, however, let him know that I was only too willing to fill in the survey questionnaire, and I wasn't about to succumb to the pusillanimity of John on this particular point. When I began with the problem with the hostess, Carmen interrupted me to ask if I would care to tell her to her face. John, I could see from the corner of my eye, knew this was not a good idea, but I saw little in the way, and I plowed forward. Well, to make a long story short, the evening ended by Carmen and the girl bolting abruptly from the table amid cries that he had one of the best restaurants in Toronto and invitations that we needn't pay for our dinner, which, to John's horror, I rebutted as an unnecessary and unwelcome charity; we stormed out of the dining room, halted long enough in the corridor to slap a wad of money into the hands of the pursuing waiter, and found ourselves quite energized once again on the wet autumn streets of Toronto wondering what the hell that had been all about.
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