In the mid-1980s, around ’84 or ’85, a peculiar incident unfolded in Zone 4 of the bustling airport. This tale begins with a routine load sheet for a Boeing 727 flight that was about to embark on its journey. The flight’s crew was ready, the aircraft was prepped, and the cargo bay was awaiting its designated cargo. Little did anyone know, this particular day would become etched in the memories of those involved as an episode that drove them all to the brink of madness. The load sheet was, at first glance, pretty standard fare for a Boeing 727. Three carts of mail were to be stowed in compartments 31, 32, and 33, while a staggering 40 bags of various contents were designated for compartments 41 and 42. As the crew worked diligently to load the aircraft, a figure by the name of Roy, a former loading agent who was apparently convinced he was still part of the crew, loomed on the sidelines. With an air of authority that seemed misplaced, Roy would periodically intervene, his deep monotone voice cutting through the hum of activity. “Ahh, I’ve changed the load configuration,” he would intone, his words sending shivers down the spines of those who had been working meticulously to ensure everything was in its right place. Panic would ripple through the crew as they dreaded what would come next. “Remove the mail and put it up front,” Roy would decree with a sense of conviction that defied his supposed retired status. The crew’s collective groans and exasperated sighs were drowned out by the shuffling of feet and the clatter of cargo as they rushed to obey the whims of the self-appointed authority figure. It was as if Roy had become a phantom orchestrator of chaos, rewriting the rules as he saw fit. Days turned into weeks, and the story of this bizarre encounter spread like wildfire among the airport staff. “Remember that time in ’84 or ’85?” they would begin, the shared glances and knowing smiles encapsulating the collective frustration that had been the result of Roy’s “load configuration” capers. The crew members referred to those moments as the “worse bid ever,” a label that would forever be associated with that time in Zone 4.
The Night the Baby Blue Movie Came to Little Italy
It was the 1970s in Toronto, and if you were growing up in an Italian household, Friday night had a very specific rhythm.
By 10 o’clock, Nonna had finished complaining about everybody eating too much. Dad had watched the news, Mom had watched whatever Italian program she could find, and eventually the command came from upstairs:
“Okay! Everybody to bed!”
Except the kids weren’t really going to bed.
They were going downstairs.
Because almost every Italian family seemed to have a secret weapon that other families didn’t.
A finished basement.
And not just any basement.
Wood-grain paneling covered every wall. There was a shag carpet that could hide an entire generation of dust. A bar in the corner that nobody was allowed to touch. And, most importantly, there was a second television.
In the 1970s, having two televisions was practically a sign of wealth.
But somehow, Italian families had figured out the loophole.
Nobody knew how.
Maybe it was because Uncle Tony knew a guy.
Maybe Dad got it from a friend whose cousin worked at a TV store.
Maybe it was purchased with money that nobody was supposed to ask about.
Whatever the explanation, there it was:
The Basement TV.
And it was about to become the most important television in the house.
The couch was covered in that wonderful plastic upholstery that every Italian household seemed to own.
It had one purpose:
To make sure you couldn’t move without making noise.
Sit down?
CRRRRRKKK.
Move over?
CRRRRRKKK.
Try to get comfortable?
CRRRRRRRRRKKKK!
You could hear that couch from Scarborough.
But on one particular Friday night, the kids weren’t interested in watching Hockey Night in Canada.
They had heard a rumour.
A rumour that had been traveling through the neighbourhood faster than an Italian mother could spread gossip.
There was something on CityTV.
Something different.
Something adults watched.
Something that supposedly showed things that regular television wasn’t supposed to show.
The kids had a name for it:
The Baby Blue Movie.
Nobody actually knew what that meant.
One kid claimed his cousin had seen it.
Another said his friend’s older brother had seen it.
Another swore he knew exactly what happened during the movie, despite having absolutely no idea.
But that was enough.
The basement mission was born.
At exactly 10:00 p.m., the kids heard Dad upstairs.
“Okay! Time for bed!”
The kids waited.
Silence.
Then the sound of Dad’s bedroom door closing.
Click.
They looked at one another.
One whispered:
“Is he asleep?”
Another replied:
“Give him five minutes.”
Five minutes later, they crept downstairs like a SWAT team.
The television came on.
The volume was turned down so low that the actors appeared to be communicating through mime.
One kid stood beside the staircase.
Another watched the basement door.
Another had been assigned the most dangerous job of all:
Changing the channel if someone came downstairs.
They sat on the plastic couch.
CRRRRKKKK.
Everybody froze.
“Shhh!”
“I didn’t do it!”
“You moved!”
“I breathed!”
“Don’t breathe!”
The television flickered.
And there it was.
