It had been another boring Sunday afternoon. Were they discussing Ezekiel? The sins of the Moabites? The transgressions of the Ammonites? My brother swears that Mr. K. once waxed eloquent and at length about the word "the" in one of these "reading meetings". It was an obligation for this thirteen year old. But also an opportunity to take the imagination for a long walk, against the background of this Brethren hum flummery.The real fun was in the coming, and especially the going. Navigating the city on my own was exciting. And coming from a northern residential area to the heart of the city offered new learning experiences. But often it's the casual and the unexpected which counts for most.
I hurried quickly from the exit of the Bathurst streetcar and crossed the road to intercept a St. Clair car heading east. Good, there was an empty seat on the left side which would afford me a view of the Peter Pan monument, an exact replica of the one in Kensington Gardens. At Spadina a crowd boarded leaving no empty seats. As they moved back in search of breathing space, an elderly silver-gray haired gent came by. Instinctively I offered him my seat.
He smiled broadly and rummaging in his satchel, pulled out a small mimeographed sheet. It was a short poem by Charles Hanson Towne. It became more a part of my life than the entire book of Ezekiel. Thank you Charles H. Haight, wherever you are. Learning is always just around the corner.
[Click on poem to read]
