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The Board of Education has come a long way from the days of the small area boards of people who uSed to sit around tables, munching cookies and sipping tea. In a casual way, those people usually did their jobs admirably. Reporters would sit around the tables with the board members, respecting privacy when requested, and sometimes parâ€" ticipating in the discussions. Board of Education closing doors again Strangely enough, the schools, prior to 1969, functioned reasonably well. The high school boards and the elementary school boards attracted good people from the community, and they did the job well. Then came the formation of boards of education throughout the province. York County Board of Education was one of dozens formed. and in its inaugural meeting, it, too, impressed. These meetings, the board said, would be open to one and all, far and wide. There would be no secrets from anyone, with a minor exception. 'i‘hey wanted to hold a half- hour in camera (closed) meeting before the regular meeting to discuss “property”. Seemed fair. If the board wanted to slap a teacher’s fingers it should have the privilege of doing it privately like any other corâ€" poration. Or, if the board wanted to discuss a few acres of land, best to keep it quiet or the price would go up. Reasonable. Letters Parade arrangements coming along nicely The Santa Claus parade arrangements are coming along nicely but we need clowns. Anyone with a costume of some kind is welcome to contact the committee through Dave Barrow at 8844961 if they wish to participate in the parade. The more the merrier ...ho...ho...hoi The town is co- operating by having its Christmas decorations up for the November 20 parade and we ask that We own and pay for a box in the post office. 1 am writing with regard to all the junk and third class mail that is put into our mail box. This is causing a lot of letters to go astray because my husband only throws them in the waste paper basket in your local post office and our real mail gets thrown out by mistake. Many times we have not received some of our utility bills which went by the wayside because everything is crammed into a little box. Junk mail causes ’rea/ mail’ to be thrown out â€" reader 10395 Yonge Street, Richmond Hill L4G 4Y6 Ontario pususnm ROBERT- mstu EDITOR non mum: PAGE A4 The Libera) is published every Wednea Division, which also publishes The Banner the Bolton Enterprise. “pérsonnel” and mgr Zfihtral an: ifihtral METRDSPANNORTH DIVISION every Wednesday by Mevospan Community Newspapevs Limited North hes The Banner in Auvora, Newmarken The Woodbridga Vaughan News, and Subsaipnon tales By mad, M000 Dev year in Canada, $201K) pet yea: ouvsnde ol Canada By cavriev, 80 cents, evevy (out weeks Smg’e copy sales 20 cans. No mail delivery whats came! semce Exists. Second Class Mall. Registration Numbel 0190 Robert MaxwelLGeneval Manager John C. Fergus-Advemsing Ditecml Rev Pad|ey Jr.-Field Sals Manage! Gtaham Hemicksoaniimla‘ion Dnectov Newman SmndenProducuon Manager THE LIBERAL Ron Wauace- Editor Larry Johnston - News Edna: Ha| Blame ~ St. Sta“ Wine! Fced Sumpsm ~ Sports Edilov Ross Hodseu » Circulauon The Libeval is a member 01 me Canadian Community Newsaapec W000. The Omaha Weekly Newspapet Assocution, and the Audi! Bureau 01 Circulation, The contents. both editorial and advmising a! The Libem are unnamed by copyright and any un authaizeduseispnmibiled. l0395 Yong! Shem. P.0. Box 1190. LAC lYS. Ontaxio TELEPHONE - 88Hl77. 3813373 businessmen along the route also co-operate in this to help get everyone in the Christmas spirit. We also would like to remind groups wishing to put floats in the parade to contact us before the October 31 deadline. We have only two high school floats and one public school float en- tered to date. We also wish to remind those organizations that have pledged money to our cause to mail in their Is there no way to set up a table or counter so that if people want to read this mail they are free to pick it up? We have to pay for {he use of this box every year. VOLUME 1%. NUMBER 17 More letters, Page Aâ€"5 Markham » Vaughan fOCNA Meanwhile, Regional and local councils were still full of closed committee meetings. The “back- room” meetings where all the decisions were made before being simply rubber-stamped in public. And, in the early 705, public opinion rose to the point of demanding access to these meetings. Gradually, one by one, the meetings opened up. Regional and municipal committee meetings, for the most part, are open to the public. Richmond Hill has had a couple of gatherings in the mayor’s office, but by and large, all meetings are open. So intent on all this information streaming out, the public stopped watching what was happening at the once “open” York County Board of Education. The meeting, scheduled to begin at 8 pm, started shortly before 9 p.m., (following a closed session) then ended at 10:30 pm. (to allow trustees to go back into closed session). Then on Monday night, what really was happening became evident. So little was accomplished in the public's 90 minutes, a second public meeting had to be scheduled for tonight. It is expected to begin at 9 p.m., but will it? And, it‘s hoped, the board will clear up what’s on the agenda. But, will it? York County Board of Education. . .what are you hiding? WEDNESDAY. OCTOBER 26, 1977 cheques as we have committed ourselves to bands on the strength of your donations. We wish to thank everyone for their co- operation to date and are pleased to see the true Richmond Hill com- munity spirit surfacing again. So we would like mail addressed only to us at that box number filed in its proper place. 