Before I was but the proverbial glimmer in the eye of
my father The Beaches area of Toronto was important to my life. Of particular interest for this piece is my
fondness for Kew Beach and Gardens. Both
parents were born in Toronto and raised in this area of the city.
Mum’s childhood home on Waverley Road backed onto the
west side of Kew Gardens. Mum’s mum, Nana
Brigden, took advantage of their location and by engaging her entrepreneurial
skills sold boiling water for the tea of those picnicking in the park.
Many hours of both my parents’ childhood years would
have been spent exploring the wonders of this park that remains beautiful and well-used
to this day. Our Dad, in his rebellious
years … no, that’s not quite right. Dad,
to his dying day, was always a bit of a rebel perhaps I should re-word by
saying in his youthful years … no, still not right. Dad was always youthful. Will you agree to accept when he was
chronologically young? At any rate he was
often warned by the life guards about taking the top on his bathing suit down when
sunning at the beachfront on Lake Ontario.
This act of male exposure was simply not allowed in the simpler times of
the 20’s and a bit beyond.
A prized possession of Mum’s came from her time playing
with the Balmy Beach Tennis Club. The
beautiful silver candlesticks, won in tournament play, when turned upside down
became candy dishes. She liked to
display them whenever, as she put it, “We were putting on the dog”. That expression backfired on Mum one day when
an eager six-year-old, me, was helping set the dinner table for company. I asked about using the candlesticks on the
table. “Oh, yes”, Mum said, “we might as
well put on the dog”. Being the obedient
child that I always was … pause here to reflect and wonder if she’s writing
fiction … I ran upstairs to retrieve the china dog they had in their bedroom
and placed it centre stage. But I
digress as I am wont to do.
Meanwhile back in the park. It appears Dad grew up on a street bordering
the east side of Kew Gardens. How many
times have I heard stories about life on Lee Avenue and how poor they were? “So, poor”, Dad would say, “we didn’t have a
Christmas tree and so we stuck a house plant on a table. It didn’t really matter”, he’d woefully add,
“all we got anyway were books”. Dad’s
‘soooo-poor’ stories always worked on his three girls. He liked to cap off his tales of woe by
telling his gullible girls all they had to eat one year for Christmas dinner
was Bredden Pullet.
“What’s that, Daddy?” we would ask with our innocent
chins starting to wag.
“Well”, he’d say in his impish way, “you get a piece
of bread, pull it apart and eat it”. Dad
was very successful in laying the ground work of compassion in me for the less
fortunate. Thanks Dad, good job!
The story goes that on Sunday mornings, Dad’s parents Grampa
Turner and Granny, would set out from their Beaches home and once reaching the
sidewalk one would head left and the other right. Setting off in opposite directions Grampa
Turner chose the path as set out by the Anglican Church and Granny was off with
the Baptists.
What I don’t know, and one of the reasons for setting my
memories in ink, is exactly when and where my parents met … were they kids
collecting chestnuts in the park? I
don’t know. Did they spot each other as
teenagers while soaking up the sun on the beach? I don’t know.
Did he watch her play tennis when she won her cherished candlesticks? I wish I knew.
Whenever they met a good deal of their courtship would
have been spent walking the boardwalk, playing on the beach, strolling the many
dirt paths that wound their way through the park, watching baseball games at
the ball diamond or paddling Smokey Joe, their much-loved canoe, along a calm
shoreline. A favourite photo from those
days is of the happy couple, looking like movie stars, as they sun themselves on
a beach blanket.
*****
I would have been rolled into my all-time favourite
park during my first visit in my pram with two excited sisters clinging to the
carriage handle. Once entering the park south
off Queen Street East, and a safe area was reached away from traffic, my
siblings were set free to run among the many maples that add to the beauty and
grandeur of Kew Gardens.
The first decade of my life from 1943 to ’53 was lived
in The Beaches area of Toronto at 14 Rhyl Avenue. One of my early visits to Kew Gardens on
photographic record was for a snapshot session when Dad returned from his
service in the Canadian Navy. He is seen
in this special photo in front of the monument on the Lee Avenue side of the
park. He’s dressed in his navy blues and
has his three little girls in tow … Gina, six, Jacqueline, four and
myself. I was the youngest Turner child at
the time and having just turned two barely reached the kneecap of his
bell-bottomed trousers.
 |
| With two of my three sisters at the Brigden Reunion mentioned near the end of the story. I'm sporting the dreaded Sienfeld look ... white runners with blue jeans. |
Although not at all a pleasant experience, one visit
to Dr. Edmund’s office on the north-west corner of Kew Gardens, had me
screaming my lungs out while the doctor came at my nose with tweezers. I can still feel my mother’s strong, warm
hands as they held my thrashing legs in place while the good doctor removed the
orange crayon piece from up my nose. I remember
exactly where I was at that fateful moment and the panic I felt when the crayon
slid out of reach. My terror was only
increased when I heard the doctor tell my Mum he’d have to push the elusive
crayon up my nose and bring it down the other side. Is that even possible? How old is a child when they stick something
up their nose? Maybe three? Maybe four?
