by a woman teacher who was insanely enamoured of the stage. Three other small boys and I were conscripted to perform an utterly idiotic, simpering version of a âfolk danceâ opposite four little girls. By the time the practice sessions ended, we boys on the one hand and the girls on the other had come to detest each other with a virulence extraordinary in ones so young. But this was nothing to the detestation I felt for our merciless taskmistress. By the time we actually performed our horrid little travesty, I hated that woman so much I believe I could have slipped a stiletto between her ribs, had I known what a stiletto was.
Boys facing girls, we pranced towards our partners, then backed away while shrilling a terminally stupid song, some verses of which are indelibly inscribed in memory: âPray what is your intensir⦠intensir⦠intensir? Pray what is your intensir⦠with a ransom-tansom-tizza-matee?â whined the girls. To which we boys replied with ill-concealed loathing: âOur tension is to marry⦠to marry⦠to marry. Our tension is to marry⦠with a ransom-tan-som-tizza-matee.â For weeks afterwards, this line was iterated and reiterated by older kids in the school yard whenever any of us chorus boys appeared, and queries about how we were going to celebrate our wedding night rang in our ears like hellish carillons.
The only good thing about that event was that it brought Hughie Cowan and me together. He was one of my fellow performers, and our shared suffering made us friends.
Hughieâs parents were Scots immigrants. His father, a cabinet maker in the old country, had set himself up as a house builder in Windsor and had done fairly well during the post-war boom years. When the stock market collapse initiated the economic catastrophe which would eventually engulf the majority of working-class and even middle-class Canadians, Hughieâs father fell early victim. His little business failed and thereafter he could not find sufficient work as a carpenter or as anything else to earn more than the most meagre living.
The Cowan family was large and so suffered severely from the Great Depression, yet its members remained as open-hearted and open-handed as only people of adversity can be. I was always welcome in their crowded little house where Mrs. Cowan would urge me to eat more than my share of whatever food they had. Nor would I be allowed to go home empty-handed. If there was nothing better I would at least be given an apple to tide me on my way.
The Cowans owned a battered 1924 Dodge touring car and, when they could afford a few gallons of gas, they would drive out into the bountiful agricultural lands of Essex County to barter with the farmers for garden truck and fruit. I was sometimes invited to go along and I remember those foraging excursions as times of shared gaiety which belied the grimness of their underlying purpose.
Hughie and I spent much of our spare time exploring the river bank, factory dumps, and big patches of âwasteâ land which had been cleared and surveyed by speculators (âdevelopers,â they now call themselves) during the boom years, but had since been abandoned and were now returning to wilderness. Rabbits, foxes, raccoons, and other wild creatures were recolonizing these regions although they had to share the space with unemployed and homeless men who had nowhere else to go. These destitute humans lived in what were beginning to be called hobo jungles, which Hughie and I often visited. We were always offered something to eat or drink, even if it was only a spoonful of beans or a mouthful of tea, and we were never offered any harm.
Once a jobless young man from Alberta entertained us by playing his accordion and singing songs about âlife on the road,â which meant life riding the rods on the railroad. The songs dealt with a side of life far outside my experience. The refrain of one of them ran something like
Boys facing girls, we pranced towards our partners, then backed away while shrilling a terminally stupid song, some verses of which are indelibly inscribed in memory: âPray what is your intensir⦠intensir⦠intensir? Pray what is your intensir⦠with a ransom-tansom-tizza-matee?â whined the girls. To which we boys replied with ill-concealed loathing: âOur tension is to marry⦠to marry⦠to marry. Our tension is to marry⦠with a ransom-tan-som-tizza-matee.â For weeks afterwards, this line was iterated and reiterated by older kids in the school yard whenever any of us chorus boys appeared, and queries about how we were going to celebrate our wedding night rang in our ears like hellish carillons.
The only good thing about that event was that it brought Hughie Cowan and me together. He was one of my fellow performers, and our shared suffering made us friends.
Hughieâs parents were Scots immigrants. His father, a cabinet maker in the old country, had set himself up as a house builder in Windsor and had done fairly well during the post-war boom years. When the stock market collapse initiated the economic catastrophe which would eventually engulf the majority of working-class and even middle-class Canadians, Hughieâs father fell early victim. His little business failed and thereafter he could not find sufficient work as a carpenter or as anything else to earn more than the most meagre living.
The Cowan family was large and so suffered severely from the Great Depression, yet its members remained as open-hearted and open-handed as only people of adversity can be. I was always welcome in their crowded little house where Mrs. Cowan would urge me to eat more than my share of whatever food they had. Nor would I be allowed to go home empty-handed. If there was nothing better I would at least be given an apple to tide me on my way.
The Cowans owned a battered 1924 Dodge touring car and, when they could afford a few gallons of gas, they would drive out into the bountiful agricultural lands of Essex County to barter with the farmers for garden truck and fruit. I was sometimes invited to go along and I remember those foraging excursions as times of shared gaiety which belied the grimness of their underlying purpose.
Hughie and I spent much of our spare time exploring the river bank, factory dumps, and big patches of âwasteâ land which had been cleared and surveyed by speculators (âdevelopers,â they now call themselves) during the boom years, but had since been abandoned and were now returning to wilderness. Rabbits, foxes, raccoons, and other wild creatures were recolonizing these regions although they had to share the space with unemployed and homeless men who had nowhere else to go. These destitute humans lived in what were beginning to be called hobo jungles, which Hughie and I often visited. We were always offered something to eat or drink, even if it was only a spoonful of beans or a mouthful of tea, and we were never offered any harm.
Once a jobless young man from Alberta entertained us by playing his accordion and singing songs about âlife on the road,â which meant life riding the rods on the railroad. The songs dealt with a side of life far outside my experience. The refrain of one of them ran something like
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