The Ferry Boats

If we remained in the city during the summer and were not hoisted off to one set of country grandparents or another, mom would take us to the beach so that we could spend our sun filled days paddling around in the lake water, building castles in the sand and turning brown. She would pack the food and all the accompanying paraphernalia that was required to herd three young children around town. 

The electric street car would deposit us on Lakeshore Boulevard. From there we would take the ferry boat across the harbor to Center Island. Toronto had a magnificent ferry boat that still exists and now delivers passengers all year round from the mainland. At the time, it only ran from the beginning of May to the end of September. It was glorious. Each fall it underwent an annual facelift that rendered it shiny and clean for the spring. The wood was painted white, the teak rails were stained and the metals were polished over the winter.

In those days the ferry ride was free. It was about a 15 minute ride each way. There was a man who stood on the top deck and manually counted the number of people who were walking onto the boat. Once the capacity was reached, he would yell ‘stop’ and whichever people didn't make it onto the current ride would wait for the next ride.

The ferry ride itself was full of fun and wonder. After mom admonished us to not stand on the rail or we would fall and kill ourselves, we were left to roam the entire ferry unaccompanied. It was two stories high. We would climb up to the second storey to watch the city become smaller and smaller, then rush to the other side of the ferry to watch the island grow bigger and bigger. The wind blew in our hair and the water sometimes sprayed in our faces, but we loved every minute of it. Oftentimes, we would meet school friends who were likewise spending their day the same way. 

Looking back on it, I can’t imagine how no one was killed or maimed on those ferry boats. There were no safety screens or stair railings, no cautionary speeches from authorities about donning the life jackets that hung from rafters in case of emergency; only our mothers telling us to be careful “or else”! Then again, no one wore sunscreen either. 

Years later, as young teens, our little gang would walk our bicycles onto the ferry and all day we would ride our bikes around the island. And I remember one day particularly, our little gang ferried across to the island, looking forward to a lovely long day  bicycling by the water's edge. Somewhere in the early afternoon, it began to rain; one of those short warm summer rains that would end soon, we hoped. 

We took shelter inside someone’s unlocked screened back porch. No one locked their back porches then. The homes were all summer cottages.  They were not intended for full time living and in fact no new cottages could be built on the island. Current cottages could be repaired but not expanded. The city fathers intended that the island be used for recreation only.  When a cottage fell into such disrepair that it could not be restored, it was sold back to the city. We were very apologetic about the intrusion when the cottage owner stuck her head out her back door, explaining about the rain, but since we were all nice looking kids, she let us stay until the rain stopped.

After an hour, we agreed, disappointedly, that the sun was not returning; our day was over so we headed back to the mainland. While riding back on the ferry boat, we watched the rain and could hear somebody’s transistor radio playing a Nat King Cole tune. The other four were caught up in their own spirited conversation when my friend leaned over and gave me my first kiss. On the rare occasion that I hear 'That Sunday, that summer', I still think of that little magical ferry boat ride.  

Radio

 Back in the early ‘50s, we would pile into the family sedan and would drive from our big city home to my maternal grandparents’ very rural farm house, which boasted a kitchen pump that counted as indoor running water and a Rayburn stove that was responsible for keeping the entire home warm. There was a party line telephone that served as that generation’s facebook. And last, there was an outhouse. However, we children were too small to use it without adult assistance and at night were relegated to the potty under the bed.

The very formal parlor which, again, we could only enter when an adult was with us, contained the most magnificent radio that I had ever seen. It was almost two feet across and over a foot high. The frame was a very shiny mahogany color and the pale yellow screen lit up when the radio was turned on. Equally fascinating were the half dozen lines across its screen. We didn’t know what the letters or bands meant. My brothers and I nonetheless whispered to each other; Why wasn’t it on? What was it for? What were these extra letters? None of our friends had radios like this one. They all had radios like ours; an AM-FM that, when turned on, as every six year old knew, meant we would soon sing and dance along with the music. Radios were for fun. But this radio was different. We knew it was more important than ordinary radios because it sat on its own little table atop a hand crotched  doily.

Another adult mystery was the fact that this radio would sit silently all day long. It would be turned on very late at night, long after we had been sent to bed. But, we could see the adults and listen to their conversations through the floor grids. It was weird to us that they didn’t seem happy when it was turned on; everybody liked music, but this radio did not play music. We could hear the click when the radio was turned on. Then we could hear static noises, then voices in different languages as the tuner was moved across the screen, until my grandfather finally found the station they were looking for; the all important RAI - Italian radio broadcasting. 

At the time, of course, my brothers and I were too young to understand about international shortwave broadcasting or the reasons for the vigil that our families kept around the radio. Although WWII technically was over, we had family members who still lived in Italy and the adult fears that communism would take over Italy, as it had the other eastern European countries was their very real concern. They would listen intently to the news, then silently turn it off and find their way to their own beds. The next morning the commentary was of concerns that left no room for us in their conversations.

But the years went by, prosperity eventually returned to Europe and our remaining family members arrived on these shores. Our grandparents prospered and moved to a boring house with indoor plumbing, central heating, a refrigerator and a single line telephone. As we were growing older, our own lives took over in importance. I don’t know what happened to my grandparents’ magical mysterious magnificent radio but I wish I did. It was beautiful for so many reasons.