This the first in a series of articles written for the Upper Ottawa Valley Genealogy Group newsletter. Published in April, 2016

The Overall League

   It was spring,1920 and the season was ushered in with the notice that the yearly price of gasoline had been set at forty five cents a gallon and by the noticeable increase in Mr. Findley Watt's business. Mr. Watt was the district agent for motor vehicle licences and car owners were busy getting their Grey-Dorts and Hupmobiles out of winter storage and ready for another season of driving and of course with this came the first accident of the year when young William Anderson drove his father's motorcycle into Dr. Mulvihill's car.

The town seemed to be not only prospering but on the verge even greater prosperity. The British firm of Maguire, Paterson and Palmer had begun work on their new match factory near Moffat's Crossing and there was plenty of work for men who had returned home from the lumber camps. Plans were underway to construct a new East Ward public school and to establish a new park in Girouxville in the west end of town, a park that would eventually become known as Riverside Park.

The Local Council of Women were keeping an ever watchful eye on the youth and to this noble end they had persuaded the movie theatres to stop running serials and for the police to be more diligent in ringing the curfew bell in the evening. They had also established a committee to look into having a memorial erected to the memory of the fallen soldiers of the Great War and were instrumental in seeing this project through to its completion some years later.

There were two new restaurants on the main street. Mr. Fong Deen was opening the Oriental Cafe at 55 Pembroke Street west and farther up the street at 97 Pembroke Street west Mr. Willie Hong was converting his hand laundry business into what would soon be the Crown Cafe. At the block at the bridge the cafe, ice cream, confectionery and fancy bakery business of Brunette & Bergerron had just celebrated the opening of an addition to their business at 21 Pembroke Street west by having an evening of music by Van Gene's Orchestra in their new annex at 23 Pembroke Street west.

Earlier in the year the town had had yet another major fire on the main street when the Heenan Block, that row of buildings running from Prince Street eastward to Delahey's Department Store (now Bob's Music) caught fire and burned to the ground. But by early spring all the displaced businesses had found new homes, the cleanup of the old buildings had begun and even this near disaster couldn't put a damper on the mood of the town.

The newspapers in those heady days were filled with advertisements from all the major stores of the town and there seemed to be perpetual sales throughout the business section. Duff's Clothing had just moved to the corner of Pembroke and Moffat Streets, two doors east from their old location at 218 Pembroke Street and were having a big introductory sale. Eaton's Bootery had taken over Duff’s old store and they too were having an introductory sale to their line of boots and shoes. Up at the north end of Mackay Street Mr. Charles Shore who had just taken over the clothing store "next to Cecile's Hotel" from Mr. M. Addleman was having an "I Want To Get Acquainted" sale.         

Men's suits were going for anywhere from $28.75 at Duffs, to $35 next door at The Oak Hall Men's Wear to $46.50 at Mr. Shore's new store. For the ladies, Delahey's was selling their new "Modes For Spring" that "pay tribute to womankind" with ensembles ranging in price from $20 to $65. Those essential accessories, gloves and scarves, were selling for up to three dollars and ladies hosiery went for anywhere from seventy five cents to three dollars a pair.

The Ladies Exclusive (later known as Doran's Ladies Wear) had a range of dresses costing anywhere from $15 all the way up to $75 as well as hats and accessories. Their ad stated "We can save you money and railway fare" underlining a problem that was as relevant then as it is now, out of town shopping.

It was not uncommon for local shoppers, especially the better heeled, to travel by train to the city to do their shopping, even at times, grocery shopping. It was estimated by the merchants that each year a hundred thousand dollars was spent on shopping trips to Ottawa and on catalogue shopping, money that could have been better used to support the local business community. To try and curtail this trend the merchants, allied with both newspapers, launched a "Buy Local" campaign, urging shoppers to support their local businesses saying "If You Buy Out of Town…..What Will Become of Our Town."

