Mike Jaycock

There was a time, in the early 60’s, when traffic reporting became the “new” rage.

All the major Toronto radio stations were doing aircraft traffic reporting. Some were using helicopters. Wow! Imagine. Helicopters!

Down the peninsula we watched with envy as Eddie Luther on CFRB waxed lyrically from high in the sky. (Eddie got to see the BIG blackout of 1965 from high in the sky, and he knew that it wasn’t an isolated situation. He was right .. that night the entire Eastern Seaboard went dark on the evening of November 9th, 1965.)

Boy … how we wished we could fly with the big boys.

One fine summer day, Jack Hill, program director, and the news director, Bill Holland, told me that I would be doing traffic reports on Friday evenings to report on activity from Burlington to Niagara Falls. I would telling people, twice an hour, what horrors and catastrophic events were happening on the Queen Elizabeth Way, our major highway link for tourists. My heart raced. The very thought that I would be “voice from the sky” telling mere mortals what awaited them on the miles of madness, that ribbon of sweating pavement. Heady stuff for a young guy.

What!

I would be doing it in a Piper Cub! Nooooo.

My heart fell. How unromantic. Here I thought that I would be up there in my bubble-shelled Bell helicopter just like the “big” guys.

That’s OK, I could spin magic on the air and no one would ever know that we were barely airborne in an aging Piper Cub. Maybe it wasn’t that old, but it look ancient to me because, after all, helicopters were what real traffic reporters used.

Turns out my pilot on “Frantic Fridays” would be none other than an old high school chum. He was in air cadets in high school and, based on his mad-cap antics, we never expected Bill to survive the “rules and regs” never mind get off the ground. But, here he was. A lead pilot for the Air Service out of Mount Hope airport.

The airport wasn’t ready to be an international or jet airport at that stage, rather a wonderful flying club and private aircraft centre. Some cargo too, I guess. I was never really interested enough to find out what the airport did. I just wanted to get over the QEW highway and report.

Well, Bill was a great guy. Welcoming, easy going and always open directions for our next report. At that time, I was using our Motorola Portable Radio with hand “mike” and earphones .. and if the weather was inclement getting the signal back to the station was often difficult … we’d have to fly over our report area and then fly back to a location where we could make contact. When I think of it now, I smile. It was a bit of a “McGiver” solution to the situation. But hey, it worked.

To be honest, for the most part traffic reporting was boring. Every Friday it was the same stuff … slow traffic between Burlington and Hamilton. (The Skyway Bridge was supposed to make it really easy, that according to officials who opened the bridge in 1958. And, to be fair, it did make a difference but the process of paying tolls backed-up Friday traffic no matter what. They finally took the tolls away in 1973. Slow learners.)

Traffic by Highway 20 was slow, traffic out near Grimsby was slow, traffic passing St. Catherines was slow .. etc. Same thing week after week. I guess it started to get a little boring for Bill as well.

One Friday as we were flying off the Niagara Escarpment and high above Hamilton, Bill asked me if I’d ever flown upside down. In a panic, I told him that was not something I ever wanted to doooooooooooooooo!

Before the words got out of my mouth, wham, we were upside down. For a moment I thought I might have an accident, but then realizing that my lower extremities were above my head I knew that better not happen. I believe I started screaming and yelling at him. I can still hear him laughing (maniacal to my ears.) After what felt like 20 minutes he flipped the aircraft back again. I requested he return me to terra firma, immediately.
I was pretty ticked with him for a number of days.

A few weeks later we were off doing our reports, and it was all the same as usual. I’ve often thought that, in all honesty, you really don’t learn anything terribly useful from traffic reports. Most often they just remind you of the pickle your in and likely to stay in for a while.

I digress.

As we were concluding our reports that day, Bill asked me if I had heard about the light aircraft crash south of Mount Hope. I had heard the story and I remarked that it sounded like a very nasty crack up. Bill said, “they haven’t taken the wreckage away yet, let’s go have a look at it.” I should have said NO! But my mind said, what the heck, seeing the crash site from 1500 to 2000 feet would be no biggie.

As we flew south Bill came down lower and lower. I asked him what he was doing. He said because the crash was at the end of a farmer’s field near a small forest it would be hard to see from higher altitude. OK. Made sense. Down he came.

