Remembering Charlie Hill

If memory serves, my folks bought that place next to the railway station in Elora in '59. Our neighbour a few doors south on the Elora Road was Charlie Hill.

The railway station is long gone, but our old house is still there, next to The Gorge Family Restaurant. At the time we moved in it came with four acres, a barn, and two chicken coops. There was no indoor plumbing. We got our water from a hand pump out front, and you did your business in an outhouse out back.

That was a bitch in the winter months!

Charlie Hill was a well-driller who ran a dance-hall on the side. From time to time drunken revellers from Charlie's dance-hall would turn up at our place. I recall one night when a carload of guys kept coming back looking for a gal who had escaped their clutches. They suspected we were hiding her somewhere.

I don't know much about Charlie's back story, but he was one of the key mentors who helped my father transition from penniless immigrant to solid dues-paying member of Canada's middle class.

I do know that Charlie had put in some time at the Beatty plant five miles down the road, in Fergus. That was the family business of Perrin Beatty, long time Conservative political operative. The Beatty operation wasn't held in particularly high regard among the working class at the time.

But Charlie's stint there gave rise to a bit of wisdom that I must have heard a thousand times from my father.

It's not how much money you make; it's what you do with it that counts.

This was based on Charlie's astute observation that he had prospered mightily on the road of life, while many of his cohorts at Beatty had floundered. That was because, as the story goes, those cohorts had repaired to the pub after a shift, while Charlie stayed back and worked a second shift.

I can see the logic at work here.

Makes perfect sense. Instead of squandering your pay at the beer hall, you had a second paycheque coming in. That, and the take from your dance hall, gave you the spare cash to do a little real estate speculation.

That's how every DP who ever washed up on these shores got out of the working class, and it was a strategy that even worked for guys who were born here, like Charlie.

Save your money and invest. It's a no-brainer.

At the same time, I think there was more to Charlie's success than that. Charlie's well-drilling concern put in the water-well when we got our indoor plumbing, and he did the water-wells at the next couple of places as we were moving up the socio-economic ladder.

Back then, drilling a water-well would take days and days. In hindsight, I think Charlie always kept the drill turning for as long as it took before he had a contract for his next well. He may have struck water on day one, but you'd pay for the next three or four days anyway.

Charlie was a good role model in many ways, and he was for sure a great guy for my father to know, but that came with a downside. Charlie had a grade four education, which led my dear father to conclude you only needed a grade four education to make it in this country.

Dad had that beat with his eight years of formal education, and he prospered mightily too, but I think that may have somewhat blinded him to the value of higher education at the time.

But that was then.


Charlie's former dance hall still stands in the middle of that little subdivision at the south end of Elora. I think it's an art studio now.

That subdivision is one of Charlie's legacies.

He had others.

He used to own the property where the Canadian Tire store now stands on Woodlawn Road in Guelph.

By that time, Dad had been in the real estate business for a few years, and Charlie was not only a mentor, but a client. That property was the subject of a hilarious three-way Mexican standoff between Charlie, my father, and Frank Silvestro, a guy who showed up in CBC documentaries about the "Mafia" years later.


But that's a story for another time...

The three Franks

Back in the day a couple of Franks were casting quite a shadow over the Royal City. A third Frank was probably casting an even bigger shadow in certain neighbourhoods, but I'm talking about the other guys, the German-speaking ones who got off the boat in the middle fifties to make their way in the new world.

And make their way they did!

By the time I hit high-school age, Frank's place was where you could land a job the day you dropped out of high-school at age 15. Frank had a little machine shop out the Silvercreek Extension which was rapidly becoming a factory. He needed factory hands, and those hands didn't need to be holding no damned high-school diploma, thank-you very much!

Nosiree! Frank built his business on square dealing and rock bottom wages. That's not as bad as it sounds. Back in the day you could buy a house and raise a family on a rock bottom wage.

Other Frank was from out of town but still cast a shadow in my hometown. Other Frank was busy buying up damned near everything auto-parts related. One of the local guys sold him his fledgling press-building business for ten million. A few years later, when Magna was on the ropes, he bought it back for one million.

But don't shed any tears for other Frank, he's done OK. More than OK. That's why it's so sad to see his name in the news today. He's suing his daughter for half a billion, accusing her of messing up the family fortune. That's gotta be a heartbreak for all concerned.

Makes you wonder, don't it? You generally want to believe that a stand-up guy raised up stand-up kids. I still want to believe that about him. Makes you wonder if he's still got all the marbles rolling in the same direction.

Other Frank hasn't had the ignominious distinction of suing his daughter for half a billion, but he's had his own tragedy in what was supposed to be his golden years. Spent five years putting up a fabulous mansion right in behind his old mansion out on the Silvercreek Extension. Not that there was anything wrong with the first one, but rumour had it he wanted a house in the same league as Stronach's. He got it.

Unfortunately, his wife passed on before it was finished. He's got ten thousand feet of neo-classical European villa all to himself now.  That's gotta suck.

Third Frank didn't live to suffer the indignities of advanced years. He passed on while out for a jog while still in his early fifties. That was a humbling end to a hard-edged life. I guess every "end" is humbling in its way.

But it must have been especially humbling for third Frank. Not that he would give a shit; he was dead! I knew a guy who had a bit of a disagreement with Frank. Frank called him in for a chat. That was a nice gesture on Frank's part. It meant he really deep-down liked you. Otherwise he'd just send a couple of guys over to bust your legs.

