Keep it classy, Ryerson.
Keep it classy, Ryerson.
On Patrick’s birthday we made a visit to the not-quite-opened Bellwoods Brewery here in Toronto in an effort to distract him from the growing number of candles on his figurative cake.
(Right click on photos and zoom in if ya wanna travel back in time through reading).
In 1912, Toronto council voted to ban tobogganing on Sundays, because of God and stuff. Torontoist has a cool write up about all the drama, but the 1981 piece by Gene Homel is really great, I just can’t seem to find an accessible copy online. I dug around the Toronto Star archives for a bit tonight and given the snow I figured I’d look at the great Toboggan controversy of 1912… That banned tobogganing on Sundays in Toronto until 1961.
I love walking. I’m too poor to drive, too grumpy for public transit, and too much of a coward for bicycling. Walking lets you enjoy the city on its most human level, allowing for polite smiles from strangers and the time to stop and discover one’s personal hidden joys of urban life. It gives you the time to notice that the permanence of our urban streetscape is in fact in constant flux, changing incrementally with the weather or immensely in step with the grandiose vision of developers.
I also love Jack Layton. I got my first taste of electoral politics when I was 14, scrutineering for his 2004 election campaign. I’ve read his books, admired his moustache, and celebrated his victory with thousands of others this May at the convention centre (thanks for the drinks). I will openly admit to crying when I found out he died, and crying again at his funeral. So it pains me to say that Jack Layton ruined a large part of my daily commute.
“Communist Agitators” - 1924. I’d like to get behind their Iron Curtain if you know what I mean? weak.
I remember few things about the numerous field trips me and my classmates endured at Black Creek Pioneer Village. I remember it being 35 degrees and the entire place smelling like animal shit and oily sunscreen. A bunch of kids got heat stroke and had to take refuge from the sun in the church. Morose history majors and what, from the vantage point of a nine year old, appeared to be ancient women roamed the fields, their historically correct but wholly impractical rough wool and thick linen shirts soaking up their sweat and enthusiasm for re-enactment. I did watch a blacksmith make a horseshoe and a woman work a loom, and I’m fairly certain I did not cry. So I guess it wasn’t a total bust.
6.5/10. I learnt that I’m really fucking happy I’m not a pioneer.
This is first in a bunch of TDSB field trip ratings I plan on doing when I’m bored. Hopefully they will be better and longer as time progresses.