The legendary Baby Blue Movie.
The kids stared at the screen.
Nobody spoke.
Nobody moved.
Nobody even blinked.
They had discovered something their parents apparently knew absolutely nothing about.
At least, that’s what they believed.
For weeks, Friday night became a ritual.
10:00 p.m.
Parents upstairs.
Kids downstairs.
Basement lights off.
Television volume at approximately 1.5.
Plastic couch squeaking every time somebody moved.
And CityTV became the most exciting channel in Toronto.
Then the Parents Found Out
The problem with Italian families was that nothing stayed secret.
Nothing.
You could tell your mother something in confidence at 8:00 in the morning and by lunchtime your aunt in Woodbridge knew.
By dinner, Nonna knew.
By Sunday, somebody’s cousin in Montreal knew.
So eventually, word about the Baby Blue Movie spread through the neighbourhood.
And suddenly every parent knew.
The kids noticed something strange one Friday night.
They were downstairs waiting for 10 o’clock.
But this time, nobody called from upstairs:
“Go to bed!”
Instead, Dad came down the stairs.
“Okay, boys. That’s it. Bedtime.”
The kids stared at him.
“Bedtime?”
“Yeah.”
“But tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“I know.”
Silence.
One kid looked at another.
The message was obvious.
They knew.
Dad had discovered the Baby Blue Movie.
Mom appeared behind him.
“And don’t watch that television tonight.”
The kids looked shocked.
“Why?”
Mom stared at them.
“Because I said so.”
Dad added:
“And don’t touch the TV.”
The kids nodded innocently.
“Okay.”
Dad went upstairs.
The kids waited.
Five minutes.
Ten minutes.
Then one whispered:
“They know.”
Another replied:
“Who told them?”
A third kid said:
“Probably Aunt Maria.”
Everybody nodded.
Of course it was Aunt Maria.
CityTV Had Opened the Door
What made the whole thing so remarkable was that CityTV was broadcasting over the air.
This wasn’t some mysterious cable channel hidden behind a decoder.
This was regular television.
Anybody with an antenna could potentially pick it up.
CityTV had developed a reputation for doing things differently from the polished American networks and conventional Canadian broadcasters. Its late-night programming pushed boundaries, and the so-called Baby Blue Movie became part of Toronto’s legendary television folklore.
For teenagers growing up in the city, it felt revolutionary.
Television had suddenly become something that wasn’t completely controlled by parents, teachers and television executives.
And that was the real shock.
The adults couldn’t control the television anymore.
At least, they thought they could.
And Toronto wasn’t alone in talking about it. The phenomenon became part of the broader conversation around late-night television, sexual content and changing social attitudes, attracting attention beyond Canada.
Meanwhile, Europe was already playing a different game.
European television had generally been more willing to show provocative material than North American broadcasters. What seemed shocking to a Toronto teenager could sometimes seem relatively tame compared with what was appearing on European screens.
But that didn’t matter to the kids in the basement.
They weren’t sitting there thinking about European broadcasting standards.
They were thinking:
“Holy crap. This is on television!”
The Italian Basement Television Revolution
The funniest part was that the parents had accidentally created the perfect environment.
They gave the kids everything they needed.
A finished basement.
A second television.
A comfortable couch.
Privacy.
And a television schedule that conveniently started after bedtime.
It was practically a government-funded operation.
The only obstacle was the plastic couch.
That thing was the ultimate security alarm.
You could sneak past the staircase.
You could whisper.
You could turn the television down.
But you could not defeat the plastic couch.
Every movement produced:
CRRRRRKKKK!
And every squeak produced:
“SHHHHH!”
Years later, those kids would remember the 1970s and laugh.
There were no smartphones.
No internet.
No streaming.
No Netflix.
No private screens.
There wasn’t even a second TV in most homes.
But in the Italian neighbourhoods of Toronto?
Somehow, there was always that mysterious finished basement.
Wood-panelled walls.
Plastic-covered furniture.
A television humming in the darkness.
And on Friday night, at precisely 10 o’clock, a bunch of teenagers sitting silently in front of it like they had just discovered the secrets of the universe.
They hadn’t.
They had discovered late-night television.
But to a 15-year-old kid in 1970s Toronto, that was pretty much the same thing.
And somewhere upstairs, Dad was lying in bed pretending to be asleep.
Because, by then, he probably knew exactly what was happening downstairs.
He just wasn’t going to admit it.
After all…
He was Italian.
And some things were better left unspoken.
The Night CityTV Changed Everything
There was a time in Toronto when television was a respectable member of the family.
You had CBC, CTV, and maybe a couple of American stations if your rabbit ears were positioned correctly and you had the patience of a saint.
Then came CityTV.
