On occasion memories drift back to my youth in the West End of Toronto at about age five or six.
I smile when it dawns on me - that in some respects a handful of my childhood adventures with a neighborhood friend Johnny French - were not disimilar in nature to those experienced by Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn.
Granted, ours were deep within the wilds of the city (Hog Town), but were just as impacting on our impressionable young minds.
In essence, our excursions into the uncertain realms beyond the perimeters of our humble run-down neighborhood, were the bold-faced efforts of two boys to brave the man-made elements (with the ultimate aim of coming to terms with their place in the grand scheme of things).
Just behind our row of doll-size houses, a stretch of railroad track - and a huge tact of overgrown undeveloped city property - beckoned us each waking hour.
When the opportunity arose, Johnny and I would slink away, and take advantage of its bounty.
One of our favorite past-times was to sneak onto the railway line and hop from one tie to the next - as we kept an eagle eye open - for treasures along the way.
Once, we stumbled across a crate full of oranges, which we summarily dragged home (only to be accused of stealing the succulent offerings from a storage facility to our great dismay).
Sometimes we were so engrossed in our fantasies on the tracks - that we failed to anticipate foes that might creep up on us unawares - while our backs were not up.
For example, one carefree morning we were marvelling at a pile of beautifully-charred rocks by the tracks, when a serviceman for the railroad suddenly appeared out of nowhere on a curious-looking device that rolled along as he pumped a handle up-and-down in the middle of it.
"Heh, you kids! Get outta here. This is private property," he hollered from his lofty perch on the trolley as he sped towards us at breakneak speed flailing his hands and gesturing for us to get out of harm's way.
The most exciting adventures were beneath the very earth.
One day, we happened to spy an opening in the side of a steep hill, where an ocassional puff of steam issued forth from the mysterious depths below.
After a quick look-see, we soon discovered an underground world, that consisted of endless tunnels (it seemed) that stretched into the darkness here there and eveywhere to Kingdom Come (I surmised).
Johnny and I were bent on exploring and conquering each and every one.
Not a simple or easy task.
For starters, there usually was a foot or two of sewer water rushing along on the floor of the slippery tunnel floor - and the smell was enough to knock 'ya out on occasion (in spite of the fact we tried to block out the burning fumes that made our noses water and our eyes smart with kleenex).
Once, I got my pant leg caught on a nail, and ended up with a gaping hole in the flimsy fabric from ankle to knee.
In one section of an empty field, where bushy shrubs and wild flowers reached up to the sky in all their lazy glory, we'd occasionally spy a band of hoboes napping under one or two of the grand old shade trees.
The Hollyhocks fascinated me in particular, as did a myriad of intriguing wild flowers, that dotted the terrain as far as the eye could see.
An old mill, about a mile or so to the south, was another exciting place for our imaginations to run rampant.
In a rusty old bin one day, Johnny and I found a raft of boxes which contained mixes for cakes and muffins, just left to rot.
Delighted with our find, we hauled a handful of them home, only to be told (in disgust) that the food stuffs had been tossed into the garbage because they were contaminated or spoiled due to expired dates.
Then, as I noted in a post a few weeks ago, a social worker arrived on my mother's doorstep one day, unexpectedly.
Suddenly, my whole world changed, literally over-night.
In one adventurous moment, I was playing alongside Johnny, in the next I was being whisked off to the suburbs to be placed in a foster home.
Unfortunately, I would never see Johnny again, because of a tragedy that struck.
Gramma and Poppa and I were sitting at breakfast one morning when they awkwardly pointed to a news item that was published in the daily paper.
The headline noted that a family - by the name of "French" - was burned to death in a devastating fire in the West End of Toronto the previous evening.
Once the investigation was completed, the authorities determined the shocking truth.
Johnny's family home has been condemned by the City inspector months earlier.
Rather than board up the house - or renovate at considerable expense - the landlord simply pasted over the eviction notice and rented the property to the French's.
All thirteen family members died in the tragic blaze triggered by an faulty electrical outlet.
Although I choked up at first, for some reason, I found it difficult to cry.
In fact, it was not until many years later, that I was able to express my emotions over the loss of my best friend.
The only person I'd ever been that close to in my life had been snatched away without mercy.
Why, God, why?
Old Weston Road Boyhood Haunt!
(1898)