7 See you on November Dave Barrow Coâ€"chairman Santa Claus Parade Committee J. Baker Box 681 Oak Ridges Lorne Travis was a milkman. For some of the younger readers I would like to point out that a milkman was (and in some communities still is) a person who delivers milk. I know the whole idea may sound quite strange in this day of three quart jugs and nine- to-eleven convenience stores but that is the way it was in the not-soâ€"distant past. In earlier days the milkman made his rounds in a horse drawn wagon, one of which still worked in Richmond Hill up to the early fifties. Then came the milk truck with a stand~up driver’s position (if he got tired a seat would swing into place) and the large blocks of ice to keep the dairy products cold. In the latter fifties these vehicles were replaced by units that had their own refrigeration systems and there are still some of these trucks working in certain areas of the country. Loi‘ne Travis was as much a part of Rich- mond Hill as was Yonge Street and the Three Spires. While Stan Ransom snipped hair and listened attentively to all of the problems and pleasures of his customers, so did Lorne Travis share a part of his life with those he came in contact with. Lorne worked for Roselawn Dairies which was located on Yonge opposite the present site of Harvey’s Hamburgers. In the late forties and early fifties it was hard to ignore the large farm on the west side of the main route to Toronto with its grazing herds of Holstein and Jersey cows. I never went through the dairy operation but then again, I have yet to set foot in the David Dunlap Observatory either. Despite this, Roselawn Dairies and Lorne Travis became an important part of my life. OUR MILKMAN I can’t remember exactly when I first met Lorne because he always seemed to be ‘our’ milkman. By SHARON BRAIN This week I almost became a reporter. It happened because I ran my last pair of stockings Tuesday afternoon. So Tuesday night, I headed over to Markham Place, the new mall in Thomhill. I arrived at the main door beside a man in a three-piece suit, complete with red carnation. The guard at the door smiled at us and held the door open. A nice touch. When we lived on Richmond Street I would usually pass him on my way to school near the corner of Elizabeth St. Inside, the mall was packed. All the peOple there were im- peccably dressed and I wished I had at least brushed the library paste from the front of my jumper. None of the other women had library paste on their Ultra-suede suits. Although most of his customers were still in bed while he was filling their order left in the empty bottle the previous night, they were able to spend a few moments chatting with him on But though the crowd looked prosperous enough, they weren’t doing any shopping. They were just looking in the windows as they chatted to friends and tossed back glaSSes of whatever. Had I gotten into the lounge by mistake? By Bob Rice There was a full orchestra Sharon's sunshine Do you remember the mi/kman? playing in the glass-roofed cour- tyard. It seemed a civilized way to shop. But then, by keen observation and careful experiment, I discovered that the drinks were free. “The readers of The Liberal will want to know about this,” I thought. My editor would be delighyed- Could business be that bad? I absently ate one of the anâ€" chovy covered canapes offered by a woman in black dress and white frilly apron as I pondered the situation. While I was there, I conducted my first interview. “Nice store,” I said. w""‘E's't'u'ippexs wined and dined,” the headline could read. Or' “Plaza kept crowded by canapes.” I needed some facts. I reached for my notebook. A good reporter is never without one. I was without one. BEGGED PAPER I went into Bonita Shoes and begged some paper. The clerk gave me a pad of old order forms, one foot square. I would have preferred something less conspicuous. Big chance was shattered Saturday morning which was cougctipn flay. ,I w6u1d catch'the odd ride on his truck on my way here or there and through these short meetings a friendsz develogeq. I was 11 years old when, during one of my usual rides, Lorne asked if I would be inâ€" terested in helping him on the Saturday deliveries. Although I jumped at the opportunity it was suggested that I obtain my parents permission first. Believe it or not, that was the way we did things back then. The pay wasn’t going to be too much (two dollars seemed like the Treasure of Sierra Madre to me) and