A Fly in a Pail of Milk: The Herb Carnegie Story

By Herb Carnegie and Bernice Carnegie

Revised and updated with commentary from Bernice Carnegie, Herb’s daughter, and life lessons passed from father to daughter

Herbert Carnegie was the complete hockey package in the 1940s and 1950s. Though his contributions to society both in sport and education have been referenced and profiled in books, documentaries, and thousands of articles, this is Carnegie’s own account of striving to break the glass ceiling, starting with his career as a professional hockey player on all-white teams. In 1978, noted hockey journalist Stan Fischler wrote a powerful headline about Carnegie: “Born Too Soon.” A Fly in a Pail of Milk reveals the feelings of a trailblazer — a man who proved to be unstoppable on the ice and in his resolve to make our world a better place.

In this new edition, Herb’s daughter Bernice Carnegie shares stories about what it was like to work closely with Herb on youth and educational projects for more than 30 years. She also reflects on parts of her father’s writings, sharing personal thoughts, family stories, and conversations about how his journey profoundly influenced her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ECW Press
• Release date: Nov 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9781773053790

Book preview

A Fly in a Pail of Milk

The Herb Carnegie Storie

HERB CARNEGIE

with BERNICE CARNEGIE

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Foreword by Jean Béliveau

PART I

Chapter One: Fields of Willowdale

Chapter Two: Hockey and Dreams

Chapter Three: See That Man Sitting in the Blues

Chapter Four: A Young Man’s Fancy and Sex Education

Chapter Five: In Search of an NHL Career

Chapter Six: Love and Marriage

Chapter Seven: The Famous Coloured Line

Chapter Eight: The Colour Bar Denied the Opportunity

Chapter Nine: The Quebec Senior League, Punch Imlach, Jean Béliveau

Chapter Ten: The School, the Philosophy, the Foundation

Chapter Eleven: New Directions

Chapter Twelve: Rotting Fairways

Chapter Thirteen: Red Storey’s $10,000 Story

Afterword

PART II

Chapter Fourteen: What’s in a Name

Chapter Fifteen: Future Aces — A Living Name

Chapter Sixteen: Money Makes the World Go Round

Chapter Seventeen: A Visionary without Sight

Chapter Eighteen: Polite Racism Takes Its Toll

Chapter Nineteen: Scoring in Life

Chapter Twenty: Saying Goodbye to an Icon

About the Authors

Copyright

Herb Carnegie:

I dedicate A Fly in a Pail of Milk to my dear wife, Audrey, who for fifty-six years of marriage has provided a foundation of caring, consideration, compassion, loyalty and love. I would not have achieved this degree of success without your help.

Bernice Carnegie:

I dedicate this book to the memory of both my parents, Audrey and Herb.

My father would have struggled without my mom. She had a big heart and was always there for him and all our family. My father gave himself to the community and my mother gave herself to us.

We are all the better for it.

Acknowledgements

Indeed, it is my great pleasure to express my gratitude to the following people who individually and collectively helped in making my life’s trip a little smoother.

My family, for standing beside me. You hold a special place in my heart. To my daughters and son, Goldie, Bernice, Rochelle, Dale, and to my grandchildren, Vaughn, Darren, Brooke, Kevin, Kalimah, Tamu, Corey, Christopher and Rane, I send my love.

Sisters Geraldine and Lillian and brother Ross, for helping to shape my life.

In memory of family members:

My parents, George and Adina Carnegie, for giving me a loving environment in which to grow.

Brothers and sister, Ossie, Eric and Bernice, for giving me my wings.

Father and mother-in-law, Nathan and Goldie Redmon, for treating me like their own son.

Bernice Carnegie, for your support as a daughter and your understanding and work in promoting the values of Future Aces. Personally, I would be at a loss without your help.

Rochelle Carnegie, for your skills and organization in helping to prepare this book for publishing.

Jean Béliveau, it’s more than four decades since I witnessed your hockey brilliance. Unquestionably, the two years we played together still evoke special memories for me. Now it is my great pleasure to thank you sincerely for the foreword to my book.

Robert Payne, for shaping this manuscript and providing the momentum for this book.

Howard Aster, publisher Mosaic Press, for seeing merit in this book from the beginning. Howard commented, The Herb Carnegie Story is an important part of Canadian history.