And suddenly, Toronto television decided that maybe being respectable was overrated.
For adolescent boys growing up in the 1970s, CityTV wasn’t just another television station. It was a technological gateway to forbidden territory.
The station had already developed a reputation for doing things differently—street-level reporting, unusual programming, and a willingness to put things on television that the other networks wouldn’t touch.
But then came the late-night movies.
And eventually, the legendary “Baby Blue” movies.
Now, nobody actually announced this to their parents.
You didn’t walk into the living room at 11:30 at night and say:
“Mom, Dad, I’m just going to watch some mature programming on CityTV. I’ll be upstairs shortly.”
No.
This required a covert operation.
The parents had gone to bed.
The little brother had been threatened with bodily harm if he told.
The volume was turned down to approximately one click above mute.
And there you were, sitting approximately six inches from the television, staring at the screen with the concentration of a NASA scientist launching Apollo 11.
The problem was the television set.
It was usually located in the living room.
Which meant you had to watch while remaining completely silent.
Every creak in the hallway sounded like an approaching police squad.
Every flush of a toilet upstairs triggered an emergency evacuation plan.
And if you heard your father’s bedroom door open?
ABORT MISSION!
The TV went off so fast you’d think somebody had discovered a nuclear launch button.
The beauty of the whole thing was that CityTV wasn’t technically hiding anything.
They were putting it right there on over-the-air television.
No internet.
No streaming.
No passwords.
No parental controls.
No “Are you over 18?”
Just turn the dial.
There it was.
And that was the revolutionary part.
For years, television had operated under the philosophy that there were certain things the public simply shouldn’t see.
CityTV seemed to respond:
“Oh yeah? Watch this.”
It was television’s version of kicking down the front door.
The other networks were wearing a three-piece suit.
CityTV showed up in jeans.
And for teenage boys across Toronto, the station became something of a cultural legend.
The next morning at school, nobody admitted they had watched it.
Instead, conversations went something like:
“Hey, did you see that movie last night?”
“What movie?”
“You know… on City.”
“No.”
“Yeah, you did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Your bedroom light was on until two.”
“I was studying.”
“Studying WHAT?”
And everybody laughed.
The funny thing is that the mystery was almost more exciting than the movie itself.
Because in the 1970s, you had to work for your entertainment.
There was no Google.
There was no YouTube.
There was no smartphone sitting beside you.
If you wanted to know what was on television, you looked in the TV Guide.
If you wanted to watch something forbidden, you had to stay awake.
If you wanted to see something you weren’t supposed to see, you had to sneak downstairs.
And if the picture suddenly became fuzzy?
You weren’t buffering.
Your antenna was having an existential crisis.
CityTV helped break the old rules of Toronto television. It understood something the big networks were still learning: television could be irreverent, provocative, local, and a little bit dangerous.
For the teenagers watching those late-night movies, though, it meant something much simpler.
It meant that after midnight, when the rest of the house was asleep, the television suddenly became the most interesting appliance in the house.
And the next morning?
Everybody had the same innocent expression.
Nobody had watched anything.
Nobody knew anything.
Nobody had stayed up late.
And certainly nobody had been sitting six inches from a 25-inch RCA television with the volume turned down to “2.”
Of course not.
We were all asleep by ten.
Sure we were.
Gate 80 Revelry: A Legendary Farewell in the Skies
The Toronto base of the major Canadian airline buzzed with the energy of the late 1980s. The air was thick with camaraderie and the spirit of adventure that came with working in the aviation industry. Among the tight-knit cabin service crew, there was a well-liked fellow who was about to embark on a new chapter of his career, transferring to Winnipeg. The news of his departure prompted a group of his colleagues to organize a send-off that would go down in the airline’s history.
The chosen venue for this extraordinary farewell was Gate 80, home to the cabin service ready room. With determination and a touch of ingenuity, the crew members transformed the otherwise mundane space into a clandestine nightclub. Curtains were hastily drawn across the windows, shielding the room from the prying eyes of curious onlookers. The team posted vigilant guards at each door, ensuring only those with the right credentials could witness the unfolding spectacle.
In those pre-9/11 days, security was notably lax, manned by commissionaires whose eyesight may have seen better days. A simple flash of the Restricted Area pass proved to be a golden ticket, allowing entry to the exclusive celebration within. It was in this atmosphere of secrecy and nostalgia that the legend of Gate 80 took flight.
One enterprising individual had hatched a plan to elevate the send-off to unprecedented heights. Armed with a mischievous grin and a devil-may-care attitude, he managed to smuggle in two exotic dancers from a local gentlemen’s club. Remarkably, the only credentials required for their entry were a nonchalant display of an Export A green cigarette pack – a passport to an evening that would be talked about for years to come.
