Somehow, I posted a lengthy list of train songs a while back without including the late Handsome Ned performing Steel Rail Blue. That just isn’t right.
I thought about this tune because I have been writing in this space about my days living in a hardware store on Ossington Ave in the 80s. I used to enjoy taking an occasional long walk to the Cameron House on a Saturday afternoon to have a beer and listen to Handsome Ned play a solo set.
I’ve been recounting a couple of stories from my days living in what was once a hardware store on Ossington Ave, here in Toronto, back in the mid-80s, and since I’m on a roll, here’s another.
Apparently, you aren’t supposed to live in a hardware store. I had no idea about zoning bylaws. There were lots of storefronts in the area where clearly people lived. As painters, we needed studio space and living space and affording both separately on the part time job I held at the time wasn’t realistic. Either was actually selling some paintings as it turned out. Our landlord didn’t care as long as he got cash every month. We would have had no problem except that the dog and the guy who had the little money-losing business next door shared a mutual dislike. He decided the thing to do was report us to the City. That led to a visit from a building inspector, who asked me if I lived there. Um, yes. I decided to try the straight-forward approach. He said, “oh, OK, thanks very much, have a great day,” and off he went. I thought, great, no problem.
Next thing you know old Jed’s a millionaire, our landlord Antonio received a letter from the city instructing him to stop renting his property for the purpose of residency. The City wanted him to give us the boot. Antonio said, “I don’t want no trouble. I think you’re gonna have to go.” The letter he had from The City said there had been a Committee of Adjustment exercise about which Antonio knew nothing at all. Buddy next door knew though, and he appeared and made his complaint which went undefended.
I arranged to see our Councillor, who was Mr. Joe Pantelone. He was very helpful as it turned out. He put us in touch with someone at the City who educated us on the process and advised how our landlord might proceed. For a minor fee, Antonio could appeal to the Ontario Municipal Board. He had to make the appeal and pay the dough, but we could appear and make our arguement. The fee was very small, and Antonio, who was a fantastic landlord, filed the appeal. Our contact at The City advised me and the fellow in the back to explore the neighbourhood and take photographs of all the storefronts in which it was obvious people were living. We made a display on a chunk of foam-core and hauled it into the OMB meeting. Buddy next door did not appear. I showed the photos, demonstrating that lots of people in the area lived in storefronts. Antonio was granted a zoning varience.
We were thrilled because we figured that meant we could legally live in our studios. However, the battle may have been over but the war was not quite won as it turned out. Next, our friendly neighbourhood building inspector showed up again. He had a clip board. He said that now that we had the zoning variance, he had to ensure that the place met or exceeded code for a residence. Oh oh. I invited him in and he had a good look around. He said, look guys, there are some things that really have to be done. It was a short list and he gave us some time to get it done. I don’t want to suggest that he wasn’t being as thorough as he might have been, or that he was sympathetic to our plight, but I will say that I was pretty happy with what was on his list because I knew we could make the changes no problem.
Finally, a couple weeks later, we were legal. However, there was more trouble on the horizon. The first indicator was when the Vietnamese Karaoke joint with the black windows moved in next door. They played the same loud tape over and over and over in there. Every 63 minutes, Seasons in the Sun by Terry Jacks could be clearly heard through the walls. I learned to hate that song with a passion. Not long after that, Antonio came to see us. He had been offered enough cash money for the building that he and his family could return to the place he owned in the Azores and retire in comfort. “Boys, I don’t want you to give me no trouble. I have to have the building empty when the deal closes.” He made us a deal. We agreed to leave on time and he agreed to stop collecting rent. I hope Antonio and his family enjoyed a great life back home.
Mr. Edwards played a lifetime of blues. He was 96.
Back on Ossington – I hope you don’t mind another little story from that time – a friend of mine from University was renting the back studio. Rob decided to get a dog and so off we went to the Humane Society where he found a tall gangly black dog that he decided to name Giotto after the father of the Renaissance. Now at the time, Rob was working most days and I was working evenings, so we each had a turn looking after the dog. He was a fine dog. He loved to run and he loved to swim and he was full of life and canine joy.
Giotto had one annoying habit though. We didn’t want him to sleep on the beds but he loved to sleep on mine. When I went off to work, I would lay stuff on the bed – a basket of laundry, an old guitar, and so on so there wouldn’t be room for Giotto to get comfy on there. As you can imagine, this was a minor challenge. When I’d roll in from work, he would be fast asleep in an impossible contorted and surely uncomfortable position on the bed, careful not to disturb the various obstacles he worked his way around. Upon my arrival, he would slither off the bed like a snake and lie on the floor, looking up at me with the saddest eyes in the world. That dog had me wrapped around his little finger.
Somewhere in the neighbourhood lived a husky named King. King was the smartest dog I ever met. I don’t know how we knew his name was King because I don’t think we ever saw him associated with people. Maybe we just called him King because he was the King of the neighbourhood, no doubt. On several occasions, I witnessed King waiting at the first bus stop north of Queen W. for the Ossington bus. He would board the bus, travel two or three stops north and then disembark as if a dog taking the bus was the most normal thing in the world.
King used to call on Giotto to come out and play. I mean he would show up at Rob’s door, which was at the back of the old storefront I had converted to live-in studios, and with his paw, he would knock. Rob would let Giotto out, and the two of them would play in the yard. One day though, King led Giotto astray and off they went into the lane-way. “Where’s Giotto?” “He’s right out back with King.” “No he’s not.” “He was there a minute ago.” The two of them disappeared. A search party was organized, but there was no sign of the dogs. Of course, King was used to being out on his own, unlike Giotto who lived a more sheltered life. After an exhaustive and fruitless search, we sat on our improvised back deck, figuring out our next move. The dogs were gone for hours without a trace. We were so worried about all the bad things that might have happened to them. Just then, Giotto and King came sauntering home, appearing from the lane. They were each carrying an enormous bone, sporting an attitude that could only mean, “ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.” They wagged their tails in acknowledgement of our presence and settled down to chew on those bones.
