By Tom F. Mills
The Hamilton Spectator
April 20, 1956
Noslalgia For The Twenties
Most old-timers will shake their heads sadly and agree that one of the many evils attributable to the invention of the gas buggy or "flivver" is the decline of the Beach as a summer cottage settlement. In the last thirty years, the automobile has made the sandstrip more and more a suburb of a growing city. It has become only a few mintues' drive from King and James Streets, fewer still from Ottawa and Barton. In this there is a hint of paradox ,— the trip could be made faster and more comfortably in the now defunct radial cars than by automobile, and, with Beach Road in its present state of disrepair, still could be. Yet it has been the expanding stream of automobiles which, as the years passed, formed the continuous ribbon to destroy the "separateness" of the Beach from the city. And the annexation is just about the final blow to the sandstrip as a summer resort, a logical but lamentable conclusion.
We have been indebted in particular to Mr. Royston C. Kime for fascinating reminiscences of "the old days" at the Beach, from the standpoint of the year-round resident. But there must be thousands of middle-aged men and women in Hamilton today who can recall "opening up" the Beach cottage in late May or early June, and with more joy and excitement than they now experience in setting out for Muskoka, New York City or Florida.
That would be in the early 1920's, when automobiles were still few enough to be fascinating. There were enough of them (about one or two every
five or ten minutes) to inspire parental warnings about not crossing from the lake-side to the bay-side without looking both ways: but not enough, as yet, to drive the proud radial cars' from their private rails between the road and the sidewalk.
For the youngster who loved the Beach in those post World War 1 days, the "season" could begin as early as February, at least in his imagination. A few chocolate bars gave the trip the aspect of an Arctic expedition, and he would be bundled up warmly on a Sunday morning to accompany Dad on the midwinter inspection tour.
The ice banks would be marvelled at, and he couldn't see the veranda steps for the snow banks. Possibly at least one near-by cottage would have burned down during the winter, and there would be always some doubt whether the blame lay with sparks from a CNR train, or with tramps who had broken in and lighted a fire for warmth.
But if the cottage was intact, and if marauders had not carted away the outbuilding; like a sedan chair to another site, and after Dad had inspected the pump and what other plumbing existed, then a box of cigars would be presented to Chief Taplin for his vigilance. The expedition, then boarded the radial car for home and Sunday dinner, with a fervent prayer that there would be no more Beach fires before summer.
In June, after school had closed, the Arctic expedition became a safari. The moving van had gone ahead, and the small boy would get on the radial car at the Terminal Station with his sister, carrying a wicker basket which contained the family cat. The conductor might ask jovially "What have you got there, a lion? Fears that he might demand an extra fare or banish the pincipals from the car were dispelled - and the incident would become one of those little traditions of family history.
Once settle at the Beach, the summer days become a continuosly happy round (or so it seems now) of building primative huts and fashioning spears from the bushes and milkweed between the shore and the track; of climbing partway up Hydro towers; of dodging parental eyes and darting beneath freight cars to reach the water's edge; of pumping a coaster wagon
furiously to meet the radial cars which threw off the evening papers, of inspecting the meat and vegetables on Murray Dean's cart as it parsed along the Beach; of waiting for Dad to arrive from work for the daily before dinner "dip" in the lake.
In the evening, there was the softball came at the Canal; a walk to the pier to watch the Corona, the Macassa or the Modjeska pass through. If a youngster was lucky, he'd make second trip to the Canal and mother would treat to ice cream cones in that new, delicious "futti-fruiti" flavour.
Apart from the merry-go-round, the most popular attraction at the park was the daring mechanical gamble in which each contestant paid a dime to turn at wheel furiously to force air into a balloon. The person whose balloon burst first won a "splash-me" (i.e., painted doll in bathing costume) with a head of "real" hair, and a net.
At night, the dumping of the slag on the city side of the Bay threw an orange glow across the water. But the city seemed a thousand miles away, and sleep would come to the soothing symphony of breakers rolling on the shore.
Then several times during the summer, older brothers and sisters and their friends aged about 18 or 20 — would have dancing parties. The music wouldn't come from a mere record player, but from a gramophone, as solid and honourable a piece of furniture today's television set. As a passport to the toasting of marshmallows or the roasting of corn on the shore later, the young one would be permitted to wind the machine — a Victor or a Sonora or a Brunswick — and listen to the latest songs including Peggy O'Neil and I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles.
Such an evening of late revelry might bring an order the next day not to get too tired and spend too much time in the sun, because there was lot of whooping cough around. And in those days of the early l920's, the youngster could sit on the-veranda step and play the fascinating game of automoble identification and without the aid of an electronic calculator.
There were the Fords or Tin-Lizzies, of course (anybody could tell them), the Stulz's, the Briscoes and the McLaughlin-Buick? which had not yet become just plain Buicks in Canada, and fine-looking touring cars they were, too.
("These automobiles will kill the Beach", Mother would predict, "Why, even Murray Dean has a truck now" But the counting would go right on. As though anything could kill the Beach, ever!)
