I am always amazed by autobiographies. It is amazing how someone can recall what they said and did on a Friday afternoon, fifty years ago. I have enough trouble trying to recall what I did yesterday. And if I succeeded, I doubt whether I would get the correct time.

As I am in the throes of talking about my early history, you will have to depend on what I say and think I remember. Never having been a diary jotter, I have no little black books to back up statements. Just a little gray matter, that swirls within my head, known as memory.

Well it all started in a little English midland town called St. Neots, known mostly for its 12th century church and 15th century bridge over the River Ouse.

I suppose, the paper of the week “The Advertiser” carried the announcement that a son had been born to Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Johnson on April 24th, 1905. The son was named Sidney Richard.

My arrival was the second one for the Johnsons. An earlier son had died soon after birth. My father was employed as a tinsmith and brazier having been apprenticed when he was 15 years old.

I have in front of me, as I write, his parchment apprentice agreement in which he has sworn to serve the master tinsmith for five years. His pay was two shillings a week for the first year, three for the second year, four for the third year, five for the fourth year, and six for the fifth. The said apprentice is to work ten hours a day. The year was 1893. An embossed red stamp, value two shillings and sixpence is prominent on the parchment sheet, surrounded by decorative script with affixed signature of the master, my father and his father. All done in accordance with the Apprentice agreement “in the year of the Reign of our Sovereign Lady Victory by the Grace of God, etc, etc.

I mustn’t overlook the commitment to which the apprentice has signed where it states, “He shall serve his master faithfully, serve his secrets, keep his lawful commands everywhere. Do no damage to his Master. He shall not waste the goods of the said Master nor lend them unlawfully to any. He shall not contract Matrimony within the said term nor play at cards or Dice Tables or any other unlawful Games whereby his said Master may have any loss with his own goods or others. He shall not haunt Taverns or Playhouses.” There are several more “do nots” but I think you get the general idea. The Master didn’t want the apprentice squandering his hard earned wealth. It reads pretty strict but even today something like this might turn out better workers and politicians.

In later years I learned how other sheet metal workers (“tinsmiths” was passé in Canada) had great admiration for the manner in which my father could plan, layout and cut metal for intricate cornice work on buildings. He left school at fourteen and would add and subtract in an elementary way but measuring and fitting seemed to come naturally.

About the earliest date I can recall would be about 1911. I would be six and can recall the Christmas of that year: Father Christmas, not Santa Claus, had brought me a toy piano. He either kept reading the original note or someone thought I would grow up a musical genius. For every Christmas, along with the orange and walnuts, there was the toy piano.

I must check the date, but I believe it was 1912 when King George the fifth was coronated and at school it was quite an event. Every child received a mug bearing the likeness of their Majesties. Strange to say, with all the travelling, moving, ups and downs, lost items by the dozen, I still have that mug given to me over 70 years ago.

School was mentioned a moment ago. It may surprise some to learn that I started school at age 1 ½ years. That’s right! Those who think pre-school classes for very young children is a new idea may be surprised that many towns in England had the idea long ago. In my case I suppose it was because my mother worked in the local paper mill. This was the town’s major industry. She was a rag sorter, an important part of quality paper.

No doubt when my two sisters, Annie and Freda, arrived she probably remained home with them. I cannot recall her leaving for work at any time.

My mother was May Richards, when she married my father. A slim, quite an attractive girl, as early photos show. I never did learn much about her family, although her brother, Reg, visited us about once a year. His visits were great events for me because he always arrived with a painting for the house and always carried a sketchbook in which he made on the spot sketches of people, animals and landmarks. He was quite a good artist but it was purely a hobby with him.

His occupation was that of a sort of porter or orderly at Guys Hospital in London. A painting specialty of his was flowers and butterflies, which he copied from cigarette cards. He had a knack of making a nice arrangement of roses – or pansies with perhaps a butterfly on one of the petals, the rendering was in water color. He never used artist illustration board, instead he saved cardboard boxes from hospital supplies. The amazing thing was that he carved the petals, leaves and butterfly wings so they were actually raised from the paper’s surface. He used tossed out scalpels from the hospital as his carving tool. I have never seen anyone else use this relief method of painting – whether he created the idea or borrowed it, I can’t say. It was very effective and quite unusual. Unfortunately the pair of paintings I had have long since disappeared.

