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  On one visit, Bob Sr. entered his brother’s kitchen expecting to engage in innocuous conversational niceties with Rassy. “I said, ‘Morning, Rassy. How are you?’ She answered, ‘What the hell kind of a crack is that?’”

  Then it was Merle’s turn when one of the kids started crying. “Rassy was furious—‘Get that kid to shut up. It’ll disturb Scott.’ Jesus Murphy, Rassy gave us a bad time. And Merle wouldn’t take it, so we packed up the kids. Scott stood on the porch crying. He said the two people he loved most were fighting—Rassy and Merle. He begged us to stay.”

  Scenes like this took a toll on the marriage. At one point, Scott took refuge with Bob’s family. Bob’s daughter Penny Lowe remembers her uncle staying in the next room, weeping. “I’d get furious,” said Scott. “Or I’d get attracted to somebody who didn’t give me all the hassle I was getting at home.”

  In 1954, while on assignment for Sports Illustrated, Young became involved with another woman, and on a subsequent trip away from home, after commiserating with a photographer going through a similar situation, he sent home a long letter requesting a divorce. His son Bob recalls being in the car when Rassy drove to the airport to pick up his father and saw the other woman. “We gave her a ride back to Toronto,” said Bob.

  Somehow Rassy and Scott managed to patch things together, relocating to a duplex on Rose Park Drive. Scott spent much of his time cooped up in a cheap boardinghouse writing his first adult novel, The Flood. The idyllic days in Omemee were over. “It was a terrible time,” writes Scott. “The year was full of tears and recriminations and reunions and separations again.”

  This bleak mood would permeate much of The Flood. Reading the book today, one can recognize certain similarities between Scott’s prose and Neil’s songwriting: the restrained but intense tone; long interior monologues; detailed, dramatic descriptions of weather; even the use of a bombastic preacher who condemns all in the name of God.

  Set against the backdrop of an actual disaster—the 1950 Winnipeg flood—it is the story of the recently widowed Martin Stewart, a public relations man with two young sons, Don and Mac. Martin finds himself torn between his now married first love, Martha, and a young teacher named Elaine. The book’s unsettling climax comes when Don sees Elaine and his father making love and, because the boy is still attached to his dead mother, he runs away in horror and anger. Don is found, father and son reconcile, Martin finds love with Elaine, but the happy ending is tainted. Don makes his father promise they will never reveal to Mac what has happened, and the final sentences of the story find Martin worrying over what effect his actions have had on Don.

  Scott admitted that the characters of Don and Mac were based on his own sons. The ebullient Mac—inspired by Neil—Martin loves “deeply and without reservation. Sometimes he thought it a little silly for a man to feel that he could tell everything to a nine-year-old and it would be understood, or that it would be understood without telling, but that was how he felt about Mac.”

  Published in 1956, The Flood was dedicated to Rassy. “She had to suffer through the writing of it,” said Scott. “I had, one way or another, caused her quite a bit of hurt, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to dedicate it to anybody else.” Unfortunately, the gesture was lost on Rassy, who recognized herself as Martin’s wife, Fay, dead from a car crash. The incident was based on a real-life brush with death that Rassy had while the Youngs were in Florida. “Rassy took that as a wish for her to be out of the way,” said Scott. “I certainly didn’t wish Rassy dead. This woman in The Flood was as far from Rassy as could possibly be—a quiet blonde from Toronto.” But as far as Rassy was concerned, Scott had executed her. It didn’t bode well for the future.

  “We did have a new start,” writes Scott about their next move, this time to a clapboard house with two acres on Brock Road in Pickering, just east of Toronto. “I believed it … I resolved we would be happy, happier than ever.” It seemed possible. In Pickering, Young landed a daily column for the Toronto Globe and Mail, which led to a highly successful sports column for the paper. He also began appearing on television, doing intermission commentary for “Canada’s most popular show,” Hockey Night in Canada. Meanwhile, Bob had become one of Ontario’s top junior golfers, and Neil, Scott writes, “had two main pursuits—listening to pop music on CHUM on a radio under his pillow and raising chickens to sell the eggs.”