As the dancers sashayed into the room, the crowd erupted in cheers and applause. The departing colleague, the unsuspecting guest of honor, stood dumbfounded as the impromptu nightclub transformed into a stage for an unexpected performance. The music throbbed, and the exotic dancers, undeterred by the unusual setting, proceeded to give the lucky guy a private show.
The room was filled with laughter, camaraderie, and a sense of rebellion against the ordinary. For a brief moment, the mundane world of cabin service was forgotten as the departing colleague found himself at the center of an unforgettable celebration. The cheers and applause reached a crescendo as the dancers concluded their routine, leaving behind a room brimming with joy and mischief.
And so, as the departing fellow boarded his flight to Winnipeg, he carried not only the memories of his time in Toronto but also the legacy of Gate 80 – a story that would become a cherished part of the airline’s folklore, passed down from one generation of airline workers to the next.
Rabbit Ears and Rotor Antennas: A Toronto Kid’s 1960s TV Memories
I’d like to share a story with you all. It’s not related to aviation, but I think many of you will find it relatable.
Growing up in Toronto in the 1960s, television was a unique and cherished part of our lives, but the options were far from abundant. This was the era before cable TV, and our connection to the world of entertainment came through antennas—either rooftop setups perched above homes or the classic rabbit ears atop our TVs. The selection of local Toronto channels was limited to just two: CBLT (CBC) on Channel 6 and CFTO on Channel 9. For broader options, we often turned our attention south of the border, tuning into the stations from Buffalo, New York.
Buffalo’s lineup included the independent Channel 29 out of Grand Island, WKBW (ABC) on Channel 7, WBEN (CBS) on Channel 4, and WGR (NBC) on Channel 2. Each station brought a slice of American programming to our homes. If you were fortunate enough to have a rotor antenna—a luxury that few could afford—you could broaden your horizons even further. With a bit of fine-tuning, you could pull in stations from Rochester, New York, and, on cold, clear winter nights, even as far away as Erie, Pennsylvania. There was also the Peterborough channel, which was a treasure trove for sports fans, airing Toronto Argonauts home games that were blacked out in the city itself.
Closer to home, we had Hamilton’s CHCH-TV on Channel 11, a standout station that offered a diverse mix of programming. It was the home of Tiny Talent Time, a delightful showcase for young performers hosted by Bill Lawrence, and first-run movies that brought Hollywood into our living rooms. Another unforgettable program from CHCH was The Hilarious House of Frightenstein, where Billy Van brought to life a cast of zany characters in a show that was equal parts spooky and funny.
But for my money, the crown jewel of our viewing experience was WKBW-TV Channel 7. That station held a special place in our hearts and was practically a daily ritual. In the mornings before school, I’d start my day with Rocketship 7, hosted by Dave Thomas and his robot sidekick Promo. After school, I’d race home to catch Commander Tom Jolls, who entertained us with reruns of Superman and The Flintstones. It was the kind of wholesome fun that made childhood magical.
Channel 7’s programming wasn’t just for kids, either. After 9 a.m., there was Dialing for Dollars, hosted by Nolan Johannes and later co-hosted by Dave Thomas, alongside the hilarious antics of Jimmy and Johnny. On Friday nights, we’d gather around for Fright Night Theatre, a horror show hosted by Adam Keefe, who dressed as a vampire to present a mix of classic Universal monster movies and the wildly entertaining Mexican wrestler-versus-monster films. This show ran from 1963 to 1969 and became a Friday night staple in our household.
Sundays were another highlight with The Big Show of the Week at noon. They showcased Hercules epics starring Steve Reeves, fantasy adventures like Jason and the Argonauts, and, of course, a generous helping of Westerns. It was a cinematic escape that felt larger than life.
WKBW’s Eyewitness News team was iconic, too. Anchorman Irv Weinstein, sports director Rick Azar, and weatherman Tom Jolls became household names with their hard-hitting news style and memorable catchphrases like “It’s 11 o’clock, do you know where your children are?” and “Details at eleven.” Irv’s dramatic reporting of fires at “Main and Fillmore” became so legendary that it was even parodied by SCTV, with Eugene Levy’s Earl Camembert character inspired in part by Irv.
Sports fans also had plenty to love on Channel 7, especially with Buffalo Sabres games. The play-by-play was initially handled by Dave Hodge before he moved on to Hockey Night in Canada, and then by two Canadians, Ted Darling and Rick Jeanneret, who became beloved voices of the team.
Other Buffalo stations brought their own charm. WGR-TV featured Ed Kilgore hosting Bowling for Dollars, while WBEN-TV gave us Van Miller, the voice of the Buffalo Bills. Each station added a unique flavor to our viewing options.