My mother had a flair for craft-like items. She was always making something with paper or cloth. It was she who taught me, when I was seven, to make spills. These were tightly rolled coils of paper about ten inches long and ¼” thick. They were stacked in a container by the fireplace and were eventually used instead of matches. Just push them in the grate fire and then use them to light a candle or the gas. We never had electricity. Another pastime of my mother’s was to fold a sheet of newspaper and cut out sections so that when it was unfolded the result would be a decorative doily like design. Years later I enlarged this into an effective closing item in my program.

We did not have a theatre or cinema in St. Neots but there was a Com Exchange building that often served as a hall for entertainment. I saw my first magician there. I have no idea who he was or what he did, with the exception that he wore a silk hat and had what I thought was a square box in a cabinet. Shook it from one end to the other and it finally vanished. My father said, “Where did it go?” According to what he told me, I said, “It just folded up at one end.” The trick must have been the Die Box and that was my childish explanation.

I mentioned school a short while ago. But I can’t recall much about my time there. I left when I was nine or just before. My only clear recollection was the drawing class. I had always been fond of drawing but, even at that early age, I thought the teacher taught in a strange manner. He was a visiting teacher, called the drawing Master – I’ve used this fact in my act many years later saying “When I was eight years old I had a drawing Master, I was too young to have a mistress.”

But this teacher had set rules for drawing leaves and bottles – all based on a series of straight lines. He would have us place two dots on the paper about ten inches apart, in a straight-line, then without touching the paper with the pencil move the hand with the pencil back and forth between the two dots. After this back and forth exercise, we were then advised to lower the pencil and repeat the move resulting in a perfectly straight line. I never found it of any use or value except as a gag line, in later years when I would make a comment about my art experience. I would state that most people are impressed and usually say, “I think it is very clever – I can’t even draw a straight line.” Then I say, “I can,” and I prove it.

My father never explained to any of us what made him decide to emigrate to Canada. It was at a time when low fares were an attraction and Canada was eager to swell its population. When father and mother explained to us, we were urged to be as helpful as possible while my dad was away. I know he sent money home to my mother, each week. I have no idea of the amount. It must have been small because his pay at that time was about thirty dollars a week – double what he had earned in England. We certainly faired well and as children, we took everything for granted and life went on in its usual way.

I almost forgot to mention my father’s departure. A serious break in our family life. It probably affected him deeply. He tried to put up a brave front and there were tears. However, to soften the blow, he took me along with him to London and arranged that I should return c/o the baggage master on the daily train that travelled back and forth to Kings Cross Station in London. With a wicker basket packed with clothing and one or two books, he left St. Neots full of hope. He had no job to go to – he had picked Toronto as a good spot, having heard that working conditions were considered good.

When we arrived in London we went straight to Uncle Reg’s house in Peckham for an overnight stay. They made us very comfortable and welcome and I bid goodbye to my father when he left to get the boat train at Southampton.

This was my first visit to a large city and like any kid I was greatly impressed by the bustle and noise. To tell the truth I have no memory of what occurred the two days I stayed at my uncle’s house, other than it was the first time I had seen a penny bazaar during a morning stroll on the main street.

I actually invested two pence in a camera complete with plate, camera and chemicals. To me, this was a treasure I hoped to astound my mother with. The trip back to St. Neots, in the baggage car of the train, was a real treat. An event I bragged about to other children every chance I had. The camera was a cardboard box about 1” square with a small capped pill box on the front and a pin hole for a lens. The sensitized plate, according to the instructions, was to rest against the back wall of the camera – the subject (they suggested a vase or glass in strong window light) and I made my first photograph. I left the cap off the pill box lens for the required five minutes, then, in a darkened area of the house, I bathed the glass plate in a solution made from the chemicals supplied. It wasn’t a great success – but it was encouraging. There was a black shape quite out of focus, but I felt sure I had succeeded.

The chemicals were, of course, just hypo crystals and the camera a miniature pinhole camera which can produce fair results. As I think back, I realize that was my initial venture with photographic chemicals. An experience I would enlarge upon hundreds of times in the years to come. 

As I said, my father wrote a letter every week. He managed to locate a job in his trade about three days after his arrival. He remained with the same firm throughout his life.

Along with the weekly letter was a four or five page spread of comics. Not like those I was used to – like Chips, Comic Cuts and Butterfly. These were large pages of full color cartoons – not particularly funny but different. One featured a couple of German children and their grandfather who suffered a great deal with the gout. They were the famous Katzenjammer Kids, a cartoon series that ran in American comics for years. Also Bringing up Father, the adventures of a hen pecked Irishman who loved corn beef and cabbage. My sisters and I became avid fans of this strange cartoon world. We passed the papers among our playmates all of who waited every week for the latest exploits.

