How'd You Know Ron?

A celebration of a new life.

Currently, we live in a town of 13,000 people.

While we’ve had our “country” house for almost two years, we never called it home. It’s always been a mattress-on-the-floor, “don’t drink the tap water” construction site.

This was until we sold Toronto and found ourselves full-time residents of Beamsville, Ontario.

Admittedly, “Beamsville” sounds like the name of the town you’re not going to choose. It sounds like the Shelbyville to the Springfield. The Acton to the Georgetown. The Rockcliff-Smythe to the Queen West.

Beamsville sounds like a place that grows a lot of corn. A place where the Tim Horton’s drive-thru permanently snakes onto the road. A town where common dentistry is a nice-to-have.

While some of this isn’t untrue, there’s more than meets the eye. Even though it’s never going to be The Hamptons, the escarpment views, 50+ wineries, and ample parking do deserve a shoutout.

The 13,000 of us who live here feel like we’re clutching onto a secret. It’s an embarrassment of natural riches, with sweeping vineyards, big skies, and some of our Canadian tundra’s warmest temperatures.

Note: This week (in March), sheltered from the wind and sitting against a fence in the direct sunlight, the temperature reached 23 degrees.

The birds sang, the neighbours smiled, and the mens bought BBQ propane. Rejoice!

While the town has surprising depth, she is indeed small. And like every sleepy town across Ontario, the Legion is the place to see and be seen.

Every weekend at the Beamsville Legion, there’s “Chase the Ace”, a “Wild Game Dinner”, or your cousin’s stag and doe.

Ring toss to win a Texas Mickey of Bacardi and Niagara Ice Dog tickets, anyone?

Since moving here, we haven’t exactly become one with the people. We work from home and have no community ties, so it’s always felt like we’re visitors. We’ve kept our distance, leaving on most weekends, and prefacing our current residency with “it’s only temporary” to those who question it.

And so, the Legion has felt off limits.

Everyone knows that the Legion belongs to the townies. It’s a clubhouse where the working public congregates over cheap beer, medical dramas, and war stories. Going to the Legion without schlepping through at least one service job within Beamsville’s perimeter never sat right.

In my hometown, I have the lineage and resume (Topper’s Pizza, Winners, Kelsey’s, etc.) to gain access to the Legion deservedly. But in Beamsville, I’m just another newcomer infiltrating their dropped-ceiling, fluorescent-lit bar for sport.

Knowing my place, I’ve maintained a healthy distance between the Legion and me.

But one afternoon, everything changed.

Driving down the main drag, we approached the low-hung ditch where the Legion lies. As we passed by, their sun-bleached letterboard caught my eye.

Written across the marquee were two words: “Meat Raffle”.

I didn’t know what a meat raffle was, but in my heart, I knew I had to find out.

We pulled in to discover the parking lot “Boxing Day Mall” full. There were cars double-parked, trucks rolled up onto lawns, and white-haireds risking life and limb to dart across the busy road. After circling the lot a few times, I got out of the car and left Kevin to duke it out for spot.

I bravely entered the Legion alone.

Inside, it was dingy and beaver-panelled, with an oversized horseshoe bar. A roaring sea of flannel and Wrangler jeans surrounded the room, and echos of raspy laughter danced in the air. On top of the bar sat a box of Pepperettes® and a jar of pickled eggs.

As, I waited in line for our beer, a man with a low silver ponytail tapped me on the shoulder. Had I been found out already? My stomach dropped.

“You’ll be over in the room to the right,” he directed in a cigarette accent.

I replied overly friendly, “Great!”. I was relieved to have been welcomed into the belly of the best.

By the time I got our drinks, Kevin still wasn’t inside.

I squeezed through the gridlock of chairs and standees into the far room. Like the parking lot, the room was completely full.

Holding the two beers, I saddled up against the wall waiting for Kevin.

Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw an old man waving me over. He pointed to open chairs at his table.

I walked over and he explained that his wife would be right back but that there was room for two more.

I thanked him for the invitation and wedged myself in beside his walker.

Once seated, I gave a nod and a tight-mouthed smile.

Then, he turned and asked, “So, how’d you know Ron?”.

“Ron? I don’t know a Ron.” As soon as I said it out loud, it dawned on me.

We weren’t at a meat raffle. We were at a memorial. Ron’s memorial!

Before I could say anything else, I spotted Kevin making his way to the table. His eyes held a deep discomfort with our general setting.

“Just wait”, I thought. The innocent lamb knew not what lay ahead.

As soon as Kevin sat down, the old man’s wife returned balancing paper plates of potluck items. There were mini croissant sandwiches, nacho dip with Tostitos, and some red-sauced penne noodles. On a separate plate, she had fruits and two-bite brownies.

With all of us accounted for, we made short introductions.

Then, the old man’s wife asked, “So, how’d you know Ron?”.

Kevin looked at me with confusion. With a few seconds of lead time, it was only right for me to handle this one.

“Actually, we thought this was a meat raffle!”, I said with nervous laughter.

“What’s a meat raffle?”, she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know. And we don’t know who Ron is either,” I admitted.

Then, she slid the plate of fruit and brownies over.

“Well, you’re here now, so you might as well enjoy.”

—

It’s the celebration of a new life.