So Sweet It Was.

11/24/02 Copyright – RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET

Chapter 18 “So sweet it was.”

Fall held a kids imagination in its hand. The summer heat was gone. There was a biting reminder winter was soon coming.

Leaves turned color quickly then dropped to carpet the many pockets of woodlands around Clydesdale Street. My yard held, it seemed, zillions of fruit trees. The proliferation of leaves and colour was of such abundance I could hardly wait to do what everyone did every fall.

The spring grass burning, still strong in our nostrils, gave way to the most wonderful aroma of damp burning leaves on those crisp, cold, fall days. So sweet it was.

When the neighbourhood began the fall leaf burning, it was of such wide proportion the burning, stinking, household refuses in those crumbling oil drums gave way, all be it temporary.

It was time for some of the kids to abandon their collective habit of roasting wieners and potatoes in kitchen’s smoldering refuse, switch to yard leaves, and clean sweet bonfire cuisine.

My yard was special. The garden was harvested and the added discards gave the fragrant fruit tree leaves such bouquet it was hypnotic. Every fall there were the embers of the fires glowing against the early arriving darkness.

There were always potatoes still hidden in the patch and it was another thrill of the hunt for the kids. We dug with our hands ever so frantically. It was like the Spring Easter Egg hunt.

Kids came from all over and left their Dad’s to attend to their own home bonfires. We took the shovel, when we found one, and began to truffle for forgotten potatoes. There was no potato pig to help us.

With our treasure intact, we took sticks and buried the potatoes deep in the hot coals still glowing with licks of flames, as small puffs of air brushed over the slowly dying fire.

Hot Cocoa kept us company as we waited anxiously for the potatoes to bake. Once ready we would dig out the potatoes now with skins burned black and crispy. Hot. Hot. Hot. Very hot to handle but the rewards were worth it.

Breaking through the charcoaled skin the potatoes opened with puffs of rising steam. Taking rarely available real butter, salt and spoonfuls of fresh heavy morning cream, we smothered the potatoes with glee. Cooling came quickly as the night air cloaked around us. Closing our eyes we dug in. Ecstasy! MMMmmmmmmm Sooooo wonderful. Blackened, crisp burned skins and all, we stuffed our anxious faces.

Sometimes an errant squash or pumpkin found its way into the dying embers and there was a dinner of champions. Hot, smothered in melted butter, covered with salt and pepper, we joyfully dug in. With blackened faces smeared by the burned charcoal shell, and squinting teary eyes from the lazily flying embers, we went to our beds happy and full.

Prior to every yard leaf being consumed by fire, kids would search for fallen treasures. Big multicolored leaves were the spoils. Earlier in the year when flowers were at their bloom special flowers like roses, tulips, thistle, and many others we had no idea about, were also collected.

Pressing flowers was the hobby of many moms. Kids, foraging for mom enjoyed the pass time too. Many of us started our own book of pressed flowers. In the fall we searched for big colorful leaves before the burning and we pressed them too.

It was a frequent and a relaxing pass time to look at your collection and wonder how long the flowers and leaves would last without crumbling orsticking to the pages. Kids did not know it could be forever. Back in the attic there still maybe a book full.

Fall held so many fascinating adventures for the kids of Clydesdale Street but winter brought certain fear. Some parents were pressed to keep houses heated. Cut wood or coal cost money many did not have. Times dictated.

It was truly hard times and if there were creatures like chickens, rabbits, ducks, or other animals that a family might rely on for additional income or personal consumption it made all the difference.


As members of the Clydesdale community my family seemed different than most others. My parents spoke different languages more often than not. My Dad in particular was mixing up all the words so it was hard to figure out what he was saying. Neighbours liked him regardless. He smiled a lot.

We enjoyed a larger property than many on our street. Because of family background we assumed the role of small plot farmers and that was natural. The fact money was an issue of want, much of what we had was for self-preservation not so much being anything more. Besides Mom liked gardens.

Other families did not subscribe to the life we did. The fathers went to good jobs and some mothers did too. Denny and Buddy Gorrick’s mom Jackie worked part time as hat check girl at the Coconut Grove Supper Club up on the original Grandview Highway near Smith Avenue.

Their mom was very pretty. Most moms stayed home tending whatever moms did whether it be gardening, sewing, putting up preserves and the other domestic activities. Kids helped whenever they could or more so when they were told, which was often.

The Cain’s, lived below where we lived and they had lots of ducks. The ducks liked to race for their dinner. Could they ever quack! The property was big. They were quiet folks and exceptionally reserved but ever so kind. Very English my parents said. They did not enjoy a hoard of kids but one on one there was acceptance. Treats were ever present. I liked Mrs. Cain.

Throughout the area there was this mixed and eclectic gathering. In terms of time frames it was already an old area. It was an area in transition. Houses were infilling larger properties and the bigger farms were about to disappear.

Winter could be cruel. Seasons felt so distinct. The demarcation of the four seasons seemed so definite. Spring was fresh. The air was clean. Summers were sticky, teeming hot. Heat at times put even we kids under. Without our “ice diamond chips of ice” to cool us down, there were days that filled everybody with lethargy, sandpaper mouths, and a desire to hide in cool dark basements.

There was relief at the bottom of Clydesdale Street in the forest and bushes that were taboo for all of us. Unfortunately we could only imagine relief excepting in the all trees and bushes behind and close by where we lived.

Of course, the Mailman managed to dump on that.

These were the days Mr. Glider Dad raised the price of admission to splash and play in the cement box pool. He even charged extra to spray kids with the garden hose. We did not mind. The sun would be hot enough to fry eggs on car fenders. Even the Iceman’s horse wanted into the Ice Cart.

The kids would head on down to Still Creek and block it up with sod once again. The older boys could do it faster than we little ones and indeed we usually got in the way. Our own swimming hole, were we could actually get wet beyond our knees was our way to really cool off.

Sure Mr. Dashwood could splash us with the hose and we would scream with glee, but the makeshift swimming hole on Still Creek with it’s slippery tadpoles, and worried fish was better.

Edna was there!

Copyright
RGT