One other thing my father sent me was an accordion pleated pictorial record of Toronto. Addressed to Master Sidney Johnson. That was 76 Years ago (as I write this) I still have the folder. It is as good as new but the views of Toronto have certainly changed with the exception of the Old City Hall and Queen’s Park government buildings.

My mind seems to race ahead too much. I overlooked the fact that a new sister had arrived, a few weeks before my father sailed. Margerie was a tiny child that remained somewhat miniature most of her life. I believe she was a year old when my mother decided to have a family photo taken. “Uncle” Bob was a photographer. I was never certain of the actual family connection. In his studio in Eynesbury my mother, 3 sisters and myself were arranged in front of a painted curtain. It is still a fine photo of the occasion.

The only other event I can recall at this period is an accident and a contest.

The accident was a cut finger from a saw as I was helping a next door neighbour, Mr. Corby, as he was sawing a plank. It was on a saw horse and he asked me to hold one end – Either curiosity or stupidity caused me to move my hand closer to the moving saw. The result was a nasty gash on my right forefinger. Even now, after all these years, there is a faint record of that finger damage. I know it was bandaged for weeks.

The contest was a Sunday School project in which contestants were to write a descriptive record of a lesson read by a teacher. I’ll admit I didn’t understand what it was all about but I had a good retentive memory and was able to reconstruct the story on paper.

Actually I forgot about it but a month after we were in Canada a parcel of two books (religious, no doubt) were addressed to me bearing labels to the effect that my efforts had won first prize. I have no idea what the books were. I don’t believe I read them, but I basked in the glory of winning a contest.

As usual I am getting ahead of myself. ‘Twas about a year later – in April 1914 that tickets arrived from Canada booking us for the long trip to Canada.

My mother was certainly a courageous woman packing all our worldly goods in a wicker basket and a small trunk – she and the three children – one in arms. (I was almost nine and the oldest). We set sail from Southampton on the Cunard liner Ardania. In those days there was a real class distinction in the ship’s accommodation. We travelled the cheapest – often referred to as the steerage. Officially it was called third class. We were on the lowest level cabin location. Two flights down and at the front and back of the ship. Or should I say bow and stern? We had a small cabin for the five of us, Freda and Annie in one bunk – my mother and the baby, Margerie, in another - and I had the top bunk to myself.

We met the Steward in charge of our section and I still remember the good care he took with all of us. There would be the morning call – we took our meals in relays of first, second and third line-ups. We were in the second group and managed to make it to the dining room for all three meals, the first day.

But from then on, my mother and the girls were quite sick. Only those who have experienced seasickness on an ocean liner can really understand what a hopeless feeling it creates. The smell of the fresh paint, the heated pipes, that terrible up and down to and fro motion is terrible, even in recollection.

I fared a little better. Somehow I arranged to get down to one meal each day, until near the end of the voyage when I had reached the stage of not caring what happened. I was deathly ill. Again my mother came to the fore and was able to get us all in fairly presentable condition. However we must have been a sorry sight, mother had managed about three meals during the seven days we were out on the ocean.

We all found that nibbling the large sea biscuits were the best for us. They at least supplied bulk and we had the feeling that we were still eating every day. The real saviour was the beef tea that the steward brought to our cabin in the middle of each morning.

There may have been a ship’s concert. If so, I have no recollection – to me it was a very long seasick experience. The great relief came when we were sailing up the smooth waters of the St. Lawrence River. Everyone was on deck charmed with all the attractive little houses and churches that we could observe as the Ardania made her way towards the cliffs with attractive buildings, this was Quebec City. It is like a castle from a storybook, when you first gaze in wonder at the big stone wall, the citadel and the famous Chateau Frontenac.

The flurry and excitement of lining up for medical check up and presentation of landing papers is a slow process. The cries and shouts of children mixed with the many parents trying to keep their broods intact. The commands have uniformed ship personnel. The pushing and shoving is a procedure that is a never-ending experience for the many Cunard officials who seemed to know what was happening.

Marching off the ship – on to dry land is like landing in heaven after the many days of sweating and stewing in over heated cabins and having to pass the kitchens where food odours never seem to be inviting to anyone. We were herded into a large barn like building where we stood and waited for hours while the cargo of trunks, baskets and cases of luggage were piled high in every available space. Shouted commands and information led us to where our luggage would be. Large signs and check marked crates and trunks made it an easy matter.