  “Neil could see a nickle in the bottom of a barrel,” said Jay Hayes of Neil’s childhood entrepreneurial schemes. In Pickering, he would oversee both a chicken farm and his first paper route. He had a partner: His father would deliver the eggs Neil sold and help him get his papers out. In 1992, Neil would tell a reporter that his happiest memory of his father was coming home to Scott’s pancakes after the morning deliveries.

  It was the mid-fifties, the dawn of rock and roll, and the sounds wafting over the late-night Toronto airwaves entranced the eleven-year-old. Young fell in love with it all: rock and roll, rockabilly, doo-wop, R&B, country, even the surreal Western pop of Gogi Grant’s epic “The Wayward Wind.” “I really wanted to be like Elvis Presley when I was a kid,” Neil told deejay Tony Pig in 1969.

  “When I finish school I plan to go to Ontario Agricultural College and perhaps learn to be a scientific farmer,” Neil wrote in a grade-school report, spelling out the arcane specifics of chicken financing and dramatically recounting the massacre that wiped out almost all of his first batch. “Maybe you can imagine the thrill of watching young chicks grow into healthy, husky chickens. They have more body than feathers, more feet than body, and more pep and energy than their odd bodies are capable of. It is very easy to become attached to these abnormal birds. I did.”

  Petunia—now there was a chicken. She was one of the original batch. One of the only survivors of the great attack—a fox or a raccoon got in and killed all of ’em. Just took ’em all out. Just when I was gettin’ things goin’. I musta had thirty or forty at first—then up to like a hundred or somethin’.

  And I don’t know where the fuckin’ idea originally came from, but I figured out how to get more chickens by selling golf balls. Go out and find balls in the rough and sell ’em to the golfers. A lotta kids I knew did that to make money. I’d find golf balls, sell ’em, save the money up and go get the chickens.

  Things that I wanted, I’d work at them. One thing leads to another if you WANT something. I mean, I can see the other end. I’d be workin’ like a motherfucker, seemingly for absolutely nothing, for a long time. And then all of a sudden I’d be in a positon like “How the fuck did I get here?” … Know what I mean?

  I listened to the transistor radio at night. It was one of the first really small radios that you could put under your pillow. I think it was a little cream-colored one, with a little chrome thing on the front. I saw one sorta like it the other day in a junk store. Transistor radios are fuckin’ great. The original boom box. Just the fact that you could have your tunes with you. That was amazing.

  When I first really started focusing on rock and roll was in Pickering. Brock Road. I remember—I dunno how old I was, maybe ten or somethin‘—listenin’ to these fuckin’ records. When my parents would leave, I’d turn the records up real loud and dance. Go nuts. Like I was the coolest dancer in the world. I would always have this imaginary dance contest where I won—but I was all by myself, singin’ along to records. Kinda made my own videos.

  We were quite up to date on music in Canada. We got Wolfman Jack, we got all the shit. Plus we got the funky Canadian country records, too. Old honky-tonk, raw country stuff. It was just on the radio all the time. Guy Mitchell, early, early, early Johnny Cash, “Singin’ the Blues”—“I never felt more like singin’ the blues.” Great shit. Ferlin Husky, Bobby Comstock—a rockin’ version of “Tennessee Waltz”—Marty Robbins, “Don’t Worry,” with the first FuzzTone guitar … See, that’s country music—fuckin’ feedback came from country. Who woulda ever thought. But there it was.

  “The Wayward Wind” by Gogi Grant. Way out t
here. It’s just real simple. Straight ahead. I just have this one image that keeps coming to mind with that song—where I used to live in Pickering, there’s the Brock Road Public School. Just a two-room school and it’s still there. I’d walk there every day from our house, and that song was on the radio at that time. The railroad track used to go right behind the school, and the trains would go by, and there’s somethin’ about that song—I always think about that one area. There was a little shack back there, a toolshed or something … I see it when I hear “The Wayward Wind.”

  I always remember that same stretch of road, the railroad tracks, the whole thing—every time I hear that song, it comes right back. That feeling when you’re young and open, you have all these ideas. Real wide view. I dug the song a lot. You can really get lost in it.

  Brock Road. That’s when music started getting through to me. Early rock and roll. Real, real early—’55, ’56. Elvis, Fats Domino—“Blueberry Hill.” All the guys I liked had real good grooves—but I had no idea what “the groove” was, I just knew what I liked. “Maybe” by the Chantels. Raw soul—you cannot miss it. That’s the real thing. She was believin’ every word she was singin’. It was perfect for the moment.

