A Cold Story of John Bird's Youth (from Jim Patterson)

At Christmas time 1967, I was a boy of fifteen and John was fourteen – but he doesn’t come into this story at first.

 My older brother was a social activist and took his two younger brothers (I was one) into the Fred Victor Mission, to help sort stuff and work in the kitchen one day on the holidays. I remember taking a break and reading a LIFE magazine about Dr. Christian Barnard, who had transplanted a heart in South Africa, where Nelson Mandela was already in prison.

 At the end of the day someone told me that I was a good worker and gave me tickets to a Toronto Marlboros game at Maple Leaf Gardens – which was to be played before the end of the holiday.

 And so it came to pass that Rod Cager, John and I set off one Sunday afternoon on the Go Train from Pickering, to the City of Sin – to watch the Marlies. John had done this before, and so, probably had I, but it seemed that he knew his way around much better than I did. I think we went to Sam’s and I bought Magical Mystery Tour for Craig Andrus, but that might have been on another trip. In fact, that might have been another trip at the start of the same month that I’m talking about, but if I mention that now, my credibility will be shot.

 Anyway, we went to a restaurant called, I think, the Red Lion, and we ate hamburgers and French fries. My spell check capitalized the “F”.

 And we smoked Du Maurier cigarettes, which were Rod’s contribution to the day.

We went to the game which was noisy. The Gardens had that unique cold only found in Canadian arenae. Then we went home. It was late and confusing. We were to phone John’s parents when we got to Pickering, or maybe we were to phone my brother and he wasn’t there so we had to phone John’s parents who came right away, but were still a long time getting there.

It was freezing cold. We kept warm by piling into the telephone booth together, and were being quite rambunctious, when the ticket taker at the GO train stop left his both, came over and rapped on the window, and warned, “You’ll end up in the ‘Barton Gaol’ if you don’t stop that nonsense.”

To this day, every ten years or so, John and I will remember that accent, and remind one another of the correct pronunciation of Dunbarton.

Before John’s parents got there, he took pity on the two frozen boys from Whitby and invited us into his booth where he had a tiny heater.

Now John is different from me. He might remember this story differently. He will, for example, remember what the old man talked about while we waited in his booth.

 Me, I just remember the cold night and the “Barton gaol”. Rod Cager wasn’t with us in the booth, so he either went home a different route, or I’ve got my trips to town mixed up. It might have been the shopping trip at the start of the month that this all belongs to. Who’s to say now anyway?

Jim Patterson