For a kid born and raised in Toronto, Buffalo wasn’t just a place on the map; it felt like a second home. I’ll always treasure the memories of crossing the border to see the Bills, Sabres, and Bisons play, or indulging in cross-border shopping. Those early days of television tied our communities together and created a cultural bridge that shaped my childhood. Even now, I hold Buffalo close to my heart.
The Lavender Girl at Malton: Kim Novak’s Toronto Landing 1965
The year was 1965, and the crisp Ontario air at Malton Airport was buzzing with an electric sort of energy that only a Hollywood icon could generate. Kim Novak, the “Lavender Girl” herself, had just touched down in Toronto.
She wasn’t there as the icy blonde from Vertigo; she arrived with a warm, radiant smile and a bouquet of white roses that matched the effortless glamour she brought to every room—or in this case, every tarmac.
A Royal Welcome at Malton
As Kim stepped off the plane, the silver tail of an Air Canada jet loomed behind her, a symbol of the modern jet age. She was in town to promote her latest venture, The Amorous Adventures of Moll Flanders, a film that traded her usual noir mystery for 18th-century ribaldry and period costumes.
Standing on the bustling airfield, she found herself flanked by the men who kept the airport running. To her left, a ground crew member Don Coulton (Janet Coulton‘s Dad) leaned casually against his equipment, perhaps a bit starstruck but trying to play it cool behind his dark-rimmed glasses. To her right, another official looked on with a respectful, steady gaze.
“Toronto has such a wonderful, clean energy,” she might have remarked to the press, her voice that famous, breathy velvet. “It feels like the perfect place to start a new adventure.”
The Charm Offensive
The promotion of Moll Flanders was a departure for Novak. In the film, she played a woman climbing the social ladder through wit and beauty, and as she navigated the interviews and photo ops in Toronto, she mirrored that same magnetic charm.
Even in the grainy black-and-white of the moment, you could see the “Novak Glow.” She wore her hair in an elegantly tousled updo—the height of 1960s sophistication—and chatted easily with the airport staff. For a few minutes, the roar of the engines and the smell of jet fuel were replaced by the scent of fresh roses and the soft laughter of a woman who, despite being one of the world’s most photographed faces, seemed genuinely happy to be on Canadian soil.
The Legacy of the Visit
As the motorcade eventually whisked her away toward the glimmering lights of downtown Toronto, she left behind a trail of charmed ground crews and a city that felt just a little bit more like Hollywood for the day. Malton Airport (soon to be renamed Pearson) had seen many stars, but few carried the quiet, luminous dignity of Kim Novak.
The Story of Maple Ontario Airport
The Story of Maple Airport
Long before Maple became one of Vaughan’s busy suburban communities, the land around Jane Street and Major Mackenzie Drive was largely farmland. In the middle of this rural landscape, an unusual idea took flight: a small airport that would bring airplanes, pilots and a little piece of the wider world to Maple.
The story of Maple Airport is closely connected to Marion Alice Orr, one of Canada’s pioneering female pilots. After serving with the British Air Transport Auxiliary during the Second World War, Orr returned to Canada and became a flying instructor and aviation entrepreneur. She eventually operated a flying school at Barker Field in Downsview. When that airfield was threatened with closure, a new home was needed for her flying operation.
That opportunity came from Dr. Philip Macfarlane, a local dentist who had purchased roughly 100 acres of farmland in 1950. Farming the property proved difficult to make profitable, and Macfarlane realized that the land might instead be suitable for an airport. He invited Orr to establish her flying school there.
The idea was not immediately welcomed by everyone. Some Maple residents opposed having an airport in their community and even organized a petition. In 1953, Vaughan Township passed a by-law intended to prevent an airport, landing ground or flying school from being established in Maple. Orr, however, was determined. She travelled to Ottawa and met with Prime Minister Louis St. Laurent, ultimately obtaining federal support that helped clear the way for the airport.
Construction was a remarkably humble affair. Some of the land was cleared using picks and shovels. Orr herself made an early landing on the unfinished, frozen runway in January 1953, damaging the aircraft’s tail wheel in the process. Eventually, the airfield took shape on the farmland southeast of Jane Street and Major Mackenzie Drive.
Maple Airport officially opened in the mid-1950s. At first, it was a simple rural airfield, with grass runways, a farmhouse, a barn and basic facilities. Orr established the Maple Flying Club, and the airport became a place where aspiring pilots could learn to fly. The opening was celebrated with an air show featuring aircraft such as the de Havilland Beaver and Otter, along with a military fly-past.