Now we were about 500 feet off the ground and there in front of us was a stand of trees and then the tall hydro towers running at right angles to us. Bill said … “take it easy, we’re just going to nip under these hydro lines.” Zooooom. Under the lines we went and now we were flying at about 100 feet off the ground heading for the crash site at the far end of the field.

Aw geez.

“Bill,” I pleaded, “Please get us out of here! This is nuts!” Bill said, “yeh, will do, we’ll just go over the crash site … look down, now.”

Zeeeerooom! The aircraft passed over the site and then immediately nosed to the sky, to avoid the forest that the downed aircraft had crashed into. Zeeeerooom!
We left a few ruffled leaves as we tilted to the sky and headed back to the airport.
I was a little wobbly in the legs when we got back.

Bill was a good pilot, perhaps a great pilot but he forgot the one rule of flying (it’s very much a rule of car driving,) if your passenger is not comfortable, feeling safe and relaxed, you’re not flying/driving properly. That was one of my dad’s “driver training” lessons.

At the end of the summer we concluded our traffic reports and I was quite delighted to give up my wings. It had been a source of constant panic each time we went up. All through the week I’d be wondering what was Bill going to do this time? Anyway, Bill went on to be a successful flight trainer, I got a DJ shift, left the news department, and another chapter in my radio career came to a close.

Early on during my stint at CKOC I was primarily in the news room.  I did some DJ work on weekends but there were no openings for a permanent on air shift.  One of my assignments in those early months was to interview the prime minister, who would be visiting Hamilton, regarding an announcement he would be making.  The Prime Minister was John Diefenbaker.  It was an exclusive opportunity.

The invitation to interview the PM was brought to the station manager, Bill Cranston, by a close acquaintance of his, the Right Honourable Ellen Fairclough.

Ellen was a well respected member of parliament, representing Hamilton West and she was the first woman to become a member of cabinet as Minister of Citizenship and Immigration and later as Postmaster General.  She was a woman of power with a commanding presence that was nicely tempered by the kindness that she often exhibited.

I was very intimidated at the thought of meeting Ms. Fairclough, never mind the PM.

I was to meet the PM in a suite at the Royal Connaught Hotel in downtown Hamilton.  It was still THE place to stay in those days.

The Royal Connaught Hotel is a 13-storey building s built by Harry Frost of Buffalo, New York in 1914 .

When it was complete the building cost $1,000,000, a huge sum in those day.  It’s interesting how the hotel got its name … through a contest. Alfie Richards, a  school student, won the $10 gold piece prize by suggesting the name Connaught after Canada’s Governor General, Prince Arthur William Patrick Albert, 1st Duke of Connaught and Strathearn. In 1914 the Duke of Connaught laid the cornerstone, and granted permission to add “Royal” to the name of the hotel.  What a swell guy.

The hotel opened in 1916 with tours for the general public, an opening reception, and a lavish banquet and dance.

Even CKOC called it home for a period of time.  In 1927, CKOC  was finding its  accommodations in the nearby Lister Building unsatisfactory and the radio station moved into the 11th floor of the Hotel. The transmitter power was raised from 50 to 100 watts. Big for its time, but almost humorous by today’s standards.

Back to the story.

I was told to get my butt up to the hotel and go with Ralphie Binns, an engineer, who would look after the tape recorder while I was talking to the PM.  The appointment was for 2 pm so that we could get it on the air for the 4 pm news.

Away we went, on this warm summer day, uptown to the hotel.  We parked the car and went up to the 11th floor of the hotel.  The old elevator shook and quaked as we ascended.  I was glad to have the time to gather my thoughts and try to calm my nerves.  This was a big deal for a 20 year old.

When we arrived at the room, it turned out to be a suite.  A very impressive, stately looking  sitting room with two rooms off that main room.  We were met by an assistant to the PM who introduced us to Ellen Fairclough.  Ellen reminded us that this was an exclusive opportunity for the station and that we should be very direct with the PM so as not to take too much of his time.

Out of one of the bedrooms came John George Diefenbaker, the 13th prime minister of Canada.  Jowls a swinging, he entered the room talking to others in attendance, totally ignoring us.  That, in itself, was very unnerving.  We didn’t exist until he indicated we did.  After he got some business of the day out of the way, he turned his steely gaze to Ralphie and yours truly.  With a smile, obviously taking notice of our state of awe, he asked us who we were and inquired if “this” would take long.  No I said, it would only take a few minutes.