History now tells us that the average Canadian man earned just under one thousand dollars a year in 1920. In 1923, the carpenters in town went on strike until they achieved a wage of sixty-five cents an hour and in 1927 the town council decided to raise the wages of their workers to a flat thirty-five cents an hour eliciting howls of outrage from local industries. These industries, such as the match factory, the Steel Equipment and Superior Electric claimed to pay a top wage of thirty-three cents an hour but when pressed acknowledged that many were paid less than this and the Shook Mills was paying some workers as low as twenty-five cents an hour.

Into this mix of low wages and high clothing costs came the boys of the Pembroke High School on Isabella Street. Already used to wearing denim jeans after school they now formed an "Overall League" and took to only wearing khaki coloured suits of this material as a protest against the high cost of new clothes. The boys were said to look quite "correct" in their new attire which they kept clean and neatly pressed  and it was said that at a distance it was impossible to tell if a fellow was or was not wearing overalls. The fad spread until it reached the Copeland Hotel where many of the boarders at that  establishment, professionals and otherwise, signed a compact to discard their conventional business attire and don overalls exclusively. They not only signed the compact but proposed to levy a fine on anyone who had signed the pledge and was found to be wearing conventional clothing.

As the fad spread clothing stores had quite an extensive run on overalls and workmen's smocks and their windows now featured these items, replacing the pricey suits and natty ties of previous weeks. Their ads in the newspapers too reflected this shift in sensibilities. Previous to this if overalls were mentioned at all they were regulated to the small print at the bottom of an ad along with socks, underwear and handkerchiefs. Now they were the featured item. Delahey's had a full ad featuring drawings of young men looking very fashionable in their one dollar and ninety eight cent overalls and dollar twenty-five work shirts.  Fenton & Smith's went more traditional using a drawing of a railroad man standing beside the driving wheel of a locomotive and wielding a tool as a conductor stands off to the side looking at his watch and the logo "Kitchen's Railroad Signal Overalls" between them. Prices here ranged from a dollar seventy-five to three and a quarter for overalls and workmen's shirts could be had for as low as a dollar.

The Oak Hall, known for it's fine line of gentlemen's clothing, deigned to advertise they had "Outfits for all classes" and while they never did sell overalls they did have “well made working pants in grey stripes.”

Even that venerable old shop for men, Watters & Bodell where fine materials, bespoke suits and Borsalino hats were were the order of the day, they too devoted a goodly portion of an ad to work shirts, overalls and smocks, shop coats, working suspenders, handkerchiefs and "Kant Krack Collars."

Some people felt that as well meaning as this protest or fad was all it did was to drive up the cost “of the very clothing that the poor working man needed for his daily labours.” They felt it would have been better to have had an "Old Clothes League," to have worn out all the old clothing and shoes rather than put more money into the very pockets of the merchants they were protesting against.

In the end it all died out rather quietly and by the latter part of April nothing more was heard of the Overall League. The men’s shops went back to advertising their usual items and perhaps the students turned their attention to an upcoming feature at the Grand Opera House, "The Eyes Of Youth" starring Clara Kimball Young or perhaps to the Casino Theatre where Alice Brady starred in "Marie Ltd." or later in the week when Bessie Basercalles played in "Tangled Threads."

That was almost the end of overalls playing any role in the news of Pembroke except for a short period mid-decade when Schultz’s Mens Wear declared an overall week and advertised a brand of overalls and jackets that offered cinder proof collars.

But then, on a warm September day in 1929 a pair of overalls again made the news. A young woman strolled up the main street wearing a pair of overalls but not just any overalls. These were a pair of bright pink overalls worn over a knitted silk shirt. On her feet she wore pink socks and a pair of “high heeled slippers” and this was all topped off with a jaunty sailors cap and a generous dab of pink rouge on each cheek. Cars zigzaged up the street and turned to follow the young woman and her somewhat bashful escort. Pedestrians risked walking into lamp posts as they stared at the young couple and a gaggle of children trailed along behind them.

Where they came from and where they went wasn’t reported but for a brief moment this “young lass in a vivid suit” brightened staid old Pembroke and gave it something to talk about.