The Hamilton Spectator
April 20, 1956
Noslalgia For The Twenties
Most old-timers will shake their heads sadly and agree that one of the many evils attributable to the invention of the gas buggy or "flivver" is the decline of the Beach as a summer cottage settlement. In the last thirty years, the automobile has made the sandstrip more and more a suburb of a growing city. It has become only a few mintues' drive from King and James Streets, fewer still from Ottawa and Barton. In this there is a hint of paradox ,— the trip could be made faster and more comfortably in the now defunct radial cars than by automobile, and, with Beach Road in its present state of disrepair, still could be. Yet it has been the expanding stream of automobiles which, as the years passed, formed the continuous ribbon to destroy the "separateness" of the Beach from the city. And the annexation is just about the final blow to the sandstrip as a summer resort, a logical but lamentable conclusion.
We have been indebted in particular to Mr. Royston C. Kime for fascinating reminiscences of "the old days" at the Beach, from the standpoint of the year-round resident. But there must be thousands of middle-aged men and women in Hamilton today who can recall "opening up" the Beach cottage in late May or early June, and with more joy and excitement than they now experience in setting out for Muskoka, New York City or Florida.
That would be in the early 1920's, when automobiles were still few enough to be fascinating. There were enough of them (about one or two every
five or ten minutes) to inspire parental warnings about not crossing from the lake-side to the bay-side without looking both ways: but not enough, as yet, to drive the proud radial cars' from their private rails between the road and the sidewalk.
For the youngster who loved the Beach in those post World War 1 days, the "season" could begin as early as February, at least in his imagination. A few chocolate bars gave the trip the aspect of an Arctic expedition, and he would be bundled up warmly on a Sunday morning to accompany Dad on the midwinter inspection tour.
The ice banks would be marvelled at, and he couldn't see the veranda steps for the snow banks. Possibly at least one near-by cottage would have burned down during the winter, and there would be always some doubt whether the blame lay with sparks from a CNR train, or with tramps who had broken in and lighted a fire for warmth.
But if the cottage was intact, and if marauders had not carted away the outbuilding; like a sedan chair to another site, and after Dad had inspected the pump and what other plumbing existed, then a box of cigars would be presented to Chief Taplin for his vigilance. The expedition, then boarded the radial car for home and Sunday dinner, with a fervent prayer that there would be no more Beach fires before summer.
In June, after school had closed, the Arctic expedition became a safari. The moving van had gone ahead, and the small boy would get on the radial car at the Terminal Station with his sister, carrying a wicker basket which contained the family cat. The conductor might ask jovially "What have you got there, a lion? Fears that he might demand an extra fare or banish the pincipals from the car were dispelled - and the incident would become one of those little traditions of family history.
Once settle at the Beach, the summer days become a continuosly happy round (or so it seems now) of building primative huts and fashioning spears from the bushes and milkweed between the shore and the track; of climbing partway up Hydro towers; of dodging parental eyes and darting beneath freight cars to reach the water's edge; of pumping a coaster wagon
furiously to meet the radial cars which threw off the evening papers, of inspecting the meat and vegetables on Murray Dean's cart as it parsed along the Beach; of waiting for Dad to arrive from work for the daily before dinner "dip" in the lake.
In the evening, there was the softball came at the Canal; a walk to the pier to watch the Corona, the Macassa or the Modjeska pass through. If a youngster was lucky, he'd make second trip to the Canal and mother would treat to ice cream cones in that new, delicious "futti-fruiti" flavour.
Apart from the merry-go-round, the most popular attraction at the park was the daring mechanical gamble in which each contestant paid a dime to turn at wheel furiously to force air into a balloon. The person whose balloon burst first won a "splash-me" (i.e., painted doll in bathing costume) with a head of "real" hair, and a net.
At night, the dumping of the slag on the city side of the Bay threw an orange glow across the water. But the city seemed a thousand miles away, and sleep would come to the soothing symphony of breakers rolling on the shore.
Then several times during the summer, older brothers and sisters and their friends aged about 18 or 20 — would have dancing parties. The music wouldn't come from a mere record player, but from a gramophone, as solid and honourable a piece of furniture today's television set. As a passport to the toasting of marshmallows or the roasting of corn on the shore later, the young one would be permitted to wind the machine — a Victor or a Sonora or a Brunswick — and listen to the latest songs including Peggy O'Neil and I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles.
Such an evening of late revelry might bring an order the next day not to get too tired and spend too much time in the sun, because there was lot of whooping cough around. And in those days of the early l920's, the youngster could sit on the-veranda step and play the fascinating game of automoble identification and without the aid of an electronic calculator.
There were the Fords or Tin-Lizzies, of course (anybody could tell them), the Stulz's, the Briscoes and the McLaughlin-Buick? which had not yet become just plain Buicks in Canada, and fine-looking touring cars they were, too.
("These automobiles will kill the Beach", Mother would predict, "Why, even Murray Dean has a truck now" But the counting would go right on. As though anything could kill the Beach, ever!)