Ralphie had already set up the tape recorder.  Now, when I say tape recorder, you’re probably thinking of some really cool portable device that a radio station might have in those days.  Uh Uh.  Believe it or not, the tape recorder was a wind-up model, that had a big crank handle on one side.  It was a pretty ugly, unimpressive piece of technology, if I can call it that.  Be that as it may, Ralphie was all set, I had the approved questions to ask the PM and the PM was anxious to get it over with.

The interview went fine, and I was very pleased with my own performance.  I’m sure the PM and Ellen Fairclough had met many who were far more experienced and professional but they were kind enough to be warm and generous in their comments.  We thanked the PM for his time and started for the door.  Ellen said that she and the PM would be listening for the 4 PM news.

Wow.  I left the hotel feeling quite elated that I had actually interviewed the prime minister of Canada and met Ellen Fairclough.  I was in a new league of radio reporters.  I was on my way.  Wow.

We got back to the station and in the production studio our GM, Bill Cranston, our program director, Jack Hill and the production engineer John Paro were waiting for us.  Ralphie handed over the portable recorder and John Paro removed the reel-to-reel tape, moving it over the his big studio recorder for editing.

I waited with great anticipation.  In moments I would hear the results of my handiwork.  John set the machine and play and the brown 1/4″ tape started to move through the playback heads.  Here it comes.  Here it comes.  Seconds went by, then more seconds. 

Nothing.  No.  Nothing.  The entire tape was blank.  Ralphie had forgotten to push the record button.  For about a minute there was a terrible frost in the air.

Bill Cranston broke the suspense by exploding with “and what the hell am I supposed to say the Ellen and the PM when they don’t hear the report at 4 PM.  That we have incompetents on staff?”  Hey, that’s not fair, I said inside my head, I did my part … shoot Ralphie.  After some considerable time constructing a story that might sound plausible, Bill went back to his office to call Ellen and tell them that they needn’t listen at 4 pm.

I was not in a new league of radio reporters, and I definitely was not on my way.  I felt lucky to retain my job, escaping the wrath of Bill Cranston.  I was still employed.  Ralphie was not so lucky.  He was sent on his way to find his career at some other radio station.  It was not Ralphie’s first transgression but it was certainly his best.  I can only hope that Ralphie had a great career and that, now in his retirement, he has a very funny story to tell his grandchildren about the time the PM of Canada was not amused!

Before we get to Ronnie Hawkins and the summer’s night concert at the Alexandra I should set the stage. The Alexandra was a roller rink on the edge of Hamilton’s downtown. It opened on Christmas Day 1906. It was a popular entertainment spot that featured skating, dancing, big band music and some great rock n’ roll concerts. The roller rink is no more. It closed down in April 1964 and was torn down soon thereafter and replaced with an office complex called the Undermount.

You can’t be too surprised that the Alex was torn down … it was a fire hazard waiting for a match. It was basically a wood structure and inside you were held captive by the high walls that enclosed it. At one end of the rink there was a stage and this where many an artist entertained weekend audiences.

I can remember, as a young teenager, taking the bus with friends down to the Alex. We were all roller skaters. We’d been doing it since we were in public school. We skated to school, we skated the streets in the evenings and we had lots of skinned parts on our body to prove our dedication. The Alex was special .. you rented boot skates with hardwood wheels … wow, what an experience. We felt so grown up, in the downtown, with the music playing and holding hands with our current female friend. Sweet times.

I’d been at the station about a year and, at just 20 years of age, I was at the centre of the rock n’ roll excitement … and at times, just a little overtaken by it all. Ronnie Hawkins was coming to town to do a concert at the Alex and the station said that the promoter had asked if I would be the Emcee. It was a paying gig and it was Ronnie Hawkins – of course I would do it. I loved those guys.

It was a hot summer’s eve and inside the Alex it was getting steamy as the throng of teenagers arrived. The wooden floor and wooden walls held the heat adding to the energy of this highly anticipated event. No breeze, no air conditioning just a thick humidity that was quickly losing it’s oxygen as the crowd grew. It was going to be a sold out night and when everyone started dancing the place would be just thrumming (is that a word?) with energy.

