11/24/02 Copyright RUMBLE ON CLYDESDALE STREET
Chapter 4 "It was magical"
Next door to where Jimmy Roulette lived, back over on Clydesdale Street, there were no kids. Mr. Fred Beach lived there. Mr. Beach did not like kids very much.
He did have a nephew Albert who was in some way a bit different we all thought. Albert spoke very quietly and walked with a noticeable limp. I remember both as kind people especially Albert. Mr. Beach was a very nice man but he insisted he did not like kids and wished them away as nuisance.
Mr. Beach was in the war we think. None of us kids really knew for sure but it did not matter. It was said Mr. Beach drank with the Irish. Well. He was on many occasions a very happy man.
Mr. Beach kept a beautiful yard and that may be why kids were not that welcome. Everything was perfect. He would tend to his yard all dressed up like a store window mannequin. Like a store detective in bow tie and suspenders he stood shooing both the dogs and the kids away. It was okay. We did not mind. He was never mean about it. Just British.
At times kids would refer to Mr. Beach as the man who collected little kids heads. In the living room an array of collectibles all related to Indian artifacts were in a big glass case. Included were arrowheads, tomahawks, beads, baskets, and yes, varnished skulls. For little kids it was awesome and freaky. Sometimes Mr. Beach would let us hold an arrowhead or pat a skull.
Mr. Beach spent much of his time, so our Dads whispered, over at a big horse race track somewhere at a Hastings Park. Some days he was grumpy. We could never understand why visiting horses would make anybody grumpy.
At Christmas time Mr. Beach’s house was open to everyone in the neighbourhood. This included the growing army of little kids as long as they were with their parents. Maybe that is why we thought Mr. Beach was in the army. Mr. Beach always called us his” little” army. Besides, none of the kids wanted their heads in that scary display case so being with parents was okay.
Christmas was something special at the Beach house. There were lots of lights and a big Christmas tree. Many homes could not afford electric Christmas lights so it was exhilarating to see the multitude of colors and all. The house was filled with cards, wreaths, Christmas cookies and Christmas cheer. Even the varnished skulls were smiling.
Mr. Beach had a secret weapon. A player piano! A player piano with paper rolls punched full of little holes. Nobody had a player piano! It was marvelous. The sounds were hypnotic. You can still here the music playing.
Christmas Carols where the order of the season. All the favorites and there were song books so everyone could join in. For the kids, dipping into the punch and stuffing pockets with cookies added to the fun filled times.
Sometimes we would be asked to sing our favorite song and all the kids would break out with
“ We three kings of Orient are – smoking on a rubber cigar – it was loaded – it exploded – We two kings of Orient are” After our parents wrote us off as little hellions we got back to traditional carols less another round of cookies. We thought it was Mr. Beach’s punch.
During the year many evenings were spent around this remarkable music machine. Mr. Beach would sit at the piano singing at the top of his voice with fingers dancing on the piano keys. He would then lift his hands off the keyboard and to our amazement the keys kept on a dancing.
Timely songs like “Don’t fence me in. Good Night Irene. Whispering Hope, You Are My Sunshine. Greensleeves. Roll Out The Barrel. Cigarettes and Whiskey, Hail Hail-The gang’s all here, and, all the best Christmas songs”.
It was magical for us kids. Sleepy eyes opened wide and sheepish grins would turn into big smiles. The singsongs filled the air and out into the night. Everybody loved Mr. Beach but mostly when he was not grumpy.
On one late Christmas morning the Mom’s, Dad’s and excited kids were all making their way through the snow to Mr. Beach’s house. The anticipation of enjoying the carol festivities that helped make up every Christmas on our Clydesdale Street was good reason for beaming faces and Yule chatter.
This Christmas morning there was a big black police car in front of Mr. Beach’s house. The house was quiet. Mr. Beach was dead.
On that Christmas Eve, and at about midnight, Mr. Beach was found lying frozen in a ditch. It was a terrible, sad discovery that reverberated through the neighbourhood creating clouds of sadness. A sad, unbecoming departure that would turn that Christmas into one of sorrow instead of joy.
Mr. Beach was found a short distance from the popular Coconut Grove Night Club, just east of Smith Avenue on the then Grandview Highway. Maybe it was even closer to the Barn Dance place called the Flame Supper Club a few yards west of Smith. Kids never really knew exactly where. Parents did not want us to know.
Mr. Beach’s death was attributed to natural causes brought on by excess. Clydesdale Street mourned deeply. Mr. Beach was buried in the big cemetery next to Jimmy’s dad, but his music never really stopped. Listen! You can hear the seasons clearly.
Merry Christmas Mr. Beach.