  “Bop-A-lena.” Ronnie Self—he was a screamer, wasn’t he? The energy was so focused, so real … that really appealed to me. “Bop-A-lena” was just hairy. fuckin’ out there. “Scoobedoobee go, gal, go Bop-A-lena”—you just … wow! I can’t remember anything else about it, except this guy’s voice—Ronnie Self, he was fuckin’ hammerin’ it. I wonder what he looks like today. Find Ronnie Self! Now there’s a story worth tellin’. *

  One of the first records I ever bought would be “The Book of Love” by the Monotones. And “I Only Have Eyes for You.” ’Cause it was so slow—Shoo bop shoo bop, shoo bop shoo bop … shoo bop shoo bop.

  Another song I used to listen to was “Mr. Blue” by the Fleetwoods. I related to the story. That feeling—if Mr. Blue was more aggressive, he probably wouldn’t be Mr. Blue. He probably would’ve found out either yes or no and would’ve been able to move on—but he wasn’t. He was Mr. Blue. I think I was a little like Mr. Blue. And maybe I hadn’t gotten to the point in my life where I realized that Mr. Blue could be squelched at any time by … Mr. Red. Heh heh heh. And that Mr. Blue was just running the show for entertainment and Mr. Red was calling the shots … y’know?

  Chuck Berry and Little Richard? That’s rock and roll. That’s the real shit. Never saw them live, only on TV. Little Richard was great on every record back then, but his ballads, like “Send Me Some Lovin’”—I just love the song. “Won’t you send me your picture …” Great stuff. His emotion was so real, and the feel was so great. I heard “Good Golly Miss Molly” last night—oh, the fuckin’ beat’s just all over the place and it’s so rockin’—boommmboom boom boom boom boom.

  No predictable white chops like Jerry Lee. As great as Jerry Lee was, he could never be Little Richard. How’s the Killer doin’? Is he bitter? Always had a chip on his shoulder. Had his feelings hurt at a tender age. Very confused about religion and women. That Baptist upbringing, that overbearing thing, with the spirit of rock and roll—a fuckin’ unbelievable combination. He’s one of the seminal forces. When you listen to him now and you go back to those days, it’s Jerry Lee and Little Richard. That’s what it is. Elvis was comin’ in a distant third when you get right down to it.

  When I was a little kid, I thought Elvis was pretty hot. On TV. It was a family thing. I just dug it. “All Shook Up” was a really good record. When it came out, it just had this beat that made you feel good. It was like all of a sudden you felt like a human being. Somethin’ was movin’ ya, y’know? Something that defined you. Kids get into it and their parents don’t understand. That makes it great. Elvis the Pelvis—Rassy was big on that phrase. “One Night,” that’s probably my favorite Elvis.

  —What do you think happened to Elvis?

  It’s the American Dream personified. Gary Hart. Remember him? That’s the American Dream, too. Another version.

  —You’re another version.

  This is a Canadian dream. It’s a Canadian version of an American dream.

  —Is rock and roll the devil’s music?

  Rock and roll is everybody’s fuckin’ music … I would certainly hope that it’s the devil’s music, but it’s not just the devil’s music. I think that’s where God and the devil shake hands—right there, heh heh heh.

  —Were you a dreamer as a kid?

  Oh yeah … everything. You name it, I dreamt about it. Everything. Certainly not just singin’ and playin’—that wasn’t on my mind that much at that point. You just fixate on things. You want to get some fish and put ’em in the little thing in your room, create this environment—that’s where I was at, y’know. Heh heh.

  —In your own world?

  Absolutely. From the very fucking beginning. I had turtles in the backyard, and that’s all I had—and I was groovin’ on that. The stuff I did, I’d get so into that I missed a lotta shit. I can see that now. I’d get into things so deep that if I didn’t get into it, I didn’t even know about it. And I think that it’s still the same way. I don’t think that’s changed at all … and now I have to try to find that joint I left somewhere. Nothing’s changed.