For a small airport without a control tower, Maple became surprisingly busy. By the late 1950s, commercial transport aircraft were using the field, and it was regarded as the third-busiest private, uncontrolled commercial airport in Canada. At its busiest, the airport reportedly handled approximately 2,500 to 3,000 flights a month.
The airport changed considerably during the 1960s. Improvements were made to the runways and other facilities, and the farmhouse eventually served as the Maple Flying Club’s clubhouse. Aircraft training, recreational flying and commercial aviation all became part of everyday life at the field. Government records from the 1970s still listed Maple among the Toronto area’s general-aviation airports.
But while airplanes were becoming an increasingly familiar sight above Maple, the ground beneath them was changing just as quickly.
During the 1960s and 1970s, Vaughan Township began transforming from a rural agricultural area into a growing suburban community. Roads, industries and subdivisions expanded around the airport. The Canadian National Railway’s major marshalling yard opened nearby in 1965, while residential development steadily moved closer to the airport. Then, in the late 1970s, construction began nearby on what would become Canada’s Wonderland, which opened in 1981.
The airport had its share of memorable incidents as well. In 1968, the original barn burned in a spectacular fire that also destroyed a Piper aircraft. In 1978, another aircraft ran off the end of a runway and ended up in the West Don River bordering the property.
Ownership changed hands in 1975 when Dr. Macfarlane sold the airport to Great Pine Ridge Developments. The airfield continued operating, however, and aviation businesses remained part of its final years. In 1984, Neiltown Air Ltd., operated by Adele Fogle, moved to Maple Airport from King City Airport. By then, however, Fogle remembered the airport as somewhat rundown, and the surrounding development was making its future increasingly uncertain.
The great irony of Maple Airport was that the growth that made it increasingly busy also helped bring about its end.
The farmland surrounding the airport was disappearing beneath new subdivisions. Vaughan was becoming an urban municipality, and the airport’s large parcel of land was increasingly valuable for development. An airfield that had once seemed perfectly suited to a rural landscape was becoming surrounded by houses.
On September 20, 1987, after more than three decades of aviation in Maple, the airport officially closed. More than 200 people attended the closing ceremonies. The runways were eventually removed, the airport buildings disappeared, and the property was transformed into a residential neighbourhood.
By the 1990s, houses were being built where pilots had once taken off and landed. The transformation was almost complete: an airport that had once been one of Canada’s busiest private uncontrolled airports had vanished from the landscape.
Yet its memory was not completely erased.
The streets of the neighbourhood include names such as Avro, Lockheed and Mustang, quietly recalling the aircraft and aviation culture associated with the site. A neighbourhood park was named Maple Airport Park, providing another reminder of what once occupied the land. Today, schools and homes stand where the runways once crossed the fields.
The story of Maple Airport is therefore more than the story of an old airfield. It is also the story of Maple itself.
In the 1950s, Maple was still surrounded by farms, and an airport seemed like an adventurous addition to a rural community. By the 1980s, the same community was being transformed by suburban growth, and the airport had become an obstacle to the next stage of development.
For roughly thirty years, airplanes shared the skies above Maple with farmers, railway workers and growing neighbourhoods. Today, most people walking through the residential streets may have no idea that two runways once formed an X across the ground beneath their feet.
The airplanes are gone, the runways are gone, and the airport buildings are gone. But the names on the street signs, the park carrying the airport’s name, and the stories preserved in Vaughan’s archives keep a small piece of Maple’s aviation history alive.
Maple Airport has disappeared from the landscape—but not entirely from Maple’s memory.
The History of Buttonville Airport
Buttonville Airport, officially known as Toronto/Buttonville Municipal Airport, was an important part of aviation history in the Greater Toronto Area. Located near 16th Avenue and Highway 404 in Markham, Ontario, the airport operated for about 70 years, from 1953 until 2023. Over its lifetime, it grew from a simple grass airstrip surrounded by farmland into a busy general-aviation airport surrounded by one of Canada’s fastest-growing suburban regions.
The Beginning
Buttonville Airport began in 1953 as a small grass airstrip. One of the important companies involved in its early development was Leggat Aviation, which moved its operations there from Barker Field in Toronto. Fred F. Gillies operated the airport and Gillies Flying Service during its early years
At the time, Buttonville looked very different from the busy suburban area that surrounds the former airport today. The land was largely farmland, and the airport was well north of Toronto’s urban development. The area was connected to the Button family, who had been associated with the local community from its early settlement.
In 1962, Buttonville became an official airport. The following year, the Sifton family purchased the airport, beginning a long period of Sifton family involvement in its development and operation
Growth During the 1960s and 1970s
During the 1960s and 1970s, Buttonville grew as aviation became increasingly important in the Toronto region. Flying clubs, aviation businesses and private pilots used the airport for training, transportation and recreational flying.