I could feel my nervous energy starting to build. I was all decked out in my bright blue station jacket, white shirt and formal bow tie … wow, I felt like a pretty slick dude. There were a few hello’s as I pushed through the crowd, a few nice glances from some of the young ladies, and squinted eyes from their dates. Yeh, typical Saturday night. I climbed the wooden stairs and went to what they called backstage. It was really a storage area of some sort, that doubled as a place where acts could relax before going on. I made my introduction to Ronnie and the members of the band. They were pleasant towards me but I could tell that my station outfit relegated me to “outsider” status with this band of jolly rogues. Despite their thin assessment of me it was all very polite and, we agreed, it was going to be a hot night. After a brief back and forth it was time to do some rock n roll.

The stage at the Alexandra was not the biggest in the city but it was big enough for bands and rock groups to put on some great shows. Tonight would be no different. I went out on stage, introduced myself, made some not-so-memorable comments and received a good round of cheers and applause mixed in with a few hoots. All in all it felt like a good start. As I introduced Ronnie Hawkins and the Hawks the volume level went off the scale. The crowd went wild. I started to worry that the nails might come out of the walls and the whole place would fall on our heads. Ronnie and the band took over the stage and for the next hour they just sent everyone into a dancing, cheering frenzy. Meanwhile, the temperature kept rising. It was probably more than 80F in the old Alex and getting hotter. Inside my station jacket hell had taken hold and my shirt was stuck to my body, adding to the rush of perspiration down my legs. Even my socks were soaked.

It came time for the blessed break and we all went back to the little room behind the stage. Ronnie and the band sat down on some wooden chairs, pulling them into a horseshoe. Quick as a bunny, out came a 26’er of scotch. Each of the guys took a shot. They talked about the first set, what was good, the cute girls, the heat, the next set .. and on, for about 15 minutes. I was the outsider in the group, keeping an eye on the time and, though I was offered a shot, I was drinking water. Once the break time finished I asked the Ronnie if I could introduce the second half.
“Hell no boy! We’re not done our break”. This was directed at me as a new round of shots was being poured out for the group. I could hear the murmur of the audience, anticipating the start of the second set. What was I going to do? Ronnie gave me the direction, “Just go out and entertain them for a bit.”

I’d never done improv or stand up. I was pretty fair at adlibbing but I never expected to go out in front of a crowd and, on the spur of the moment, be entertaining or, at the very least, interesting.

I strolled onto the stage, enjoying the enthusiastic welcome of this mass of teenagers. I knew it wasn’t for me. It was for the start of the show. I felt a little awkward knowing what I knew. I did the expected things a young jock does. You know. “Is everyone having a great time” That’s such a lovely slowball pitch. Everyone can hit that. The crowd responds. “You all look so fabulous tonight and you dance like you’re on American Bandstand” Another nice pitch. It get the expected yeas and cheers. From here on in it is very uphill. I don’t know what I said or did but I managed to do some bits that had them laughing and applauding for almost 15 minutes. It was really a case of “do it” or “you die”. By the last quip or two the crowd was no longer amused. Not even slightly. They were there for Ronnie Hawkins and the Hawks, not this perspired d.j. with fear in his eyes. As I quickly exited the stage, I promised them Ronnie was coming. The crowd was in its own frenzy, chanting “we want Ronnie”, over and over and over.

Backstage the party was going just fine. It was obvious that another shot or two had been shared. I said to Ronnie “OK guys, it’s time to hit the stage”. One of the band members said, “but the bottle isn’t empty yet and we ain’t goin’ on until it’s done.” In a very squeeky voice I shrieked “if you don’t get out on that stage right now, they are going to kill me!” I remember those words so precisely all these years later. They were uttered not so much out of fear as they were out of frustration.

In that moment Ronnie Hawkins stood up and, with a good humoured smile and laughing voice, said to the Hawks “Come on guys, let’s go save this boy’s life.”

I went out on stage, with the crowd watching closely, and they could sense that they were going to be granted what they had been chanting for for the last five minutes. I introduced Ronnie Hawkins and the Hawks and the band and I were rewarded with a deafening cheer. The band jumped in and blew the house down ’till pretty well all the oxygen in the old Alex was pretty well spent, and I was left with another memorable moment to look back on all these years later with my own good humoured smile.

1960 saw CKOC, like many radio stations, move to the popular music/news format. Television had killed old time radio by taking away the dramas, quiz shows and soap operas. CKOC became a Hit Parade Station and “OC The Busy Bee” was born. I joined the station in 1962 to become a small part of the station’s Rock ‘n Roll era.