There was the line up to present our landing papers – have our baggage inspected to assure Canadians we were not bringing in explosives or undesirables. Then, in a matter of a few hours, we were through the gate into the welcoming arms of my father, who had made the trip from Toronto to be on hand when we set foot on this Promised Land. It must have been a great relief for my mother. She smiled for the first time in weeks.

We sat down and had our first Canadian meal in an area apart from luggage where tables and chairs had been provided. Our departure for Toronto was, to us, a great adventure. We had never seen such colossal engines and giant railway carriages. We were lifted aboard and settled down on the long straw or wicker seats that ran down each side of the train. This was to be our house for that day and night and the next day when our train was due to arrive in Toronto’s Union Station.

It seemed a never-ending trip but I can still recall the surprising view from the window of the railway carriage – towers flashed by, and most surprising of all, was the experience of actually riding down the main streets of some of the towns. Trains that actually ran on tracks in the streets – I’ll never forget the excitement it caused for all of us - adults and children alike. My father had rented a flat over a barber store on College Street – this was our first Canadian House – Brock Avenue School was my first entry into the Canadian educational system.

For a nine year old, it was strange. Everything was so different, the children, as a whole, were agreeable enough but we soon became accustomed to being called ‘bronchos’ and ‘cockneys’ – terms that to us were quite as foreign as everything else.

I am not sure how long we lived in that flat. My guess is, it was about six months, after which we moved to a house on Dufferin Street. It was while there I had my first part time job as a delivery boy for Stamp’s Grocery. This after school employment consisted of making deliveries to neighbourhood customers but, to me, the most important job was the opportunity of making the many price tickets and window signs.

Using the cards supplied as dividers in the cases of eggs, and the paint was made by taking a cube of Reckett’s Glue and with water and a brush – I was in business. That was the fun part I remember. The real chore was making up packs of potatoes in the cellar of the store. It was a dirty dusty place and filling the 15lb paper bags with potatoes was a boring, dirty heavy sort of job.

Other memories of Dufferin Street were my mother’s venture into a business side line that might have developed into a lucrative one had she decided to continue. Following an old pastime of her early English training she made a toffee using treacle and brown sugar. The concoction had a wonderful odour and the thought of it recreates it, at this writing. The hot glistening mass was poured onto a flat tray and allowed to cool, after it was cut into pieces about two inches square. At other times, she would allow it to cool slightly then dusting it with powdered sugar would roll it in a large ball and proceed to pull it into a long strip until it was about half an inch in diameter – pulling and stretching it with one hand and with a pair of scissors in the other, she would continue cutting lengths of about one and a half inches and these luscious toffee candies would pile up until there were hundreds of them.

We, as helpers, would help to pack them in a large tin canister. I believe she sold about six or seven for one cent, which today may seem ridiculous, but at that time, was considered fair value. For a long time, neighbours would drop around to buy her “famous English toffee” as they called it.

She also made toffee apples. I had never seen these before. But one day she had some of the toffee in a bowl and while it was still hot – dipped apples with wooden skewer sticks as holders. The neighbours found this a wonderful treat. To them it was entirely new. We had never known her to make these and, to this day, I have no idea where she got the idea – whether it was something from an earlier experience or merely a whim of the moment.  Many years alter I would run into old acquaintances whose only memory of me was that I lived where the toffee apples were sold.

Our next move was to Margueretta Street a few blocks west. This was a large rough cast house with about six or more rooms. I still remember the large kitchen. It had a floor trap entrance to the cellar. Entry was made by lifting up a section of the floor – like a large door. You then let it fall back flat and there were steps leading down to the cellar. It was a large cellar with a warm-air furnace with large pipes that extended to circular openings and these pipes then passed through various rooms of the house and were responsible for the heat during the cold winter months. Part of my job was to shake down the furnace, from time to time, when my father was out of town on jobs – I also had to sift the ashes and try to save as much coal as possible as, to us, it was an expensive commodity that one had to have.

It was here, in 1915 that my brother, Fred, was born – My mother was never very strong but seemed to always be sick after Fred arrived. I can’t recall too much about house life, at that time as I had secured another part-time job as a delivery boy for Hunter’s Grocery Store. My job started about seven o’clock in the morning when I would load up my pull-cart wagon with two cases of 24 pints of milk in each.  I would then cover about three streets delivering the bottles of milk to the Hunter customers.