The airport’s location became even more valuable as the Toronto metropolitan area expanded northward. Highway 404 was constructed through the area during the 1970s, with the section near Buttonville completed later in that decade. What had once been a rural airport surrounded by fields gradually became surrounded by roads, businesses, homes and new development.
Buttonville became an important centre for general aviation. It was home to flying schools, aircraft maintenance companies, charter operators, flying clubs and other aviation businesses. For many pilots, it became a place where they learned to fly and began aviation careers.
Becoming a Major General-Aviation Airport
As the Toronto region continued to grow, Buttonville became one of Canada’s busiest airports by aircraft movements. Although it was not designed to handle large airline traffic like Toronto Pearson International Airport, it played an important role in general aviation.
The airport served private aircraft, corporate aviation, flight-training operations and other smaller aircraft. It also had customs services available for certain general-aviation flights.
A control tower was another important part of Buttonville’s history. The original tower was built in 1967. As the airport became busier and the facility aged, Nav Canada eventually constructed a replacement tower, which represented an investment of more than $2 milliion.
For decades, the airport’s runways were a familiar sight to people living and working in Markham and the surrounding communities.
The Airport and the Growing City
One of Buttonville’s biggest historical challenges was also one of its greatest successes: the city grew around it.
When the airport opened, it was surrounded largely by farmland. Decades later, it was located in the middle of a heavily developed part of the Greater Toronto Area.
This created both advantages and disadvantages. The airport was conveniently located for pilots and businesses, but its proximity to residential and commercial areas also meant that aircraft noise and land-use planning became increasingly important issues.
By the 2000s, the value of the land beneath the airport had increased dramatically. The property was located in an area that was attractive for large-scale development.
Plans for Closure
In 2009, the Sifton family announced plans to sell the airport property for redevelopment. In 2010, Cadillac Fairview became involved in the ownership of the property through a joint venture. However, the airport did not close immediately. Planning issues and uncertainty about the site’s future allowed Buttonville to continue operating for many more years.
The airport’s future became particularly uncertain in 2018. Nav Canada announced that it would remove staff from Buttonville’s control tower, and the tower eventually ceased operating in January 2019. The airport continued operating as an uncontrolled aerodrome
Despite these changes, airplanes continued to use Buttonville for several more years.
The Final Years
In 2023, the end finally became definite.
In May 2023, airport management announced that Buttonville would permanently close. The airport’s land lease, which had allowed operations to continue, was approaching its end. Airport tenants and aircraft operators were given notice that they would have to leave.
The closure affected hundreds of aircraft and numerous aviation businesses. For pilots and people who had spent decades at Buttonville, the announcement marked the end of an important chapter in their lives.
Buttonville officially ceased operations in November 2023. NAV CANADA’s notice stated that operations would end on November 30, 2023, while a NOTAM subsequently recorded
After seven decades, the runways that had once been filled with training aircraft, private planes and business aviation became silent.
The Legacy of Buttonville
Buttonville Airport’s history is closely connected to the history of the Greater Toronto Area itself.
It began in 1953 when the surrounding area was still largely rural. As Markham and the surrounding communities expanded, the airport grew with them. Eventually, however, the same urban growth that helped make Buttonville valuable also made the airport’s land increasingly attractive for redevelopment.
The airport was more than runways and hangars. It was a place where thousands of people learned to fly, aviation companies built their businesses, and pilots began their careers. It was also an important landmark for generations of people who lived around Markham.
When Buttonville closed in 2023, it ended approximately 70 years of continuous aviation history at the site. The airport itself may no longer operate, but its history remains an important part of Markham’s past and of aviation in the Toronto region.
Buttonville’s story is ultimately a story of change: a small grass runway that grew alongside a rapidly expanding city, and an airport that eventually gave way to the development surrounding it.