Copyright
RGT
Chapter 4 "It was magical"
Next door to where Jimmy Roulette lived, back over on Clydesdale Street, there were no kids. Mr. Fred Beach lived there. Mr. Beach did not like kids very much.
He did have a nephew Albert who was in some way a bit different we all thought. Albert spoke very quietly and walked with a noticeable limp. I remember both as kind people especially Albert. Mr. Beach was a very nice man but he insisted he did not like kids and wished them away as nuisance.
Mr. Beach was in the war we think. None of us kids really knew for sure but it did not matter. It was said Mr. Beach drank with the Irish. Well. He was on many occasions a very happy man.
Mr. Beach kept a beautiful yard and that may be why kids were not that welcome. Everything was perfect. He would tend to his yard all dressed up like a store window mannequin. Like a store detective in bow tie and suspenders he stood shooing both the dogs and the kids away. It was okay. We did not mind. He was never mean about it. Just British.
At times kids would refer to Mr. Beach as the man who collected little kids heads. In the living room an array of collectibles all related to Indian artifacts were in a big glass case. Included were arrowheads, tomahawks, beads, baskets, and yes, varnished skulls. For little kids it was awesome and freaky. Sometimes Mr. Beach would let us hold an arrowhead or pat a skull.
Mr. Beach spent much of his time, so our Dads whispered, over at a big horse race track somewhere at a Hastings Park. Some days he was grumpy. We could never understand why visiting horses would make anybody grumpy.
At Christmas time Mr. Beach’s house was open to everyone in the neighbourhood. This included the growing army of little kids as long as they were with their parents. Maybe that is why we thought Mr. Beach was in the army. Mr. Beach always called us his” little” army. Besides, none of the kids wanted their heads in that scary display case so being with parents was okay.
Christmas was something special at the Beach house. There were lots of lights and a big Christmas tree. Many homes could not afford electric Christmas lights so it was exhilarating to see the multitude of colors and all. The house was filled with cards, wreaths, Christmas cookies and Christmas cheer. Even the varnished skulls were smiling.
Mr. Beach had a secret weapon. A player piano! A player piano with paper rolls punched full of little holes. Nobody had a player piano! It was marvelous. The sounds were hypnotic. You can still here the music playing.
Christmas Carols where the order of the season. All the favorites and there were song books so everyone could join in. For the kids, dipping into the punch and stuffing pockets with cookies added to the fun filled times.
Sometimes we would be asked to sing our favorite song and all the kids would break out with
“ We three kings of Orient are – smoking on a rubber cigar – it was loaded – it exploded – We two kings of Orient are” After our parents wrote us off as little hellions we got back to traditional carols less another round of cookies. We thought it was Mr. Beach’s punch.
During the year many evenings were spent around this remarkable music machine. Mr. Beach would sit at the piano singing at the top of his voice with fingers dancing on the piano keys. He would then lift his hands off the keyboard and to our amazement the keys kept on a dancing.
Timely songs like “Don’t fence me in. Good Night Irene. Whispering Hope, You Are My Sunshine. Greensleeves. Roll Out The Barrel. Cigarettes and Whiskey, Hail Hail-The gang’s all here, and, all the best Christmas songs”.
It was magical for us kids. Sleepy eyes opened wide and sheepish grins would turn into big smiles. The singsongs filled the air and out into the night. Everybody loved Mr. Beach but mostly when he was not grumpy.
On one late Christmas morning the Mom’s, Dad’s and excited kids were all making their way through the snow to Mr. Beach’s house. The anticipation of enjoying the carol festivities that helped make up every Christmas on our Clydesdale Street was good reason for beaming faces and Yule chatter.
This Christmas morning there was a big black police car in front of Mr. Beach’s house. The house was quiet. Mr. Beach was dead.
On that Christmas Eve, and at about midnight, Mr. Beach was found lying frozen in a ditch. It was a terrible, sad discovery that reverberated through the neighbourhood creating clouds of sadness. A sad, unbecoming departure that would turn that Christmas into one of sorrow instead of joy.
Mr. Beach was found a short distance from the popular Coconut Grove Night Club, just east of Smith Avenue on the then Grandview Highway. Maybe it was even closer to the Barn Dance place called the Flame Supper Club a few yards west of Smith. Kids never really knew exactly where. Parents did not want us to know.
Mr. Beach’s death was attributed to natural causes brought on by excess. Clydesdale Street mourned deeply. Mr. Beach was buried in the big cemetery next to Jimmy’s dad, but his music never really stopped. Listen! You can hear the seasons clearly.
Merry Christmas Mr. Beach.
Copyright
RGT