Rosemary Aubert, for reading the manuscript and offering suggestions.

Sharon Beck, for finding time to type my scribbled notes, ensuring that the thread of the idea remained.

Philip Singer, for providing statistical information for this story.

Red Storey, for providing information validating that my hockey skills were worthy of NHL recognition.

George Storey, for your thoughtful suggestions regarding this book.

Bob Crosby, teacher and coach, for helping me through a most difficult period.

Gordon Symons, chairman, Goran Capital Inc., for your support with the Future Aces program and for being instrumental in opening the door to my receiving two government awards, Ontario Medal of Good Citizenship (OM.C.) and the Canada’s 125th Birthday Medal.

Dr. Rod Moran, for initiating my investiture into the Order of Ontario (O. Ont.)

Douglas Bassett, president and CEO, Baton Broadcasting System, for your interest and support of the Future Aces Philosophy and Foundation.

Gerry Dobson, vice president of sports, CFTO-TV, for your December 6, 1993, documentary of myself that included Jean Béliveau’s surprise appearance and your coverage of our charity golf tournaments.

Glenn Crouter, CFRB weekend host, for your interest, support and exposure of the Herbert H. Carnegie Future Aces Philosophy and Foundation.

Senator Keith Davey, for encouraging me to write this book with your timely communication and your comment, Your story deserves to be told.

The late Jack K. Brumell, for opening a door of opportunity and freedom with Investors Syndicate 1964 (currently Investors Group).

All my colleagues at Investors Group, for your support of the Herbert H. Carnegie Future Aces Foundation Charity Golf Tournament.

Don Clark, the late Jim Conroy, Barry Errington, Bill Fry, John Fynn, Doug Hester, Jerry Lake, Ralph Laurie, Aubrey Perkins, the late Vern Richards, Mel Sadler, Dick Tanner, Bus Wycherley and others, for believing in and implementing the Future Aces Hockey School Philosophy 1955 to 1964.

Jack Tovell and Clifford Lawrence, principals at Earl Haig Secondary School and Northmount Junior High School respectively, for pioneering and recognizing the merits of the Future Aces Philosophy in the 1970s.

Elaine Lester and Dave Sindholt, for your guidance in promoting the Future Aces Philosophy for more than fifteen years.

Veronica Lacey, director of North York Board of Education, for your leadership in supporting the implementation of the Future Aces Philosophy within North York.

Sharon Basman, Betty Bouey, Stuart Brown, Maureen Burns, Patti Delany, Mary Anne Forsythe, Jim Grieve, Beth Grittani, Bruce Howell, Bob Illingworth, Alan Longfield, Elaine Lester, Trevor Ludski, George Margolius, Hugh Mckeown, Johanne Messner, Beverley Panikkar, Vivian Shapiro, David Sindholt and others, for your support implementing Future Aces within your schools.

Dr. Paul Bator and Dr. Sheldon Taylor, for your suggestions and encouragement to complete this book.

Maurice Roy and the late Harry Kouri, for your friendship; you helped me withstand moments of loneliness during my stay in Quebec City and Sherbrooke, respectively.

Bob Law, for your friendship and gift of time.

Fred Bell, the late John Drummond, Frank Haddad, Ivan Irwin, Frank Mahovlich, Jim Myers, and Roy Nelson, for just being yourselves. Pleasant memories always resurface.

The Summit Golf and Country Club members, for your support. The distinguished honours that you bestowed upon me — The Herb Carnegie Trophy 1982, Honourary Member 1994, Wall of Fame 1996 — are greatly appreciated.

The directors of the Herbert H. Carnegie Future Aces Foundation, for volunteering your time and expertise to help fulfill my lifelong dream. Thank you Sharon Basman, Paul Braithwaite, Audrey Carnegie, Bernice Carnegie, Mark de Hart, Manny Dick, Don French, Jim Grieve, Frank Hoare, Bob Illingworth, Elaine Lester, Hugh McKeown, Robert Payne, Michael Rutherford, Dave Sindholt and Gordon Symons.

Foreword

By Jean Béliveau

In his book A Fly in a Pail of Milk, Herbie Carnegie pulls no punches about how this title evolved.

