A rather worldly view is offered of King City

My old and dear friend Fred McGillicuddy and I grew up in the same working-class neighbourhood in one of those older parts of Toronto.

In due course, he became known to his old buddies as Footloose Fred, because from the day he graduated from the University of Toronto in the '30s, with degrees in architecture and history, he never settled down in any given place for a substantial length of time. This was due, perhaps, to something in his Irish ancestry. We rarely saw him, but would receive postcards he mailed from various parts of the world.

He is remarkably talented in a number of ways. A born naturalist, he is also an excellent cook, can repair anything and plays the piano by ear with a captivating sense of melody. It was said of him that he could turn his hand to any kind of work. He is a confirmed bachelor and globe-trotter, and has managed, one way or another, to earn his livelihood and pay for his travels by working at whatever came his way; a year or two here, a year or two there, six months somewhere else. But for the last 20 years, his one abiding interest, no matter where he was staying, has been the environment, with keen concern for the damage humankind is doing to it.

Not having seen him in more than 20 years, imagine my surprise when I bumped into him in King City!

"What on earth are you doing here?" I asked him after our vociferous greetings.

Fred has not changed a lot. His hair is thinner and greyer, but he is still a rugged specimen, standing erect, with a grip like a vice and still having the old warmth and fire in his eyes.

"I read somewhere that King Township was one of the townships up this way making notable efforts to go green, and that its council was shaping policies to lighten the Township's collective footprint," he replied. "Since I'm staying in Toronto for a little while, I thought why not go up and take a look, so here I am!"

"Okay Fred," I said. "Tell me then, what do you think of our village?"

"Well," he replied, "I drove around pretty nearly all the streets, and to tell you the truth, I'm very disappointed."

"Disappointed? Why?" I asked.

"Quite candidly," Fred said, "I am saddened by what I see happening to your village, what is happening to the streetscapes and the character of your neighbourhoods. Unquestionably they are being spoiled by those mammoth homes that have been built; built in some cases, I notice, squeezed in between a couple of average-sized bungalows or other modest homes, towering above them, dwarfing them, overshadowing them. It's a darned shame! I wonder why your council hasn't done something to prevent it."

"Well," I responded, "council has been discussing the matter and they are concerned about it, but also concerned with private property rights and so forth."

"Look," he said heatedly, "whose rights take precedence? Surely the right to sane planning and preservation of the harmony and character of neighbourhoods should override property rights, especially rights that allow an incongruous appearance of the community. Who needs huge houses like those, anyway? Everyone knows we need to conserve our shrinking material resources, electrical power, the size of our footprints, you name it! This situation in King makes no sense at all! Some of the American towns I have visited wouldn't allow this sort of hodge-podge, and likewise most places in Europe. It's time you people made your voices heard! Look, I'm sorry to be so vehement about this, but you know I always speak my mind."

"Any other comments?" I asked, somewhat crestfallen.

"Yes, I have one or two more, and I'm going to level with you," he said. "This village must be noted far and wide for its output of garbage! As I drove around the village, it happened to be on garbage pick-up day. I couldn't believe the amount of garbage put out at the curb. I counted as many as four, five and six large bulging green garbage bags opposite some homes, not to mention the green bins and multiple blue boxes. I know, of course, that the green and blue containers contain stuff that is recycled. When you and I were boys, we could have put all the garbage from our homes in a small bucket! What ever happened in this area?"

To be honest, Fred's observation echoed my own opinions and those of many of my friends. Present day development and garbagemaking, as so many people feel in their hearts, is now swollen in many parts of the GTA beyond any conceivable human scale, rolling along, a blind Molock overriding all needs of human spirit, all traditions, customs, etc. There seems to be no one in the driver's seat, but the corporations, developers and speculators.

George Nelson, noted American architect, stated in his article in Saturday Review, "ugliness is a strictly modern product, an offshoot of technology . . . it is almost impossible to find examples of man-made ugliness before the latter part of the 18th century."

Living in York Region, we might consider for a moment the roadside strips, ribbon development, the galaxy of signs and billboards surrounding the traveler; intruding, distracting clutter. Look up or down Yonge Street, for example, when going through towns like Aurora, Newmarket or Richmond Hill. Look with a critical eye and ask yourself if you see much beauty beyond the skies above. Is there no symmetry? Are there really any vestiges of harmony or graceful alignments or lovely architectural design, or much that is uplifting in the entire length of that long corridor, other than an occasional building that relieves the dreary prospect? Now, take a moment and compare, if you will, what we see on Yonge Street with any recollection you might have, for example, of a mediaeval English village or town, or a French, Polish, German or Italian one, unmolested by modern urbanization.

When I was a toddler riding with my mother on one of the radial cars (or the metropolitan line, as it was also called) from North Toronto to Jackson's Point, the scenery in the villages, towns and open country made the journey a memorable experience. Some might think that all of the foregoing is a far cry from the matter of mammoth houses defacing our neighbourhoods, but in a sense, it all hangs together, for it is symptomatic of our ugly times.
John Whalley,
King City