James R. McGregor

One of the first truly “business” type of encounters I remember is meeting James R. McGregor, known to his friends as “Jimmy”.  Jimmy, who was a native of Almonte, had most recently climbed his way out of the mines in Sudbury, and decided he was never going back down. Instead, he and his wife, Nancy, with children from his first and second marriage, headed for Almonte where he was born to enter the real estate business (and I understand from having talked to local real estate entrepreneurs that Jimmy’s presence was not viewed without concern, from a competitive point of view).

I met Jimmy in Raymond A. Jamieson, QC’s old office at 74 Mill Street on the second floor above what used to be grouchy Philip Neadham's shoe store. It was an encounter that I somehow felt must have been based upon a template from the past for I had been told by Raymond that he had advised Albert Gale, the well known real estate agent who had founded the company bearing his name. Albert, like Jimmy, didn’t have a lot of education, but they were equally determined and clever. I had heard a story about Albert that, when he was standing in a potato field one day, he saw a man in a large black Cadillac come up to the farmer in the neighbouring field, sign some papers, then drive away. When the stranger had gone, Albert put down his hoe and went over to his neighbour to ask who the visitor in the large black Cadillac had been. The neighbour explained that the visitor was a real estate agent, and that he (the farmer) had just listed his property for sale, for which the agent was to be paid a commission. Apparently, Albert never picked up his hoe again. It was he who, Raymond told me, used to instruct Raymond to “... do up the writin’s”, and of course it was upon the very desk at which Jimmy and I then sat, doing the paper work for his first home purchase in Almonte.

That summer afternoon with Jimmy in about 1976, I leaned over the desk and said to Jimmy: “Jimmy, you’re new in this town and so am I. If we stick together, we can do well.” Don’t say tycoons to us! But it worked, and from that day forward, until his untimely death in a car accident, we were the closest of business friends. Over the years Jimmy consulted me regularly about the many real estate deals that he put together, both for himself (he had eleven properties when he died) and his clients. In fact, once I recall having been distinctly alarmed at his visit for what I thought was such a purpose. He arrived upon my doorstep at 7:00 o’clock one January morning (1984), which I thought (in my sleepy haze) was a most unusual time to consult me about the terms of an agreement of purchase and sale. As it turned out, however, his mission had nothing whatsoever to do with an agreement, but rather everything to do with a fire which that night had destroyed his office building. The first thing he asked me upon gaining entry to the house was “Do you have any rum”, which of course I did, and I proceeded to pour him a healthy shot (he liked some special Bacardi blend, and it was for that reason that I stocked the stuff in my house, since he had educated me about it on previous visits). As he sat like a lump at the kitchen table, with me hovering about pointlessly in my dressing gown, he only said that nobody had been hurt or killed. The rest didn’t seem to bother him. I excused myself to go upstairs to shower and dress for work. When I got to the top of the stairs I could hear him crying. But when I came back down, it was business as usual. He needed an office right away. The business (which he was now running on his own as James R. McGregor Real Estate Ltd.) had to get back into gear. He had a family to feed and Clients to service. As it turned out, I had just bought my office building at 77 Little Bridge Street; and, as luck would have it, the former tenant (an accountant) across the hall had just moved out. So we had a space instantly. But Jimmy needed a telephone. No problem. As we were standing outside the office building later that morning talking about what we needed, a Bell Canada truck drove by. I hollered at the driver, who kindly stopped; and when I told him the story, he was into the rental office, hooking up lines, and Jimmy was back in business by ten o’clock that morning!