In the 1940s, I had never seen a coloured player (that was the expression at that time) in top-notch senior hockey in the Quebec Senior Leagues (Provincial or QSHL). However, one night, that all changed dramatically.

The Victoriaville Tiger rink is filled to capacity, anticipating the arrival of the much publicized One and Only All Coloured Line, skating for the Sherbrooke Randies and in the Quebec Provincial League 1946–47: at centre, No. 7, Herbie Carnegie, his brother Ossie, No. 10, at right wing and at left wing, No. 11, was Manny McIntyre. They filled rinks and thrilled the fans in Drummondville, St. Hyacinthe, Cornwall, Lachine and Sherbrooke.

In the mid- to late ’40s, sportswriters varied their headlines — The Brown Bombers, The Famous Coloured Line, The Ink Spots, The Dark Destroyers and more. Little did I know that within four years, Herbie Carnegie (in the sunset of his career) and I would share coach Punch Imlach’s Quebec Aces dressing room for two splendid years (1951 to 1953) and would revel in the euphoria of winning the Lord Alexander Trophy, emblematic of the Eastern Championship of Canada in 1953. While I was still playing in the Quebec Junior League, Herbie was winning three consecutive most valuable player awards with the Sherbrooke Saints, in 1947, ’48 and ’49.

He was a smooth skating player, equally adept at centre or on a wing. Herbie certainly had the talent and was very popular with the fans, who would reward his great playmaking with prolonged standing ovations, both at home and on the road.

Perhaps they suspected that his colour was an issue with the NHL, but it certainly wasn’t with them.

It’s my belief that Herbie Carnegie was excluded from the National Hockey League because of his colour. How could the NHL scouts overlook not one, but three most valuable player awards for a player on a team in a top senior league?

Over the years, I followed Herbie from a distance. He did very well with Investors Syndicate (now the Investors Group) as I could see as a board member of the company. As well, I heard from mutual acquaintances that he was a major contributor to public service, primarily in the City of North York, bordering the northern boundary of Toronto, Ontario.

Herbie has been featured in two Spider-Man comic books, namely, Skating on Thin Ice and Double Trouble, and he has received the Queen’s Jubilee Medal, Ontario Medal for Good Citizenship and the 125th Canada Medal, as well as the recent Honourary Life Membership at the Summit Golf and Country Club. While each award is highly cherished, I have learned that Herbie Carnegie’s greatest achievement is having his Future Aces Philosophy adopted by the City of North York Board of Education, where it hangs proudly in hallways and classrooms.

From the ponds of North York to the classroom, A Fly in a Pail of Milk tells a compelling story of rejection and victory.

— Jean Béliveau

PART I

A Fly in a Pail of Milk

Chapter One

Fields of Willowdale

Nigger, nigger, go back where you came from!

This racial slur is my earliest childhood memory. I can’t even remember who taunted me with it — probably a playmate. But at the age of four or five, I can vividly remember the pain it inflicted. Although mine was the only coloured family in a white neighbourhood, I had no idea what nigger meant. But whatever it meant, I could feel by the sound of the voice that the intention was hurtful. Fortunately, I was born stubborn — it’s said to be a character trait of Scorpios — so I’m sure that I fought back and spoke with my fists.

In 1919, the year of my birth, Sir Wilfrid Laurier died and was succeeded as leader of the Liberal Party by William Lyon Mackenzie King. I was born on November 8, in my family’s home on Federal Street in Toronto’s west side. I was the fifth of seven children. My sisters were Ethel, Bernice and Lillian; my brothers were Eric, Ossie and Ross. Herbert Carnegie, son of Jamaican immigrants, was not born into a warm and cuddly world. Coloured babies were not a welcome sight to most Canadians. White males, mostly from British stock, occupied the top rung of the country’s social order. All others were promptly put in their place if they challenged the hierarchy. As much as many Canadians like to believe in fantasy, jobs and social position were rarely dispensed on the basis of qualifications.