I would have to meet him at six o’clock in the morning . . . rain or shine! What the heck l . . I didn‘t need to sleep in anyway. ‘ That afternoon the deal was set and the next Friday evening I went to bed with thoughts of my new found wealth making it difficult to sleep. V itl‘here is something unique about the early hours of a Spring morning that, 23 years later, I still find hard to comprehend. r A Perhaps it is the freshness of it all, the dew on the grass, the single strand of a spider web strung overnight right in your path that caresses your cheek before snapping or the solo chirping of an early rising bird. Whatever the magic, it was certainly there that Saturday morn. rendezvous with the red truck. N0 SIGN OF HIM The muffled bark of a neighbour’s dog broke the silence as I ran to the corner of Rich- mond and Yonge. The brilliant colours of dawn were reflected in the windows of Bob Craigie’s store as I shuffled my feet in anticipation of the arrival of my new employer. isth in when-m3: watch marked six and there was no sign of Lorne. Perhaps he was sick . . . maybe the tpuck broke gown or . . i wax-st of all . v. . he had forgotten about our deal and had gone on without me. __ No way that could happen . . . it was his idea to hire me . . . he said he could certainly use the help. Ten past six and still no truck. A lone car groped its way down the dressed quickly, and _then set out I wasn’t getting very far. Perhaps employees had been told to keep it quiet. I left to look for a less tacitum interviewee. “Nice plaza." “Yes.” “Been busy?” “Not yet.” “Is this working?” I said, nodding at the people lapping up give-aways outside. Next time, I would keep my questions §imgley. A I wandered about the mall. The stores were open, the clerks looked eager, but even the orchestra could not conceal the fact that the cash registers were not registering. v I made a few doodles on my jumbo pad: _ I looked for someone to talk to. But everyone was already talking to someone else. And not only is it not nice to interrupt, it is also not nice to talk to strangers. Besides, I could hardly walk up to someone and ask why, despite the free drinks and food, he wasn’t buying anything. ' Tfiat ié a mile question, only to be asked" by sales clerks on com- mission. pavement . . . probably some poor soul heading for some non-descript job in the city. I bet he wished that he worked on a milk truck. Six-fifteen and now I could hear it . . . that unmistakable sound of the ratchety grind into third gear as it burdened up the hill past the Anglican Church. Soon the headlights came into view passing Arnold Street and on down the gentle slope past Centre. The very slightest squeak as the brakes were applied announced the commencement of my new job. “Hi, 'there, Bobby . . . bet you thought I had forgotten you . . . eh?” “Oh no, Mr. ijavis. . . no way. . . lguess I didn’t set my watch correctly . . . I’ll make sure it’s right next week.” The ritual began at exactly sixâ€"twenty that fresh Spring morning and continued through the summer and again the next May through September. I learned a lot from Lorne, how to be at ease with my elders, how to humour those who needed it and how to sympathize with the un- fortunate. CHOCOLATE MILK One thing I’ll never forget was the chocolate milk. In addition to being paid, I was also allowed all of the milk I desired and I usually reached for the the tall brown bottle caked in its own supply of chipped ice. I fondly recall the ‘cream top’ bottles long since departed, sucking on a piece of ice and rubbing it on my face and neck when the sun was unbearable. I understand that Lorne Travis passed away several years ago following a rich and full life. He must have had a good time while he was among us because he shared this feeling with everyone who knew him. Someone once said . . . “give as much as you can to others . . . and you will receive much more than you dreamed.” I remember Lorne’s whistling . . . he was one of the best. I even bet that if I were to walk the route that we worked I could probably peg most of the orders that we left in countless milkboxes and doorways. 7 could hax'Ie been the ol' Millpond Philosopher who said that . . . or maybe it was a milkman. Then I noticed a woman talking and laughing with a man with a red carnation in his but- tonhole. She was asking him questions, he was smiling as he answered them. - Afiother reporter? The Star? The Globe, even. She looked classy enough. But this was my story. In her hand she had a teeny little note book and she wrote rapidly as he talked. 7 “What newspaper are you from?” I asked in a tone of voice that insinuated she had no business here. I tried to conceal my square‘ foot of note book. “I write for them too,” I stammered. “Well, Larry sent me.” I don’t even know who Larry is. It was Doreen Livingstone. She had been invited to the party I had crashed. 3' My powers of observation may be keen, but my skills in inference need honing. “What about you‘ I went home, my dreams of being a reporter shattered. “The Liberal,” she said gamma/u LIBERAL WE. I,“