As I passed what was the Ingle Planing Mill on the southeast corner of Wellington and Cambridge Streets my brain was suddenly ignited by a pleasant experience that I had many years ago.
Two gentlemen bachelors, George and Mark Ingle, operated this plant for many years. The older gent, George, toting a heavy moustache, served as mayor of Lindsay and, like his brother Mark, was a well-known and a highly respected citizen.
One Sunday my father suggested we go for a little walk, which took us to their home at 50 Melbourne St. E.
Dad rapped at the door and when Mark opened it, he beckoned us to come in (Mark had played the bass fiddle in dad's orchestra).
As we entered the house, the smell of varnish and shellac permeated my nostrils and I was suddenly aware of the amount of woodwork that was taking place in what would normally serve as a living room.
On the stove was a large vat containing boiling water and therein a piece of wood was soaking. At the back of the stove was a copper container partially filled with warm glue. Everywhere I looked there were sawdust and wood shavings on the furniture and floor in the working area.
There were tools in abundance, as were various types of wood, the likes of which I had never seen.
I was told that the reason for soaking the wood was so that it could be more easily bent into a shape as required.
I was excited at what I was seeing and asked questions of both the Ingle gentlemen and found them only too happy to answer me and, in many cases, with smiles on their faces.
Answering the barrage of questions of a five-year-old can be fun and they didn't seem to grow tired of answering me.
I noticed a couple of rocking chairs, a doll's crib, a sleigh and several pieces of household furniture under construction.
I soon learned that these two gentlemen were, in fact, master cabinetmakers and would venture to say that there are but a few older homes in Lindsay that don't have woodwork either manufactured or installed by the Ingle brothers.
Eventually, and all too soon, came time for dad and I to leave for home, but not before we were asked to return at any time.
As I thanked them for the visit there was a rather unusual kind smile on Mark Ingle's face that caught my eye.
As we walked toward home I was still overwhelmed by what I had just witnessed and told dad that I really liked the Mr. Ingle that didn't have a moustache.
He glanced down at me and said, "That's nice son. That man without the moustache happens to be your Godfather." (LDP)