The Feral Cat Project of the Heart

We are cat people, my partner and myself. We cohabitate with two now, have each had our own in the past before we met, have more photos of our cats than of our our respective children and grandchildren combined. We talk about them over restaurant meals the way other people talk about their infant children, we worry about them when they’re out or they’re late coming home and like doting pet owners everywhere we’ll sit still longer than we planned, longer than is comfortable simply because a cat is resting on our lap. We’re cat people, not to say that if we had a dog it wouldn’t be given the same lavish attention but we prefer that independant, “what, me give a shit” attitude that cats embody. A psychological failing no doubt but it is ours and we embrace it.

  Several years ago while out shooting photos I came across a crudely made cat shelter and a dozen or so ill fed cats who scattered as I approached. I took a few pictures, moved on and later that evening mentioned my find to my partner. The die was cast. The next day she went off to investigate with a bag of food and a heart filled with compassion. We’ve been there ever since.

   It started off innocently enough, we said we’d feed them upon occasion when we had some extra cat food or rejects from our two spoiled fellows. We’d prop up the shelter so it was a bit more weather resistant and put an old tarp we had over the feeding area so the food was sheltered from the rain. That was all. Sure. But then the inevitable happened. As we set off into the trees and the jumble of urban forest where they lived they would be waiting for us on the path. Or as we walked along they would emerge from the tall grass and weeds, would run ahead leaping for joy and rolling about in the ecstasy of anticipation. They ran away less, milled about as we poured out food and occasionally we’d be able to steal a pet or two as they ate.

   Their numbers varied but we seemed to have a basic group of about a dozen and some we’d see for a while but then disappear until I happened to spy them sitting outside the take out window of a nearby fast food joint, looking up expectantly as if waiting on their order.

    Somehow they all ended up with names, we’d talk about individual personalities and traits and who we’d bring home if we had the opportunity. The bringing one home idea was one of those things you talk about without ever thinking it’s going to be real. Like winning the big money lottery. We were already crazy cat people who fed a bunch of ferals, we didn’t want to become the crazy cat people next door. So every day or every other day we’d make the treck to the shelter in the woods with food, sometimes just to feed and leave and sometimes to stay and sit and watch them eat and loll about afterwards as they washed themselves and sorted out the hierarchy.

   Not all was sweetness and light however. Twice someone burnt out the shelter, destroying all the little comforts we had made but each time we rebuilt an even finer habitat, more waterproof, more insulated, more comfortable. People would steal the feeding dishes and the food we left and at times we know someone had been unkind to them as they’d be skittish as we approached and it would take time until they were comfortable with people again. We had kittens, little balls of fur we bought kitten food for as they were weaned and even though they gave us great joy to see them grow and thrive we were glad to see a group of women gather them up and give them homes.

  So through days of sunshine and warmth, days of miserable rain or days of knee deep snow we go off to feed the girls and get a little bit of sunshine to our hearts on even the most inhospitable day.