After the frightful session Mum took me to the Monument Fountain at the
park’s entrance to wash the tears away and to replace my lost fluids. Her public-fountain-warning always accompanied
this procedure … “For heaven’s sake Marlene, don’t touch your mouth on the
metal”.
My grade three class trekked the six or seven blocks
to Kew Gardens on our monthly excursion to the Queen Street Library situated on
north-east corner of the park. The walk
from Norway Public School on Kingston Road saw us passing near enough to our
house that I often spotted my Mum out on the verandah. She knew that we’d head off after recess and
would stand ready to wave. Oh, how my
chest would swell with pride at the sight of her.
Miss Martin, our clever teacher, allowed us some time in
the park to work the fidgets out before … TA-DA … entering THE WORLD OF BOOKS. Did my love of reading come from this time
and place? I think so. I loved everything about the library, most
especially the smell of paper. In winter
we sat in front of a crackling fire and felt our cold cheeks start to burn as
they rosied up. Watching the milk swirl
into hot tea served to my teacher in a glass cup and saucer mesmerized me. A souvenir glass mug I own, commemorating the
2010 Vancouver Olympics, brings back the memory and offers the same soothing
satisfaction. While our teacher sipped her
cuppa the librarian, Miss Stock, would read a tale or two and then the big
moment arrived. We would choose our own
enchanted story book. The entire
experience captured my wild imagination.
When I matured another year or so I was allowed to
take in Saturday matinees with my sisters at the Beach Theatre which was mere
steps from the park. On the walk from
our home we passed two very special machines after we rounded the corner from
Elmer Avenue onto Queen. The first
machine offered a choice between two Chiclets in a little pack of those perky
pink and somewhat soapy tasting Thrills – all for only a penny. Armed with the Thrill package we’d ask each
other, “Would you like a Thrill?” With a
positive response we’d lift our skirt to show a little leg and say, “Well, have
one!” Silly, giggling girls!
The second machine not only weighed you for one cent
but also told your fortune. What a
bargain. Speaking of bargains the most I
remember paying for a matinee, which normally offered a double-feature with the
ongoing Superman serial sandwiched between, was twelve cents. Can you imagine we also got a small gift with
the price of admission? Mostly I
remember a collection of thin metal rulers that bent out of shape rather
quickly. Those movies also fed my
growing desire for story-telling of all kinds.
During summer vacation we spent day after day at the
beach. Dare I add without
sunscreen? We loved digging holes until
we came to water and the walls would start to collapse. Of course, building sand castles was high on
the agenda. We were not allowed to go
swimming unless accompanied by a parent but waded in up to our knees collecting
stones and rocks for our sand village was okay.
Lake Ontario was mighty cold. So
much so that when we came out our legs suffered tremendous pain. It wasn’t until September the lake warmed up
enough to immerse our entire body. Even
then it could be teeth chattering chilly.
*****
Over the years I’ve gone back from time to time. When our daughter Emma, was just a baby, we
returned for a photo op in front of the familiar war memorial. Once again we returned in 2008, at my
request, with our kids and grandkids for a special family portrait to
commemorate my sixty-fifth birthday.
When all the shots had been taken my husband Michael opened a multitude
of food containers for a delightful candlelit picnic at the boardwalk’s
edge.
In 2012 the Brigdens, my mother’s side of the family,
gathered for a family reunion and yes, Kew Gardens and a walk on the boardwalk
were all a part of our time together. My
mother’s youngest sister and only living sibling had many five-minute bursts of
excitement when reminded a walk on The Beaches boardwalk was in her
future. Aunt Dorothy, then ninety-one,
found the walk from Queen Street to the boardwalk proved to be enough. After about twenty steps along the famous
walk-way we enjoyed helping her scratch this moment from her ‘bucket list’ from
a sitting positing on a park bench along the boardwalk’s edge.
 |
| Aunt Dorothy is where she belongs ... centre stage. |
Aunt Dorothy recalled heart-warming stories about her
time living next to the park. I don’t
suppose my heart will ever forget when she told us how it was her job to run to
the ball diamond ahead of the family to save her mother’s favourite seats for
the regular games of her older brother Jack.
She walked right to those seats when we arrived at the diamond. She then bent her little girl’s head and told
how she’d always wanted to play ball but lost her dream when Nana put her foot
down. “No daughter of mine is EVER going
to play baseball”. The sadness of a lost
dream from so many decades ago was clearly evident in her voice and on her
face. A little kick at the dirt was
almost expected as the little girl inside still grieved that loss. Till this day my special aunt and God Mother
never misses a Blue Jays game.
One of my favourite ways, as a so-called adult, to
enjoy a walk in the park, with its paved pathways where once dirt trails wound their
way, is to wander with a latte purchased on Queen. An empty park bench is always a welcome
sight. Perched there, filling my senses
with the sights, sounds, smells and tastes of yesteryear calls to memory
visions of Little Marlene.
I watch in my mind’s eye as she runs and plays with
her silly sisters on their way through for another glorious day at the
beach.
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