Jimmy and I both joined the local Masonic Lodge (Mississippi Lodge No. 147, A.F. & A.M., G.R.C. in Ontario) about the same time. While Jimmy was clearly a blustering type of fellow, he did not cotton to the more “public” demands of Masonry, particularly the ritual work, though he did eventually carry out his advancement in Masonry to the thirty-second degree of the Shrine (which I have never done). The memory work in the blue Lodge was, however, seemingly insurmountable for him, and without fail he would get bogged down in the delivery of even the smallest bit of work. I suspect I and John (“Jack” or “J.C.”) Smithson were Jimmy’s sponsors into Masonry, since it was Jack and Harry Walker who sponsored me. Jack (and his wife, Rachel; daughter, Beverly; son, Robert; and daughter-in-law, Margaret) were really among those people who made me feel particularly welcome when I came to Almonte. And since Jack was also Registrar of Deeds, our paths crossed frequently, not just at Lodge meetings or when he invited me into his home for drinks and chat, usually following one of our Lodge meetings. In his capacity as Registrar, Jack Smithson enjoyed a reputation for kindness and helpfulness among many people, including people who came from the many towns and cities surrounding Almonte. It was, for example, not uncommon to hear stories about Jack lending a hand to one lawyer or another who may have overlooked inserting some bit of information in a deed or declaration. Rather than just returning the incomplete document to the lawyer or conveyancer, Jack would offer to take it to his own typewriter where he would add the required information to permit the document to be registered, and of course, to allow the transaction to “close”.

James R. McGregor died in a one-car automobile crash on Hwy. 16 just outside Almonte on September 25, 1984. He was 43, and my best friend in Almonte at the time, a fact which was so well known that the police had called me at my office to tell me about the accident. I then called Jimmy's business partner, Robbie Giardino, at the real estate office, and we drove out to Middleville together in Robbie's car, looking for Nancy, Jimmy's wife. When we approached Middleville, we saw her coming in a car from the opposite direction. We knew she knew something was wrong when she saw the two of us on that road in the middle of the afternoon. After I confirmed the news to her, Robbie and I returned to Almonte, where I undertook the singularly unpleasant task of telephoning Jimmy's parents and sister (Eleanor McPhail) to tell them the sad news. Everybody was too shocked at the time to react. There was just dead air.

On October 1, 1984, I made some peculiar entries in my diary about the whole ordeal, events which were closely connected with Jimmy's son (also “Jimmy”):

His skin looked a bit greasy. Probably just because he was young, about eighteen. Every time I looked at him - mostly just a quick glance - I thought to myself that he needed a haircut, and to get rid of that moustache. Even I had one when I was younger. The dirty old jean jacket didn't help either. He wasn't the kid I remember eight years ago, all scrubbed up, just out of a bath, in those Stanfield pyjamas, with his hair still wet and freshly combed, smelling of soap. He had sat next to me on the couch. I may have even held him on my knee. Later I played the piano for him. It was one of those uprights, with the broken ivories.

Everybody around the brightly lit kitchent able was just sitting there, not really saying anything, smoking cigarettes. I stood up. “Anyone wanna go for a walk?”, I announced. “I”m gonna go for a walk for a minute - you wanna come, Jimmy?” I was afraid he would say no, or just sit there as he had been. But he stirred. He began to get up from his chair; he said he'd come. I liked him, and I told him so. Funny how some things don't change even after eight years. But during the past three or four years, as he began “growing up”, I had had the distinct feeling whenever I saw him on the street that he didn't really trust me, and that we would never have much to talk about. Now we had something to talk about. I told him bits and pieces about my relationship with his dad. About the Masons, and business, and some of the funnier times we'd had together. We walked for quite a distance down this old dirt road, which was really just two parallel trails into the woods. Robbie had joined us, and the conversation mellowed as it always does when there are three. We turned back, and returned to the kitchen.

“He's a good boy”, Laila (Currie) explained to me as we sat together in the funeral parlour. I admired her. She was the only one who thought to get him a suit of clothes to wear to his father's funeral. Jimmy came over and joined us, but he didn't say very much. He was crying inside. I still felt very distant from him.

Following Jimmy's death, the local business association established the James R. McGregor Award for success in, and contribution to, the business community. I am happy to say that the first person to have been given the Award was no less than Mr. Stan Morton, who epitomizes everything that is good in business. At an age in excess of eighty, Stan still goes into his newspaper and confectionary store on Mill Street every day, greeting his many customers and friends with a friendly word. While it is John Kerry who holds the record for being in business the longest, Stan held the prize for the most senior businessman.