We feed birds. In the winter we have a bird feeder that we fill with seeds, grains, cracked corn and things the bird books say birds love yet never seem to eat. It provides us with a little joy at seeing the avian life come to our back yard to dine and live in this most harsh of seasons.
In the summer we still put out food but as most of the birds we have seem to prefer to feed on the ground, the feeder, although filled with food, is mostly ignored except for the bits that have fallen to the ground where the doves, the wrens, the thrushes, the yellow thrushes we call canaries, blue jays and cardinals all gather. And we have cats. Two of them. One, the alpha male concerns himself with maintaining the integrity of his territory, patrolling the yards of the neighbourhood to keep other cats in their places. He also doesn't see very well so hunting for him is an exercise in futility. Something he has figured out. The other one, although well fed, overly fed in fact, is the typical hunter/killer feline. When something in the yard moves he goes into the hunter/killer cat pose, low crouch, tail twitching, slinking towards the prey in short bursts of stealth. Luckily for the birds his girth means he is not the most athletic of animals and so we have only once seen a victim of his skill. Both mice and moles seem to be an easier catch as they show up mornings on our lawn, stiff and inert, waiting for the crows to come and carry them off.
We have morning doves that perch on the wires or the fence and survey the territory, coming in to feed or strut and then taking off with that squeaky wing sound as though they are in need of a good oiling. They are attractive birds, feminine looking as though they all are the pretty but vacuous members of the bird world.
As I said, we like these birds, wish them no harm but know that the presence of the hunter/killer cat no matter what his skill level, is a threat to their lives. So for the summer we put the food inside the fence that surrounds our swimming pool. This allows them safe eating on the ground, safe from the cats and allows the social, hierarchical fights of the bird world to be carried out uninterrupted.
Now that we are in the latter part of summer we have one dove that comes each evening to the cache of food on the ground, pecks around a bit but mostly just sits on the warm concrete and stares out over the pool. He hunkers down, his soft breast resting on the ground, gazing over the water and seems to be lost in thought or reverie. Other birds sing their evening songs from the trees, some small birds flit to the feed to peck around, stocking up for the night ahead but he mostly ignores them. He just sits and stares. When this first began the hunter/killer went into high alert. He slinked down from the deck, kept low to the ground, moving furtively until he was positioned behind the dove and hidden by the barbecue. Then in the moment of attack his hind quarters twitched, he raised his haunches and sped towards the dove. He may have had the unsuspecting bird except for the chain link fence between the two of them. At full speed he made for the bird and then, then ran head long into the fence. It's a wonder he didn't break his fool neck. The startled dove flew off in a moment of panic as the slightly dazed and very disappointed cat watched it go. This replayed itself the next evening. The wary dove, the hunter/killer cat, the stealth, the rush to kill, the chain link fence and the disappointment. Now the bird and the cat had both figured out their advantages and disadvantages. A Mexican standoff of sorts in the cat/bird world.
The dove still comes most evenings to rest, perhaps to compose poetry in its head and to be calmed by the reflecting waters of the pool. The cat still stalks but now just creeps as close as it can and sits and watches the dove. The dove, aware of the cat is mostly nonplussed by this traditional threat and so is free to enjoy his evening dreams. The standoff continues with the dove secure inside the fence and the cat dreaming of it not being there.

Ahh, mid July and the promise of summer is here in full force. This is what we dream about all winter, wish fervently for on those cold dark days of the year when the world is all black and white and the sun is a filtered ray of paltry light. This is what we want to see, when in January we look through the frosted window. We want to see green grass, leaves on trees, flowers a-bloom in thought out plots of colour. We want to look out at the garden to see what we are going to eat that evening. We want the smell of fresh cut grass, more than anything we want that first whiff of mown lawn in the spring.
Is there anything better than using the garden hose to wash the dirt off a freshly pulled root vegetable and then using your pocket knife to cut the end off and take a bite. Or picking a young pea pod (as I just have) from the vine and tossing a few incredibly sweet peas into your mouth.
Ahh summer. It's sitting in the shade of a sun umbrella with a languishing cat by your feet, a bit of a breeze, a cool beer and the chirping of birds as they flit back and forth to the pile of seeds you put out. It's the sounds of children down the street screaming with delight as they run through the sprinkler. It's the sight of your neighbour as he polishes his car in the shade of a tree. It's the greeting of "gudday" or "evenin'" that you say with a nod of the head as you acknowledge the passing stranger as you sit on the front porch. This being a small town that stranger is more than likely to pause and comment on the evening weather or the state of your flower bed or how pretty the cat is - again the cat rests by your feet.
As the day cools and the supper dishes are put away the front porch is the place to be on our quiet street of early twentieth century houses. When we moved here we commented that our street and a couple of the surrounding ones looked like something out of a Frank Capra movie set. We'd walk the darkening streets as the day ended and front room lights came on and if all the modern cars suddenly turned into 1920's models and Jimmy Stewart had come out of a door and tipped his boater to us we would not have been surprised. We live, in a small way, in a 1920's or '30's urban landscape.
Summer is the time of year when you can't stay awake during the day and can't get to sleep at night, all because of the heat. It's wakening out of a mid afternoon slumber to find the ice in your drink has melted, the unread book is resting on your chest and the plans to, to do something, has gone from your memory and anyway it's now too late to begin to do whatever it was you were going to do.
Summer nights are ceiling fans, a light sheet only as a cover and pillows flipped and flipped again to get that cool spot. Its open windows and a gentle stirring of the lace curtains. It's the sounds of young people walking home, shy laughter and steps in unison. As the late night news ends the last of the sounds is our neighbour letting the dogs out for one last "go" and him whispering loud enough for the whole block to hear, "bad dog, git home here, come here, c'm here" and at last the quiet descends. Sleep creeps up upon you and another day is over. Ah summer!