I loved summer. Sunny days with ice cream clouds and steamy, humid nights were just made for rock ‘n roll. There was a special magic to the music of summer. (in the picture to the left I’m seated on the ground enjoying a Dairy Queen Block Party with the other OC guys) The tempo and the tone changed when summer rolled around. We DJ’s, suffered through the winter and early spring just waiting for the first arrivals of promo discs and the summer music that would once again propel us through the greatest season of the year. Heat Wave, Under the Boardwalk, California Girls, Wipeout, Let’s Twist Again, Green Onions and on and on and on … each year a new collection of memorable hits.

CKOC was located at 73 Garfield Ave South in the east end of Hamilton. It was a 2-storey building originally built by Bell Telephone to house the Garfield Exchange. Over the years the building had also served as offices for the steel company and as a school for the blind.

I was on the 6 to midnight shift in 1963 and ’64. It runs in my mind that this particular event happened in 1964. It was one of those fine evenings, you know the type, the pavement was still hot from the day, the shadows were getting longer and there was a sense of ease as the quiet of the evening started to permeate the neighbourhoods of Hamilton. Meanwhile, in the studio, we were pumping out great songs from our “sensational sixty”, the play list of the best songs of the moment.

I was in my first hour, six to seven pm. There were still a few people around the station, finishing up for the day. This was not unusual, considering that we lived and breathed radio. Acolytes of the medium. The studio was a large room on the second floor of the building, probably about twenty by twenty and from my perch in main control I had two announce booths in front of me, another “news” booth behind me, a door that led to the hall, with a small window, to my right, and racks of equipment to my left. My window on the world was limited, but through that tiny door window I could see people as they walked by the door.

This particular evening I became aware of quite a bit of activity in the hall. Even when I was on the air I could tell, from my peripheral vision, that there was more traffic than normal for seven forty-five in the evening. While one of the songs was playing I poked my head out into the hall to see what was going on. A policeman was in the hall! What?!

I asked, “what’s going on officer?”

He came back to the studio door and then stepped into main control. His body language suggested he wanted a private conversation. I thought we’d been raided, or someone was arrested, which, in those days, wouldn’t have surprised me in the least. The policeman was a big man, about six three. He was in full uniform and had his cap at a serious angle. I was impressed, and a touch anxious, at the size of the revolver strapped to his hip.

His first few words would stun me.

“Sir, I don’t want you to be afraid or unduly concerned, but there has been a bomb threat.”

I was immediately and duly concerned. “Whaaat? What on earth”, I exclaimed.

“Well sir, the caller said they had placed a bomb in the building and it is due to go off at seven p.m.”

My eyes snapped to the large clock on the front wall. It was 6.50 p.m.

“Don’t worry about it, we’re pretty sure it’s a hoax, so, please, just continue on with what you are doing.”

With that confidence building comment having been shared, he left the studio. I could barely believe it. Carry on with what you are doing. Right. Easy for him to say. He left the room and went someplace safe I’m sure.

I went on the air and with my mind in a bit of a blur, and keeping one eye on the clock, I announced the next tune. The clock approached 6.55 p.m. I knew I would have time for one more song before we went up to detonation time. End of song, some words were uttered, I thought of saying goodbye to everyone “If I die, know I love you all!” As the next song came on, I became aware of the fact that in the last seven minutes I hadn’t seen anyone in the hall and the policeman hadn’t come back to see if I was hyperventallating. I was.

While my final song was on, not knowing if would be my final, final song, I went out into the hall. Empty. No one there. I called out. No answer. I went to the window to look down to Garfield Avenue to see if anyone was there. They were ALL there. The firemen, the ambulance, CKOC staffers, neighbours and even my nice policeman and his friends in blue were there too. And they were all looking up at ME. No one waved or said “good luck.” They just stared, as if they were waiting for me to become nanoparticles when the magical hour rolled around.

I went back into the studio, sat down at the console and watched as the clock ticked the seconds off. That last half minute of time seemed to take a lifetime. When the clock hit seven p.m. and nothing happend, I finally exhaled. I’m not sure why I was holding my breath. Perhaps I was just enjoying my last breath to the fullest.

At 7.02 p.m. the policeman came back into the studio and proudly announced, it was a hoax. “I told you.” I wanted to tell him he was a chickenshit for not keeping me company in those final moments. I didn’t. He had the big gun.

… and at 7.15 p.m. the hits just kept on rollin!