It was late spring in 1982 when my husband, Bob, arrived home with the unexpected news that we had inherited his great Uncle Charlie’s sprawling house in High Park. I remember the moment vividly. I was scraping rust off of the yard furniture in happy anticipation of alfresco dining in the back garden. Billy Joe Royal was singing “Down in the Boondocks” on the oldies station and my best T-shirt was covered with little dots of rusted metal. I kept the T-shirt in memory of the moment. Uncle Charlie was a bit of an enigma. He did not resemble his brothers in appearance or comportment. He favored not women or children and possessed neither. He appeared at family reunions only sporadically and then with much pontificating about cleanliness and the current political climate. He also provided in-depth coverage to one and all about his duties as a clerk at Canada Post. Bob’s only recollection of an actual conversation with his uncle Charlie had to do with stamp collecting. This was a fleeting passion of Bob’s for about one nanosecond as a young boy, being quickly replaced with hockey cards and rock posters. He did, however, remember hushed conversations among the adults as to how great uncle Charlie could well afford such a house on a clerk’s salary. In later years Uncle Charlie suffered from small strokes, subsequently leading to dementia and eventual placement in a nursing home. His affairs were handled by a firm of Queen Street solicitors who divided and then sub-divided his mansion into rental flats and rooms to offset his rising long-term care expenses. At the time of his legacy, we were living in a post-war bungalow, which was rather small for our growing family. We decided to sell our house and move to High Park. We would rent out the third floor (originally the maids’ quarters) and the basement (modest bachelor flat) and keep the main and second floors for ourselves. Refurbishing the house took five years until finally only the basement required overhauling. Noticeably not in proportion to the rest of the house, it was only when we dismantled the root cellar that we discovered a false wall had been installed. Once removed, we found row-upon-row of Gooderham and Worts distilled whiskey. Tucked into the back of a bottom shelf was an old accounting ledger with names, dates and transactions made. On the down side, the whiskey was deemed not safe for human consumption. On the up side, we discovered why great uncle Charlie could afford such a house. The mystery was solved – he was a bootlegger during US prohibition. Also a plus, the whiskey bottles make great collector items!

Barbara Moreau: I live in Toronto and it was much fun writing this story and reading the different entries.

Have u read the contest story banyan tree its nice story.