The Summer Bid of ’87: A Pink Floyd Concert Experience
True Story: By Rob Champoux
Summer Bid 1987. I started in ‘79 and 7 years in, my seniority didn’t carry much weight. Sometime before ‘87, Ramp, Baggage , Cabin Service and Lav and Water did a reorganization. Ramp and Baggage became a unit and Cabin Service along with Lav and Water went under the Commissary umbrella. We had a choice. Stay on ramp with crappy seniority or go to Cabin Service where the ‘79 group could at least get a 1-9 or 2-10 shift. I decided to go to Cabin Service. The summer bid of ‘87 was the first Open bid. All previous bids were conducted by submitting a bid sheet and see what you got. Well for the open bid you still submitted a bid sheet and were given a time to come in and bid. If you didn’t show, they went by the bid sheet. Senior guys didn’t show and when I went in to bid I said to Larry Boresinko, “Is that 4-12 water truck spot still open!!?” He said yep and I said put my name right there. That summer there was something brewing over in the old CP hanger. Charlie Gracie and I went over in my truck to check it out and I drove right in to check out this stage that was built. This guy with a pit bull came over screaming, “what are you doing!!??” Of course I had just filled the water truck and was leaving a trail of water. We asked what was going on but he said nothing and said get out. In the weeks to come they were playing with lights and lasers but buddy with the pit bull kept me out. One day I went over to service an aircraft at our hanger and on my way back noticed a lot of activity on the stage so I stopped in front. A cash register sound and a familiar bass line start up..stop. Then again..stop. Then again and that’s when I was sitting outside the hanger by myself and Pink Floyd broke out into a full rehearsal of the song Money. As a couple of weeks of practice went on and spending as much time as I could watching them practice, one day I went over to do a service and when I went by the doors were closed and the windows were blacked out. I figured it was over. Then one day I went over and the doors were open and Pit Bull guy waved me over and told me to park my truck to the side. He said I could go to the door but couldn’t go in. There I was with about 20 other people. Pink Floyd did a full concert. Pit Bull Guy said after to tell everyone that they were going to do it again the next night. That was the night that the entire airport got to see Pink Floyd. I have to say that was my favorite bid
A Nostalgic Farewell: Commander Tom and the Golden Age of Television
As the morning sunlight gently seeped through the curtains, I stirred in my bed, unaware of the somber news that awaited me. As I groggily reached for my phone, its screen came alive with notifications. One particular message caught my attention and instantly sent a shiver down my spine. It was with a heavy heart that I learned about the passing of Commander Tom, or Tom Jolls as he was known outside of his beloved character.
Normally, I devoted my writing efforts to aviation stories, but this news compelled me to write about this significant event. You see, Commander Tom had been an integral part of my childhood, a source of joy and wonder that had left an indelible mark on my life. Growing up in Toronto during the late ’60s and early ’70s, his show had become a cherished pillar of my daily routine.
Tom Jolls, a well-known broadcaster with WKBW TV stationed in Buffalo, New York, had made a name for himself as part of the evening news team, where he expertly reported on weather conditions. However, his talents extended far beyond meteorology, as he lent his voice to various voiceover projects and, of course, the iconic children’s program as Commander Tom.
As a young child, I eagerly rushed home from school, my heart filled with excitement, just so I could catch the latest episode of Commander Tom. Back in those days, cable TV hadn’t yet become a ubiquitous luxury. Instead, we relied on rooftop antennas to capture distant signals, and I was grateful that Buffalo, New York, provided us with the opportunity to access more channels than our limited Canadian offerings.
In Toronto at the time, we only had a handful of local stations like CTV and CBC Networks, along with an independent channel in Hamilton, Ontario, called CHCH TV. However, if you were fortunate enough to possess a television antenna equipped with a rotor, you could tune in to other far-flung stations, such as Rochester, New York, and Peterborough, Ontario. The Canadian channels, apart from the cherished Hockey Night in Canada on CBC, often failed to captivate with their programming. But Buffalo’s Channel 7 was a treasure trove of entertainment.
Channel 7, WKBW TV, held a special place in our hearts. It offered magnificent Sunday afternoon movies, commencing at noon, showcasing epic tales like “The Wizard of Oz,” “Jason and the Argonauts,” “The Ten Commandments,” and even Hercules movies that fueled our imaginations. Another notable Buffalo station, Channel 4, WBEN TV, became synonymous with Buffalo Bills games, accompanied by the charismatic host Van Miller. Meanwhile, Channel 2, WGR TV, aired the beloved “Bowling for Dollars” with Ed Kilgore.
However, it was the afternoon slot on WKBW TV that had truly enchanted me. Commander Tom’s show brought joy, laughter, and valuable life lessons into my living room. And who could forget the dynamic duo of Dave Thomas and Rocket Ship 7, accompanied by the lovable Promo the Robot, which graced our television screens just before the school day began? Those memories were forever etched in my mind.
Reflecting on the present, with the abundance of cable TV, IPTV, PPV, and countless streaming services available, people often lament the perceived dearth of quality content. Yet, as someone who had the privilege of witnessing television’s transformation, I couldn’t help but long for the simpler times when we eagerly awaited our favorite shows and treasured the limited offerings that brought us so much joy.
With a heavy heart, I bid farewell to Commander Tom, knowing that his legacy as a beacon of childhood wonder and happiness would endure. Rest in peace, Commander Tom. Thank you for the cherished memories and the indelible impact you had on countless young lives.