In 1919, Toronto was a thriving commercial city of over 200,000. Yonge Street and the Danforth were already main thoroughfares, and streetcars were the popular mode of transport. I remember nothing about our house because when I was two months old, we moved to Willowdale, North York, on the northern boundary of Toronto. Willowdale was rural. When we moved there, in the winter of 1919–20, houses had no numbers. Why would they have? With one house here and another a quarter mile away, numbers were just not needed. Instead, houses were known by the name of the family that lived in them. The Hazelhursts, the Williams and the Bellamys were among our closest neighbours. The Carnegie home, now only a memory, was located approximately at what is now 369 Parkview Avenue in the City of North York.

My parents, Momma and Papa, as we called them, were George Nathaniel Carnegie and Adina Jane Mitchell, from Manchester Parish. They had come separately from Jamaica to Toronto in 1912, the same year the supposedly unsinkable Titanic shocked the world by striking an iceberg off the coast of Newfoundland and dragging more that 1,500 passengers to their watery graves. I don’t know the precise circumstances of my parents’ arrivals; it just wasn’t talked about much. I know my father hailed from Mile Gully, a rural hamlet in the Mandeville area of central Jamaica, and that he’d sailed on a passenger ship to New York, then made his way to Toronto. If they ever said why, I don’t remember. I assume their reasons weren’t that different from many of today’s immigrants; they were simply seeking a better life.

My father, a light-skinned man of the soil, worked as a janitor for the Toronto Hydro Commission from 1912 until 1954. Papa loved his job as much as a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. But with only a grade four education, his options in life were limited. The horizons of some coloured men fell significantly short of those of their white counterparts; coloured men worked mostly as porters and chauffeurs, and, occasionally, as nightclub entertainers and boxers.

Children often view their parents from the standpoint of discipline. Papa was the disciplinarian; he was the boss. He’d play with us, but I don’t immediately think of the fun times with him, even though there were lots of them. Although he stood only five-foot-five, his baritone voice and barrel chest made him seem a foot taller. Because we valued our lives, we never challenged his advice and opinions. Papa hated his mundane job, but he was forced to stick with it because he had a large family to support. Frustrated by his own lack of education, he feared that his children might be trapped in the same position he found himself. While we were having fun, he lived in the world beyond, where race mattered. And that reality and that fear explained his regular, almost daily exhortations to us: Stay in school, get a good education. Occasionally, he’d be more dramatic: he’d rise from the dinner table, reach for the broom and toss it at whichever of his children he wanted to impress. Here! he would half shout. This is what the boss will give you if you don’t get an education. Papa’s theatrics were so effective on me, I used them later in life with my own kids.

My mother filled the then traditional role of housewife and saw to it that her husband and children were well-fed, clothed and loved. Momma was warm and sensitive. I remember being whacked by her on only one occasion. I loved to take a running leap onto the chesterfield. This time, just as I reached the apex of my trajectory onto the cushions, I realized Lillian, my baby sister, was resting between me and them. Her stomach took the impact and, naturally, she wailed like the baby she was. By the time Momma finished warming my behind, I was wailing too. She was a devout Baptist, who provided our family with our moral compass. Momma didn’t permit swear words (and I don’t remember ever hearing Papa swear). I went to Willowdale Baptist Church, my mother’s church, until about the age of thirteen. The congregation there was totally white; we were the only coloured family in the late 1920s and early 1930s. Many a Sunday morning, fresh from services, I would reduce my sister Bernice to fits of giggles with an imitation of our pastor, the Reverend Pierce.

Now is the hour, I would boom in my best Baptist preacher’s voice. You’ve got to be SAVED! Brothers and sisters, there’s no time like NOW! Don’t wait for TOMORROW, come GIVE your life to Christ!

Momma, a more respectful worshipper, was of two minds about my talent. I think she smiled on the inside because, after all, everyone else was on our living room floor laughing. Still, another part of her viewed it as sacrilege. Now, Herb, she would scold gently.

I’d cut her off, in my thundering preacher’s voice: But MOMMA, NOW is the HOUR!

On Sundays, we’d just sit around with our shiny shoes on and in the evening listen to Oswald Smith’s church service on the radio. We respected Momma and her faith — and, to some degree, we took it on for a while. A warm and loving woman with a powerful contralto voice, she often mesmerized the rest of us with renditions of her favourite songs. I remember The Old Rugged Cross, Jesus, Saviour, Pilot Me, Rock of Ages and When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder, I’ll Be There. And I have no doubt that she is.