After which I would go home to breakfast then go to school – I was attending Kent school then – about five streets distant, at noon, I would come home – have a sandwich or something, then call in at Hunter’s and make any deliveries that were made up, after which I would journey on to school. After school which usually ended at 3:30 pm I would report at Hunter’s and deliver any required messages until about five o’clock and then go home to supper. But my day hadn’t ended yet – I returned to Hunter’s about 6:30 and worked until about eight o’clock and then went home to do any housework that was required by house or school.

So as you see, I managed to keep quite busy, from morning to night.

I must tell you about Hunter’s store. It fascinated me, in many ways. It was a tiny shop. My guess would be that the store proper was only about eight feet wide and ten or twelve feet long. Mr. & Mrs. Hunter lived in a kitchen at the rear of the store with two rooms upstairs – a bedroom and living room. I suspect, although I was never upstairs at anytime.

Mr. Hunter was Irish – almost a living copy of any of the caricatured Irishmen you have seen. About six feet in height, lean lanky and forever needing a shave. There was a lordly theatrical air about him. I really believe he had stage aspirations for his every gesture was flamboyant and elegant – his language was colourful and his phrases were full of flattery whether it was a chance meeting or a comment on a customer’s baby or the hat the lady was wearing.

He walked with a slight limp – always slowly and, as long as I knew him he suffered from rheumatism but as a protection he always carried a raw potato in his coat pocket. The rheumatism never vanished but he had faith and the potato was always with him.

Mrs. Hunter was the mastermind. She ran the business. She was a little lean bony person with a sharp high-pitched voice and constantly badgered her husband about allowing too many customers to have extended credit accounts. Every Monday morning he would start his slow trek around the two or three streets that housed the customers. He would visit – chat – take their weekly order and occasionally collect part payment of the long running accounts. I liked him he was a likeable friendly always ready to help any one and usually had an amusing tale to tell. When he was in the store, he moved in his slow haunting fashion but talked all the time or hummed a tune.

Coal oil was one of the products sold and this was in a large metal container in the rear of the store. I was always amused to see him go to the coal oil tap – pour out a pint in a can or, more often, in a milk bottle. Then wipe his hands on his trousers – pick up a knife and slice an order of ham or cheese, nothing bothered him and none of the customers ever complained. The till in the counter had a long ringing bell that clanged every time the drawer was pulled forth. It was installed by Mrs. Hunter, I’m sure for if he used the till and she was in the kitchen she would rush out to see if he was adding or subtracting.I often wonder what happened to them. It was a great experience working for them.

It was at this time that my mother’s sickness had become severe and she was hospitalized. The cold and the dampness of the house had much to do with her failing health. This was before the days of antibiotics so the combination of pleurisy and pneumonia was too much for her frail body. She passed away about a week before Christmas [1915].

It was a black Christmas for us but thanks to my father, he did the best he could to make us more aware of Christmas than the tragedy that struck this young family. It must have been a tragic happening for him. He was faced with a motherless family of five young children who, somehow, had to be cared for, fed clothed and educated. I can recall a series of different housekeepers. Some kind and understanding and one or two who treated us rather harshly.

During this period I was bringing in a little money with my early morning paper route and eventually when the Neale family moved out, I had to remain home from school for long periods, in order to prepare meals and look after my brother, who was still a baby. Being the man of the house at age ten and eleven was quite a job. Somehow, I managed to prepare meals, look after the furnace and do the necessary shopping. While my memory of those days is still rather hazy, I can remember cutting up meat – making stews and other easy-to-prepare dishes.

I was the subject of discussion at school and the truant officer was making weekly calls to find out what sort of a game I was playing. He must have been convinced that there was no alternative at the time and my three and four-week absence from school was tolerated. Eventually my father was able to secure a housekeeper who proved satisfactory and I was able to resume schooling.

My father had been corresponding with his sister-in-law in St. Neots. Her husband, the sailor, was away at war, in the Dardenelles with the British navy. She and her twin sister Mary (known to us as Aunt Mary, the cook in a London household) were well known to my father and, somehow, he coaxed Mary to leave her downstairs position as cook, to come to Canada and, I suppose, with a promise of marriage, she agreed.

Never having married – always having worked as a servant in a Bayswater House in London – it must have been a bold step for her to journey across the Atlantic during wartime.I have always admired her courage as she often related, with a chuckle, that she was one of some seven or eight women among hundreds of returning wounded soldiers who made that crossing on the sub-infested ocean. She came – she conquered – we all got along fine. As simple marriage ceremony made her our stepmother and we settled down to a fairly normal and healthy life.