So in the course of the chat Frank reached into a drawer and pulled out a fistful of thousand dollar bills. This was when a thousand bucks was still serious money. He ripped them in half and handed one handful to the guy who told me this story.

"I'll give you the other half when you do what I'm asking you to do," he says.

Not long after, he went for his last jog.

My name is Norm Jary, just in case you need me for anything...

Norm Jary was the mayor of Guelph for a spell.

Might have been two or three spells for all I know. What the fuck is a "spell" anyways?

And is "anyways" even a word?

...or did I just make it up?


Norm Jary was a radio guy in Guelph back in the sixties.

The 1960's.

He was always in your face if you grew up in Guelph, because he was the main news guy at local radio station CJOY.

Eventually parlayed that into sitting in the Mayor's chair at City Hall.

But he was the number one news purveyor back in the day, and he ended every newscast with that shout-out you see in the title; My name is Norm Jary, just in case you need me for anything.

That was Guelph in the sixties...

A minor footnote in the history of Guelph

You know how it goes...

You have a couple beers, maybe you burn one...

Or two.

And before you know it you're meandering down Memory Lane.

That's what happened to me tonight.

Memory Lane.

One of the lessons I learned early from the Guelph Old Boys was if you didn't stand up for yourself you were finished.

Finito.

Fucked.

I remember the day Mr. Brown from B&R Motors came down to John's Supertest where I worked to fill up his Lincoln Mk III.

Came to $14. I remember it like it happened yesterday.

B&R was the Lincoln-Mercury and Ford Truck franchise in Guelph at the time, and Mr. Brown was the big dog in that establishment.

Comes down to John's Supertest, where I'm the pimply-faced teen afternoon shift boss. Fills up his Lincoln and hands me an envelope. Hops in his Lincoln and heads back to B&R.

In the envelope is a note; please deduct gas from Crawford's bill at B&R.

Crawford was the day shift boss. Used to work for Mr. Brown down at B&R Motors. Guess they had some unresolved issues.

Unfortunately, I was responsible for the till on my shift. That 14 bucks was coming out of my pocket.

Crawford Vollet was kind of a hard luck guy. His wife Jean used to show me the pictures of the life they once had; big house, new Cadillac, thriving aggregates business.

Then it all went for a shit, which is a great story for another time, and Crawford was reduced to becoming a truck salesman for Mr. Brown, and when that went off the rails, a shift manager at John's Supertest.

The same place where I was the zit-faced teenage know-it-all afternoon shift manager.

So I have a problem.

Mr. Brown, who is sort of a big deal in town, just stiffed me for 14 bucks. He thought he was getting it out of Crawford's hide, but no. It was coming out of mine.

So a couple of days later when the tank was near empty, I drive my '67 Chev Bel Air wagon down to B&R Motors. Pull up to the pumps.

Filler up!

$16.50. I give the pimply teen who pumped the gas a two dollar bill, two quarters, and an envelope.

Next day Mr. Brown shows up at John's Supertest.

There ensued a heated debate between him and Crawford, a debate that involved a lot of shouting and arm-waving on both sides.

But neither of them ever brought the matter up with me.

Imperial fireball

Can't remember the exact nature of the dispute.

But there was a dispute. Between me and one of the other guys who worked at the gas station. I was a mere 16 or 17 years of age. The other disputant was a little older, but he'd brought his much older buddy Marquardt into it as the heavy hitter.

I remember a heated debate by the pop cooler at the gas station, just after closing time. Things went sour. I kicked Marquardt in the crotch and almost had him in the pop cooler, but then other buddy was all over me. Had to run for it. Made it to my car and took off. They were right behind me.

Marquardt had an old Chrysler Imperial, late 50's vintage. Nice enough car in the day. All leather upholstery. Blue leather. Pretty sweet. Had the 392 hemi in it.

Led them on a wild goose chase through the suburbs and the downtown and the uptown and then out of town. Couldn't shake them. Down Victoria Road at 120 miles an hour. I was losing them, but I could still see their lights.

Hung a left onto the Arkell Road. Half a mile up there I knew there was a railway crossing. Over the hundred  years since the Grand Trunk had put the rails in, the road had gone down or the tracks had come up, I'm not sure which. In any case, there was about a three foot berm at the tracks, which anyone who knew the road would know about, and anybody else wouldn't. I was counting on Marquardt not knowing the road.

I saw the lights of the Imperial follow me onto the Arkell Road. Took it up to about ninety and then let it coast down. Didn't want Marquardt to see brake lights coming on. That would tip him off. Coasted over the berm and hit the gas. Those lights were gaining on me fast. He's going to hit that berm any second....

KABLOOEY!

There's a giant fireball in my rear-view mirror. Holy shit! I just lured buddy and his buddy into a death trap! Oh my God! What do I do now?

I was petrified. Do I go back? No, they're probably burned to a crisp. What good am I gonna be?

Had a sleepless night. Went to work the next morning.

Holy shit, there's buddy!

Alive!

"Holy shit man, we thought we had ya, and then, holy shit, we're like fucking flying through the air, and then we come down and the gas tank falls off, and kablooey, the fucking gas tank explodes, and we're coasting down the road with this huge fucking fireball behind us. The cops and the firetrucks were there in five minutes.  Marquardt got charged with drunk driving.

Is he ever pissed with you man!"