My parents made no effort to acculture us in any manner, nor did Papa have any contact with Toronto’s coloured community or any of its institutions; he was too busy looking after his family, his garden and his animals. He was a family man and these were his loves. My parents belonged to no organizations (besides Momma’s church) whatsoever. I remember no newspapers or magazines pertaining to the coloured community. My parents were concerned with making it economically in Canada and focused on where they were, their family and providing the best that they could for their children. We ate mostly Canadian food because we relied on what could be grown in the garden. I heard my parents speak of mangoes, for instance, but there was no conscious effort to cook Jamaican foods.

Papa talked occasionally about his early days in Jamaica, fetching cows and milking them before walking two or three miles to school. He claimed his childhood was tough; this, perhaps, was one of the reasons why he quit school and took off for Canada (and I’m glad he did). For a period of time, he corresponded with his sister and a cousin in Jamaica, but they eventually lost contact. If he had an inner yearning to return, he never expressed it. While Momma never returned to Jamaica, Papa did, in the late 1950s or early 1960s. He had always wanted to escape winter, and when Momma died, he returned to Jamaica where he found his second wife, Mary. He promised her that if she grew lonesome for home they would return, and after a few years in Canada, they went back to enjoy their senior years in Mandeville, Jamaica.

Our Parkview Avenue house was little better than a shack, with a dark, flat roof, and white-and-green-trimmed windows. It stood on an acre of fertile land with an elm tree at the back where Papa fashioned a swing by attaching a rope and an old car tire to a branch. That’s where we played, fought and acted like the kids we were. Just beyond the elm tree, he planted a garden of corn, carrots, celery, cabbages, beets, onions, potatoes, parsley and more. Papa loved flowers and gardening. Our hedge was always exquisitely trimmed, and anyone walking within a hundred yards of our home was sure to smell the sweet aroma of peonies, tulips, gladioli and other assorted flowers. As I write, those country smells are almost as vivid as they were back then. Each of us had daily chores, and mine was to weed the garden. Years later, I would be promoted to the milker of the cows we kept. And, yes, this menagerie also included cats, dogs, geese, ducks, chickens, pigs and even mice and rats.

Empress Quagmire

It was 1924. As farmer Hill’s Clydesdale horses ambled along the rough road, I watched the soft snowflakes fall, concealing our sleigh tracks and erasing for a brief moment memories of my loving shack of a home. With his arms around me, Papa and I sat on the back right side of the sleigh. In a short while, 215 Empress Avenue, a mere few blocks away, would be my new home. It was one of only a few homes on the street, which today is lined with single-family homes and manicured lawns. Urban sprawl has now caught up to Empress Avenue, but back then, it was surrounded by farm fields. The street looked much like those dusty roads you see in Western movies, when a stagecoach leaves a brownish yellow cloud in its wake. In summer it was splendid to see the mature trees form a perfect archway down the street, as though they were trying to hang out with us kids as we lazed about in brilliant sunshine and breathed in the fresh country air. When it rained, cars would carve deep ruts into the muddy clay. As kids, of course, we loved walking through the puddles in bare feet, the mud squishing between our toes. I can still feel the sensation all these years later.

I remember the cars and the delivery trucks: T. Eaton Co., Robert Simpson Co., North York Dairy, Silverwoods Dairy. As good as these drivers were, none of them conquered the quagmire of the Willowdale and Empress intersection. From our veranda, I had a front-row seat to the drivers’ impassable dilemma. Their frustration was fun to me. The mud and water flew in all directions because the frames of the cars and trucks hung between the deep ruts, leaving the wheels suspended without traction. Eventually, the township grader came to the rescue. Other times, it was our neighbours, the Hill brothers, who’d provide relief for the beleaguered drivers. I remember, too, the slogan of Silverwoods: YOU CAN’T BEAT OUR MILK, BUT YOU CAN WHIP OUR CREAM.

