The Carlington Summit
by H. J. McClemens.

Claire (Dunn) Nelson passed away a few weeks ago. Her and her first husband ‘Johnny Dunn' lived in the other half of our double when we first moved to Carlington. You couldn't ask for better neighbours. I had a long chat with one of her daughters about Stevenson Ave in the good old days. Johnny always had solution to the noisy parties when the family got together. He always invited the neighbours. We remembered Emerie's Bicycle Shop and how he only serviced the cycle he sold unless some kid came to the door with a bike in need of a minor ajustment. Emerie retired some years ago and I am sad to relate that he too passed away within the last year. Emerie apparently sharpened the skates of Barbara Ann Scott and had an autographed poster of her in the shop. He also got one of the first consignments of hoola-hoops in Ottawa and there is a photo of a dozen kids from the street hoola-hooping in front of his shop. One sad thing about the old timers of the street moving to retirement homes or passing on, it makes more of us the old timers of the street.


How much deeper would oceans be if sponges didn't live there?


I had this friend years ago who had to discuss some business with his Italian neighbour across the street. Now this neighbour made his own wine. When the grapes were in season, you could see the lights on all night in their garage. So the neighbour says, “You gotta taste my wine.” They had a glass and my friend said it was the smoothest wine he had ever tasted. It was after a few more glasses when they had finished their business that my friend realized the power of the wine. When he went to rise from his chair, his legs wouldn't work. Somehow he got to his feet and to the side door where he said his goodbye and as soon as the door was closed he eased himself to the ground and made his way across the street home. The only further problem was that his wife was standing at the front window saying to herself, “You silly old fool.” You can guess how many years he was reminded of . . . . . . . .


Why is a person who plays the piano called a pianist but a person that drives a race car not called a racist?