Destruction, homelessness, despair, all played out in my back yard.
Mice. If only they weren't so problematic. They gnaw, chew, spoil food, cause fires, spread disease and once they've peed on something it stays smelly until the end of time. If only they weren't so cute. They need to be more rat like. Need to have less of the aww factor.
In the book "The History of Myddle" (Richard Gough (b.1635) written 1700-1702, first published in 1834) the writer claims that the old people of his day believed if you put a piece of cheese and some old rags in a box and left it overnight a mouse would spontaneously be created.
Robbie Burns wrote an ode to his "...earth-born companion,/An' fellow mortal!" and lamented his part in "Thy wee bit housie, too in ruin!".
What other rodents have had a bard for the ages write a beloved poem just for them? Non other I think than Burns' "Wee sleeket, cowrin' tim'rous beastie,".
Mice. We set out poison for them, trap them, set cats upon them, hold snakes in higher regard than might otherwise be just because they eat them. Other than a mosquito buzzing in the dark as you try and sleep what other sound than that of a mouse in the wall can keep you awake and pondering the death of another?
This morning I picked up a canvas tarp that previously in the week I had tossed out of the workshop. It lay for days outside the door, still folded, waiting to be used. A gentle spring rain had begun to fall and as I was about to toss it back into the shop a bit of fiberglass insulation fell out of the folds. Then a ball of soft, shredded paper. Then a fat brown mouse.
The mouse tried to scamper back up hill to where it's home had been and I set the tarp down to make that task easier but now panic had set in and retreat was the preferred option. So off he or she, went, waddling rather than scurrying to the safety of the low space under the porch. Never to be seen again I've no doubt unless it turns up one morning on the lawn, stiff and inert, the victim of a killer cat. I'll leave it then where it lay and by mid morn a crow will have swooped down, picked it up and completed the cycle of life and death.
But now I think of the poor thing, huddled against the cold on the bare ground where cats roam and hide from the rain. Scarce hours ago it had warmth, a secure home, a cache of food gathered from beneath the bird feeder, a future firmly ensconced in the middle/upper class of mousedom. Now it's homeless, the day has turned cold and the falling rain chills to the very bone. Where will the bits of insulation and paper be found to build a new home? How long until night falls and it is safe to gather seeds beneath the feeder? And the cats. Once securely locked out of the shop they are now denizens of the same haunts under the porch. How long until death, premature and unwanted, finds my little brown friend?
A last mouse tale.
One winter I had hiked along an unused logging road, had got to my destination, heated a meal in the shelter of a rock face and as the day waned I retraced my steps back to my truck. As I walked I saw ahead in the distance something scurrying along my foot prints in the snow. I stopped and watched this little thing get closer and closer, climbing in and out of the indentations, expecting at any moment for it to see me and veer off into the forest. But it didn't and only stopped at the very toes of my boots. Stopped, stood on it's back legs and looked up at me. A little grey and brown mouse right out of Central Casting, right out of Walt Disney or Pixar Studios. Beady eyes, big ears, hands held over it's chest, whiskers twitching. I spoke to it and then bent over, picked it up in my mittened hand and held it up level to my face. We looked at each other momentarily, I turned, set him down on the path behind me and we both continued on our journeys.
Such attractive little fellows and so nice to have these little interactions with things wild. Having said that however if I ever found them in my house I'd whack then with a broom and toss their battered little bodies outside.
Such is life. Wish it weren't so at times but so it is.
Posted by Albe