In the mid-80s, I had a studio in an old hardware store at 70 Ossington Ave. here in Toronto. A few of my old pals who visit this space may remember it. We had some good times there. It had pegboard walls from the hardware store that made it ideal for hanging paintings. Back then, it was a laid back somewhat run-down street, populated by kitchen remodeling places, a few artists, a drunk tank, a booze-can and at the bottom of the street, the Queen St. mental health facility (the street has changed a lot since then, but that’s another story). I really enjoyed my years there very much, although I’m sure time has erased many of the lower points of that studio experience.
At the time I was making a group of paintings that I guess you might call industrial ruin paintings, although I hate to pigeon-hole them that way. I only know the whereabouts of one painting from that set – hanging in my friend Jill’s office. I recall working on another one, which I called the New Murphy Power Plant. I gave that one to a friend who liked it. I hope she kept it as I really liked that painting and I don’t even have a picture of it. If I remember it correctly, I made a strange and funky frame for that picture. Anyway, I digress.
Wait – I should digress more. There were two studios, mine in the front that used the front entrance and one in the back that used that alley entrance. Another artist rented the back space and we shared the kitchen I constructed in between. It wasn’t fancy, but it worked.
So anyway, I was working away on one of these paintings. It might have been The New Murphy Power Plant, I don’t know. I do remember it was going really well. I recall that it had a smoke stack in it and I was working on painting toxic nasty smoke emitting from the stack, and I had this incredibly intense experience with this painting. I thought in fact that I was having a synesthetic experience – the toxic smoke I was painting was so vividly descriptive that it invoked another sense, the sense of smell. I could smell the smoke coming out of that stack. Man, was I ever a great painter at that particular moment. I was amazed that I could paint something that would so clearly evoke another sense.
Then suddenly I came out of my artistic reverie and realized that my studio mate had put some bread in our ancient toaster and went back to her studio to chat on the phone. I ran into the kitchen to find smoke and flames shooting out of the toaster. I had been smelling the fire in the kitchen. Fortunately, we didn’t burn the place down. So much for my brush with synesthesia.
…when I venture into my painting studio, I do so with the uneasy feeling that anything can happen.
I was asked for mushroom recipes in a recent comment. Here’s one.
First go collect some puffballs.
You need two pans for this. In one, add a little olive oil and start some onion cooking. Add garlic, tomatoes from the garden, perhaps some zucchini or some swiss chard. Season with fresh garden herbs and a healthy pinch of hot chiles.
Meanwhile…. season breadcrumbs (I mix in some of my standard bbq rub) in a bowl and in another bowl add 3 eggs and mix them up with a fork.
Slice puffballs to 3/8 inch thickness more or less. Dip in egg then dredge in breadcrumbs. Then fry these up using vegetable oil so they brown on both sides.
Plate the puffball slices and add generous quantities of your veggie mixture on top along with plenty of fresh ground pepper.
I enjoyed mine with a cold ale.
I took the dogs for a long walk in a forest not so far from home, and came back with the bounty you see in the picture above. These are (not so) giant puffballs and Lactarius deliciosus, aka Saffron Milk Caps. There is also a small cauliflower mushroom I found along a trail.
The milk cap in the photo above is on the large side. I saw one or two larger, but most of the ones around are perhaps half to two thirds the size of this mushroom. I’ve seen mixed reports about the edibility of these mushrooms. Some people say they are grainy unless cooked slowly for a long time. I’ve also read they are sour. My experience is that they are quite tasty, and fry up nicely with a little vegetable oil and a pinch of my bbq spice rub. They are not quite as good as their cousin, L. thyinos (which doesn’t stain green), but still very good. I haven’t tried drying milk caps before, so I put a bowl of them in the dehydrator to find out how well they dry.
I saw a number of these in the forest today. Can anybody ID them for me? Are they deer mushrooms?
I also saw quite a number of amanitas in the woods today. Perhaps these are A. muscaria.
Here are more amanitas. These are pretty but will make you sick so don’t be eating them.
Thanks to Salvelinas Fontinalis for sending in this article. Gibson Guitars in Memphis and Nashville have been raided by federal agents, who seized several pallets of wood as well as computer files and guitars. The folks at Gibson contend they bought the wood from a certified supplier. The discussion about what sources of wood can legally be harvested is one thing, but if you happen to own a vintage high-end instrument, you could run into problems at borders:
I expect this kind of aggressive enforcement is going to change the playing field for luthiers – both the smaller shops of independent craftspeople and well established and well known companies like Gibson and Martin.
From what I’ve read, luthiers are convinced that they can achieve the highest quality tones only by using some specialty woods that are becoming increasingly rare in our rain forests. That isn’t to say that some very fine instruments cannot be made using woods that are not scarce. So what should a luthier do? I’m going to say leave the rare stuff alone and work at making the best instruments possible using woods that are not endangered. As for individuals who own vintage Martins, the feds should leave them alone. The trees that went into those guitars have long ago been cut down. Penalizing the end-user of a vintage instrument doesn’t seem reasonable to me. On the other hand, if you have a guitar today made using materials that are illegal to harvest, I don’t have much sympathy if the feds come a-knocking.
27th Street 