Operajulian
Julian
Much to my surprise this evening a neighbour emailed me this clipping. To put it in context - Geneva Avenue, Toronto is a narrow street of row-houses built in the late 1890's and most of which are not much wider than 12 to 13ft - so we are not grand houses by any stretch of the imagination.
Anyhow, here goes:-
You may not realize this but in days gone by 2 very well known musicians lived on our little street. They were Carole Pope from the Toronto group Rough Trade and the world-famous Dusty Springfield, who had numerous giant hits - the most well-known being Son of a Preacher Man. (
). At the time in the early 80’s, they were a couple and lived at 10 Geneva Ave. Here’s a bit from Carole’s autobiography.
"I gave up my swinging bachelorette pad on Earl St, and rented a house in the insipidly trendy and bucolic Cabbagetown. Not a pretty name. It originated, so they say, because of the vegetable gardens planted by the wave of Anglo-Celtic immigrants who settled there, downwind from the mansions of Rosedale, in the late 1800s. We lived at 10 Geneva Ave, which is bordered by a park. I liked the sense of history in Cabbagetown, the Victorian mansions and the Necropolis cemetery, where William Lyon Mackenzie lies among Canadian pioneers.
***
As soon as Dusty moved in, we went to the Riverdale Farm so Dusty could bond with the critters. In Dusty’s opinion, humans were secondary to animals. She had a point. As we petted every beast in sight, Dusty told me the animal she thought she resembled most was the Shetland pony. When I asked her why, she said they shared the same hairstyle and personality.
We went food shopping in our new ‘hood. The closest store was an expensive and pretentious joint which was all style and no substance. Dusty loved to eat. It was a sensual experience for her. Our eyes locked in mutual desire. The lack of food selection was an excuse to hoof it over to our favourite hang, The Courtyard Café in the Windsor Arms Hotel. It was open late and Richard Burton might be dining with Tatum O’Neal, or Patti Smith might be slouched in a corner munching on a carrot stick. You never knew.
Our bedroom was located on the second floor of the house, and was one of the only rooms that was together. I was not crazy about Dusty’s collection of Paddington bears, which if left unchecked, threatened to take over the room. When it came to décor, I wanted minimalism, but too bad for me. The living-room was surrounded by chaos. We never really unpacked everything. It mirrored the state of our relationship.
We experienced our own version of the panic room. Dusty was one of those women, and there have been many, who have to have the bed made up perfectly, with hospital corners and 5,000 pillows. She would jokingly bounce a quarter off the bed when I made it. The room had to be hermetically sealed so that no light came in. One night Dusty woke me out of a deep sleep whispering, “There’s someone in the room. Don’t you see him standing there?”
I was a) myopic and b) in a stupor. I stared bleary-eyed into the darkness, and said, “No, honey, there’s no one there. You’re dreaming go back to sleep.”
“Are you sure?”
I got up, walked around the room, peered into the darkness once more and told Dusty everything was fine.
There had been someone there, as we discovered in the morning. Our wallets had been stolen and some man had been watching us while we slept. We felt thoroughly creeped out and violated.
We called the police and Const Richard Crooks, one of Dan Aykroyd’s good pals, came over and checked out the house, especially the living-room windows. He told us that a gang of boys had been robbing people in our ‘hood. The pre-teen felons crawled into windows too small for a full-grown thief to drag his ass through. Dusty was freaked out, but I’d been robbed before, so I thought I’d check out the crime scene myself.
Later that day I took a walk in the ravine near our house. There’s always a ravine. There’s got to be someplace to dump the bodies. I found our wallets tossed in the snow. Amazingly, our IDs and credit cards were there but our money was gone. Eventually we heard the slimy little robber boys had been caught and we deconstructed our alarm system. "
Who once lived on your street ?
Anyhow, here goes:-
You may not realize this but in days gone by 2 very well known musicians lived on our little street. They were Carole Pope from the Toronto group Rough Trade and the world-famous Dusty Springfield, who had numerous giant hits - the most well-known being Son of a Preacher Man. (
"I gave up my swinging bachelorette pad on Earl St, and rented a house in the insipidly trendy and bucolic Cabbagetown. Not a pretty name. It originated, so they say, because of the vegetable gardens planted by the wave of Anglo-Celtic immigrants who settled there, downwind from the mansions of Rosedale, in the late 1800s. We lived at 10 Geneva Ave, which is bordered by a park. I liked the sense of history in Cabbagetown, the Victorian mansions and the Necropolis cemetery, where William Lyon Mackenzie lies among Canadian pioneers.
***
As soon as Dusty moved in, we went to the Riverdale Farm so Dusty could bond with the critters. In Dusty’s opinion, humans were secondary to animals. She had a point. As we petted every beast in sight, Dusty told me the animal she thought she resembled most was the Shetland pony. When I asked her why, she said they shared the same hairstyle and personality.
We went food shopping in our new ‘hood. The closest store was an expensive and pretentious joint which was all style and no substance. Dusty loved to eat. It was a sensual experience for her. Our eyes locked in mutual desire. The lack of food selection was an excuse to hoof it over to our favourite hang, The Courtyard Café in the Windsor Arms Hotel. It was open late and Richard Burton might be dining with Tatum O’Neal, or Patti Smith might be slouched in a corner munching on a carrot stick. You never knew.
Our bedroom was located on the second floor of the house, and was one of the only rooms that was together. I was not crazy about Dusty’s collection of Paddington bears, which if left unchecked, threatened to take over the room. When it came to décor, I wanted minimalism, but too bad for me. The living-room was surrounded by chaos. We never really unpacked everything. It mirrored the state of our relationship.
We experienced our own version of the panic room. Dusty was one of those women, and there have been many, who have to have the bed made up perfectly, with hospital corners and 5,000 pillows. She would jokingly bounce a quarter off the bed when I made it. The room had to be hermetically sealed so that no light came in. One night Dusty woke me out of a deep sleep whispering, “There’s someone in the room. Don’t you see him standing there?”
I was a) myopic and b) in a stupor. I stared bleary-eyed into the darkness, and said, “No, honey, there’s no one there. You’re dreaming go back to sleep.”
“Are you sure?”
I got up, walked around the room, peered into the darkness once more and told Dusty everything was fine.
There had been someone there, as we discovered in the morning. Our wallets had been stolen and some man had been watching us while we slept. We felt thoroughly creeped out and violated.
We called the police and Const Richard Crooks, one of Dan Aykroyd’s good pals, came over and checked out the house, especially the living-room windows. He told us that a gang of boys had been robbing people in our ‘hood. The pre-teen felons crawled into windows too small for a full-grown thief to drag his ass through. Dusty was freaked out, but I’d been robbed before, so I thought I’d check out the crime scene myself.
Later that day I took a walk in the ravine near our house. There’s always a ravine. There’s got to be someplace to dump the bodies. I found our wallets tossed in the snow. Amazingly, our IDs and credit cards were there but our money was gone. Eventually we heard the slimy little robber boys had been caught and we deconstructed our alarm system. "
Who once lived on your street ?