I love going to auctions. Went to my first one about ten years ago to buy some old tools for my workshop, got'em and was hooked. Over the years I've got some great deals, a General table saw for forty five bucks was one of my better ones. Some of the stuff you buy comes in a box with a bunch of other stuff and this other stuff occasionally yields some pleasant little surprises. I have an old manual telling farmers about the dangers of those new fangled inventions like electricity and automobiles. I have a Christmas toy flyer circa 1953 with toys I remember my parents buying for me. There's pill boxes for morphine, yard sticks with two number telephone numbers and old glass bottles from a century ago. Last weekend I bought that light pictured above. I thought, when I was bidding on it, that it was an old railroad light but once I looked at it I knew it just didn't fit that genre. So I looked it up. Turned out it's a tail light for a car, a model T car, model A car but a car before they had the electrical system fully worked out. One side is red, facing rear; clear, facing the licence plate and blue/green facing out. The picture below is courtesy of Shorpy.com - one of the best web sites for old photos. Check out the rear of the car. There's my light. Then look at the cat facing, it has the same light on the passenger side front window.
Got it home, filled it with kerosene and fired it up. Works, but then why wouldn't it. It doesn't get much lower tec than this. Now if only I could get a car to go along with it.

Well here it is, another February, another entry. Surely to god you would think I could manage more than one little note a year. Seems not though. But anyway here I am on yet another somewhat uninspiring winters day. The sun is trying valiantly to shine through the clouds but the wind and the cold are succeeding in keeping me indoors.
What a change from yesterday when it was a shoes and sweater day, coffee on the porch and a brilliant blue sky. Then came the snow, then the wind. Mid way through the evening the lights flickered, flickered again and died. So for a little more than half an hour we sat by the light of the fire, lit a lamp and tried to think of what we would have done if we were pioneers. I suggested listening to fiddle music on the ipod but that somehow didn't feel like something our log cabin dwelling fore fathers would have done. Before we had a chance to actually get desperate enough to figure out what we could do by lamp light the power came back on and we went back to watching TV. In our defence though we do have an old TV. No big flat screen with Hi Def and surround sound for us. Nope, we still have our old tube technology, state of the art circa 1990 Zenith. You gotta admit that having that old thing is sort of pioneer like, almost akin to churning your own butter or reading the catalogue for amusement. Will probably be carting it off with me to "the home" when I go. These damned things never seem to die and I'm not one for tossing a perfectly good thing just because it's old or there is a newer version. Except for computers that is.
The big kerfuffle around the valley these days is our member of Parliament has once again spoken a thought in public and has for a moment taken her head out of her ass just long enough to stick a foot in her mouth. Cheryl Gallant, remember that name because when you look up redneck, ineffectual, ignorant or homophobic you will see her picture as a perfect example of the type. The first thing she did as an MP was to utter some redneck idiocy that had her censured, told to shut up by the caucus and placed forever in the backbenches. She then yelled homophobic comments during a parliamentary debate which sealed her fate as a person to be ignored. She is, I'm sure, barely tolerated by her party but she fills for them the function of occupying a much needed seat in a minority government. Now if she would only keep what passes as thought, to herself.
Her latest pearl of wisdom is to tell the men and women who work on the ocean that the government should not be responsible for trying to rescue them should a tragedy occur. This of course was said in front of an audience of people who had been rescued and the loved ones of those that had been lost at sea. The stupidity of the woman is mind boggling. And the bright lights of the valley keep electing this do nothing who's biggest accomplishment is doing photo ops for things she has no involvement in but are a benefit to the area. Speaks volumes about the locals and their commitment to quality representation.
Posted by Albedo Effect at 10:54 AM 0 comments