Yonge and Gould

Yonge and Gould

It was in the late 70's early 80's, men were wearing searsucker suits and shoes with big heels, and big hair. Women were wearing pant suits or as my grandmother used to say panty suits, for the most part women were at home, raising children, gardening, washing, ironing and in complete charge of their home, their families and the family social activities.

My husband, not typical of most husbands of that era, was always pursuing his inner devils and a real loner in spite of the fact that he was a husband, father of 4, sponsor of a family from Vietnam, lay preacher and a very kind man.

I digress. The corner of Yonge Street and Gould. My husband loved chess, and by chance while exploring the downtown area we came across the cement chess tables and the odd assortment of people who gathered in this area. We were both fascinated and initially stood around and watched the games. Eventually my husband started playing at those tables and I watched people. We would make sure our children, teenagers, were home or working and around 11:00 we would head downtown to "the corner". We would watch for a while and when a table opened up my husband would sit down and play. I watched people. The Yonge Street sidewalk as well as the road, was crowded at all times. Young people from the suburbs venturing into the big city as voyeurs, couples, odds and sods of people together or alone. There were a couple of strip clubs in that area as well as less than high class bars. Frans Restaurant was across the street, which always harboured an eclectic group of people, who had enough money for a cup of coffee and on a good night a piece of pie with their coffee. Fights would break out from time to time, plain clothed police would suddenly emerge from the crowd and race down Gould Street I presumed chasing drug users or dealers. Barely causing head turns by those of us in the area. The alley behind Sams was an ongoing strip of questionable activity from relieving oneself to some forms of prostitution to escape for those being chased. Strangely enough I never felt afraid. I got to recognize the street people from the strippers to those that were homeless. There was one woman whose name was Mary, or that was what other street people called her. who would climb into the drop boxes filled with clothes, strip down and emerge in a new outfit several times a day. She would sit on the curb and swear at the passing cars. Rumour on the street, was that she was deranged from inhaling the exhaust from the endless stream of cars. There was one man who ate out of the garbage cans, carefully selecting the used apple cores, and other various types of food. I got so that I would take a plate of sandwiches down and place them on the ledge at Sam's and watch surreptisously as people would sidle up to the sandwiches and take some. It seemed to me that no matter how poor they were they had enormous pride and didn't want others to see them take the sandwiches.

I don't know if the tables are still there but I do know that I took a stroll down Yonge Street, trying to recall those times and I did not feel secure. Probably age more than anything, but Yonge Street for me has lost its appeal. It was a special time in Toronto and one for which I will always be grateful.

Bonnie Clark

December 5th, 2013