Yonge Street was a two-lane highway with trolley car tracks alongside. They ran from the city limits (Hogg’s Hollow) north to Richmond Hill. For passengers, riding the trolley down that steep incline was as thrilling as the roller coaster at the CNE, and the wicker-work, high-back, heavy straw-like seats provided newcomers with a sensational ride. At Stop 1, passengers embarked and disembarked at the Jolly Miller Hotel. Empress Avenue was Stop 7A. Often, I’d take my wagon and meet Papa there to help him with goodies, newspapers or anything he brought home from work. Galbraith’s Hardware Store at Yonge Street and Hillcrest Avenue was another popular place. The Dempsey brothers ran a hardware store on the northwest corner of Yonge Street and Sheppard Avenue. It has since been moved to Beecroft and Ellerslie Avenues. These stores were special for a kid like me. Hockey sticks were sold for twenty-five cents to $1.25 and, of course, after spending two-bits (twenty-five cents), I tried to nurture my stick for as long as I could.

At Spring Garden and Yonge, north of Sheppard, a man named Nelson operated a confectionary. Eventually his son Roy took over and ran it until the late 1980s — a skyscraper resides there now. Just recently, I attended Roy and Margaret’s fiftieth wedding anniversary. We have been friends for years.

I recall on Yonge Street north of Hogg’s Hollow, small planes landed and took off from a field to the west side of the road, close to what is now Mel Lastman Square. Sundays were an especially busy time. If you had the cash, a pilot would take you for a three-to-five-minute ride. Near that same property, a National Housing Association sign advertised homes at Park Home Avenue west from Yonge Street for under $2,000, with monthly payments of less than twenty dollars. I still wonder who, in 1936, had the money to purchase these four-roomed, framed bungalows with rock-faced twelve-inch concrete block basements.

I also remember the golf driving range when Mat Brown was the pro near the same location. Huge floodlights almost turned the night into day. One night, my brother Ossie and Charlie Conacher, the Toronto Maple Leafs hockey star, had a great time trying to out-drive each other. With the lights illuminating the balls against the dark sky, the balls appeared as if they were in technicolour.

Gasoline at the Sunoco Station on the corner of Yonge Street and Princess Avenue sold for thirteen cents a gallon in 1935. The trolley car, which took on and dropped off passengers at the Jolly Miller, cost five cents for a ride north of the city limits. For the same price, you could get a three-decker ice cream cone or a chocolate bar — Oh Henry! and Sweet Marie were my favourites.

I didn’t understand high finance, but my parents had obviously saved enough money to build our house, which remained standing until 1992. By comparison to our Parkview abode, it was a castle — a spacious two-storey, red-brick dwelling that lacked the chilly drafts and cramped quarters of our former home. I loved the large veranda the most. Only two houses in the neighbourhood had them, the Beatles’ (the builder of our house) and the Carnegies’. It gave me ample room to run and it offered challenges too, such as climbing over the banister and dropping four or five feet to the ground. I also loved running up and down the stairs, despite the repeated warnings to stop running. This kid, however, was always in a hurry. My parents’ bedroom on the second floor overlooked the backyard. From it they could watch us play hockey on the adjacent pond. The top-floor front east and front west bedrooms housed Eric, Ossie and me in the former, and Ethel, Bernice and Lillian in the latter. Later, Ross joined the boys in the east room, making it a foursome.

I can see the living room now — the beautiful red rug and the open brick fireplace with its long gumwood mantle. For years, it displayed the trophies, medals and ribbons won by my brothers and sisters and myself. The living room was my parents’ sanctuary; nobody entered it with dirty shoes or working clothes. The oak floors always shone as if they had just been polished. The adjoining dining room overlooked the garden that displayed fruit trees (pear, apple, peach and plum) and grapevines. Gooseberries, raspberries and strawberries also flourished there. My favourite breakfast was strawberries with cream and brown toast.

The one large bathroom served all members of the family. In those days, outhouses were still common to most homes, including ours. Septic tanks were the new technology in rural areas, complete with weeping tile beds. Papa’s practice was, when possible, to use the outside facilities, thereby prolonging the life of the septic tank and the weeping tile. After helping clean the septic tank and the tile, I understood Papa’s justification for what seemed as a weird order to go outside. The entire process was messy and the smell was definitely unbearable. Papa knew all about that.

The Hill brothers ploughed our land. Invariably, I’d walk behind them. Somehow it felt great to watch the furrows turning over the rich brown soil. First the plough went through, then the disc to cut