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THE WATCH BRIGADE Short Story by: Ross Jamieson (2002) Mom was right there to meet me when I opened the back door. “Well - you can just forget about watching that game on TV tomorrow night young man” She always called me “Young Man” when she was upset with me. “What?” At age 11 and in grade seven I had acquired a certain sauciness. “ I gave you explicit instructions when I told you to stay away from that flooded area! What's the matter with you? When I was your age I would never have let my parents down like this!” “What?” I knew exactly what she was talking about. At this point in my life, however, I hadn't enough guile to come up with more than a flippant “What?” “We'll discuss this when your Father gets home. You haven't heard the last of this! Go straight to your room!” Cornered, but full of adolescent bravado and defensive indignation, I brushed past Her. At the same time smart enough to recognize the severity of mother's tone - I went to my room. My mind was cycling! “Geez - how did she find out?” I grew up on the corner of Ross and Dufferin Street in East City right next to Nicholl's Oval. Every Spring the low lying area adjacent to the bandstand in the park would flood and there would be a virtual lake from April until mid June. In some places the water would be four feet deep. One of my earliest memories was of stern warnings to stay away from that water in the Spring.
Dad was on a trip to Quebec collecting money owed to DeLaval, the company that he worked for, so that lecture wouldn't take place until he returned. By noon the following day I had forgotten all about the incident. That afternoon, however, just after school finished it enveloped me again. I was walking past Danny Hopcroft's house when his Mom called out to me from her back porch.
“Ross Jamieson ! Yes - I'm speaking to you! “Cripes - another one! How does she know too?” This was getting eerie. I'd been down at the flooded area the day before with Darryl Bennett, Stewy Roberston and his brother Donny and now everybody seemed to know about it. We'd been on a raft made of an old door nailed to some logs and we were poling through the water with a long branch. Nobody else was around. No one could have seen us. How could all these people know we were there?
The very next day at school in Mr Dainard's class at Armour Heights it continued. I can't remember her name - just that she stood up in class and announced, “ Darryl and Stewart and Ross were on a raft in Nichol's Oval and now they're really in trouble!” Obviously she was thrilled to to be reporting this. “Is that so?”, replied Mr Dainard, “Well I hope they're going to accept the consequences like men.” This was a real curve ball! I was beginning to think that something super natural was working against me. Were all of my sins going to be paraded before me? Was the next step damnation followed by purgatory? It wasn't until the end of the week when my Dad came home that I became aware of the forces that had been acting against rebellious youth in a community of vigilant adults. At the time that this scenario was unfolding CHEX television had a daily public affairs and community service programme hosted by Marie Callaghan. It was called Calendar . Mrs. Callaghan would broadcast live every day from the studios on Television road in East City. Her route to and from work took her onto Parkhill Road adjacent to Nichol's Oval. As best I can piece it together she stopped to watch us on our raft and then made an announcement on her show. “Today I witnessed something that could be a tragedy in the making. Four young boys were putting their lives in jeopardy .......” Apparently she went on to describe our clothing and our size relative to one another in the hope that some one would recognize us and prevent a catastrophe. My mother saw the show. Obviously Mrs Hopcroft had tuned in. So too was the vengeful female classmate. I imagine now how delicious it was for her to engineer the outing that embarrassed us so much in front of our school chums. What still surprises me is how quickly and unerringly we were identified and how the adults involved didn't hesitate to collectively supervise or chastise us. Back then in the 50's it was understood that, indeed, the whole neighbourhood took on the responsibility of rearing the reckless brood. Now, as I reflect upon the incident in later years, I understand that, from this proud heritage, the children of East City were endowed with a noble perspective that carried on into their own parenting years. Yes - I can definitely live without malice for what happened to me on that Spring day years ago. Well - almost! Even after 42 years, when I run into the female classmate that “ratted us out”, I have disingenuous thoughts. She was such a smug little witch!! If you enjoyed this true story then maybe you also have a story to tell about the Armour Heights neighbourhood and about growing up in East City. Send it in! Dan Delong [Follow-up footnote: Ross Jamieson became an elementary school teacher in Peterborough and remains an avid golfer. The photos and captions have been added by Dan Delong from his personal collection.]
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