  Scott Young’s activities as a sports columnist began to heat up, and to minimize his travel time, the family moved to North Toronto, settling in a nice suburban two-story home at 49 Old Orchard Grove. Despite the efforts to be “happier than ever,” in the fall of 1959 the Youngs’ marriage was once again foundering. “Rassy and I jabbed each other some, maybe even a lot,” writes Scott. “We had very different views on many things, from life and love to bringing up children, and sometimes we were rude to each other in public … the nineteen years of pinpricks were coming close to adding up to a mortal wound. For myself, I was frankly looking elsewhere, again.”

  While out covering a Royal tour, Scott Young fell for the woman running the press room. Astrid Meade, writes Scott, “was divorced, had an eight-year-old daughter, drove a blue TR-3, was twenty-nine (to my forty-one), and seemed to like me, too.” Scott makes a point of the fact that the relationship wasn’t consummated on that first trip, but before returning home he stopped off in Winnipeg to see another old girlfriend. By the time he made it back to Rassy, Scott was feeling more than a little guilty.

  “I think Rassy suspected there was more to this tour than the Royal family. I was still determined that everything was gonna work.” It was not to be. A short while after his return home, Scott attended a golf tournament Rassy was playing in. “She was shooting terrific golf, but she wound up with sort of a bad score,” he recalls. When he asked why, Rassy told him there was another tournament the following week and she didn’t want her handicap to be too low.

  “I kept saying it was dishonest,” said Scott. “I’m not even sure I used the word ‘dishonest,’ but I implied it. I felt she was cheating and I wasn’t gonna sit still for it. I knew she’d done that before, but if you get a name of being a cheat around a club like that … I was telling Rassy how to act, and she rejected the whole goddamn thing. She rejected the idea that it was important, and I probably got holier-than-thou.”

  According to Scott, the argument started at a friend’s house and continued at home. By the time it was over, he had packed a bag and left the family for good. “That was it,” said Scott. “It seems silly to break up a marriage of quite a few years over something as silly as a golf game—except that we just didn’t have the equipment to deal with it.” Rassy’s brown eyes flared when I asked her how Scott left. “Scott didn’t ‘left’—I flung him out. There’s a difference.” She recalled that in the rush to pack his bag, Young spilled a bottle of ink all over the contents of his suitcase. “I thought that was wonderful.”

  I remember my mother crying at the kitchen table or something. I think she said, “Your father’s left and he’s not coming back.” And I ran upstairs, and as I was goin’ upstairs, I said, �
��I knew it” or “I told you.” Yeah—“I knew he would, I knew it, I knew it.” ’Cause before then, my dad had taken me out and told me if anything ever happened, that he’d always love me no matter where we were. He just said, “Y’know, there may be a time when your mom and I may not be living together … I got things I wanna do with my life, we’re not gettin’ along too well, it’s not working out.” It was that kind of a conversation. That it was okay. That it didn’t mean he didn’t love me. So I wasn’t totally unprepared, but still, when it happens, you go, “Holy shit—Dad’s gone.”

  She was very bitter. That really did her in. I think that when my mom and dad broke up, that was it for Rassy.

  June Callwood remembers getting a call the day Scott left. “Rassy phoned me in hysterics. I knew what an awful tragedy it was for her. Rassy didn’t have a life except for Scott. She had no outlet except for painting chairs.”

  Callwood was surprised to hear from Rassy at all. Since the fight over Rassy’s gossiping, they hadn’t exactly been close, but she offered Rassy support. The renewed friendship would last less than twenty-four hours. “The next day Bob called me and said he’d been vomiting all night,” said Callwood. “His mother wasn’t anywhere around, and Neil—stoic, inward Neil—plodded off to school. Bob couldn’t go. He sounded awful.”

  Rassy’s sister Toots soon arrived from Winnipeg to find the household in utter chaos. “I stayed there for three of the worst weeks I’ve ever lived through. Bob was up all night playing mournful music, and Rassy was having hysterics every ten minutes.” For Toots, the only bright spot was Neiler, who’d tromp home from school wearing a hat with a big long feather, intent on cheering everybody up. “Neil tried so hard, the poor kid—trying to act like everything was the way it should be. He’d come in whistling, slam the door and then it went down the drain. But Neil tried every time. I hated to leave him there. I just hated to. But what could I do? I couldn’t take over her child.”