EDITOR'S NOTE: The following story about Old Rip was written a number of years ago by the late Stan Richardson, who was a well known district tourist resort operator and historian of the North Bay area. Mr Richardson was a member of a pioneer North Bay family.

WEBMASTER'S NOTE: The photograph and story was published in The North Bay Nugget, 18 Feb 1960 in the "Back in the Old Days....." column.

Of all the the many characters of North Bay's pioneer days, none was more colourful than George Belton Ford, whose portrait appears above. This picture is not a gag. Winter or summer George was attired in several layers of coats with a hank of rope for a sash. He learned the secret of insulation that whatever kept heat in would also keep heat out. George Ford, the pauper, and Henry Ford, motor manafacturer, had the same problem of getting dependable winter traction. Henry solved his problem by using a rubber tire with a special tread. Poor George could not even afford rubber footwear, so he got traction by wrapping his feet in burlap bags. George lived in the days when the rule of living was "work or starve." George did neither. He lived in a miserable hovel set in a small clearing in the bush near Trout Lake. He did not farm, but was able to scrounge enough food from townspeople to eke out a precarious existance. George was a recluse who led a hermit-like life similar to the to the legendary Rip Van Winkle, so it was inevitable the he should benamed Rip. Old Rip and Santa Claus both carried big, bulging bags over their shoulders and both had a great effect on the children of North Bay. Children behaved in anticipation of getting toys from Santa's bag. North Bay children also behaved year round when Rip was in town because they had been warned Rip's bag was not filled with toys, but with bad boys, who had disobeyed their parents. Rip resembled Santa in many ways. They were of similar physique, the same twinkling eyes and beards. Santa's beard is pure white. Rip's was a tattle-tale grey, deeply stained with "chawing terbaccer." Rip, of course, was taunted and tormented by a rowdy element in the community. He was often surrounded by frightened young children at which time Rip would proceed to put on a real performance for their benefit. He would wave his hands wildly, growl loudly and make furious rushes in their direction. Adults noted he always stopped short of catching or chastising the youngsters. It was also noticeable that the merriment in his eyes belied the ferocity of his actions. One day word was brought to North Bay that Old Rip had passed away. Rip had never darkened the doors of any church, but the pioneers decided he was entitled to a christian burial. They provided a roughbox and arranged for Tommy Martin and a Mr. Kinsellato take a wagon and team to transport the box to Rip's shack and bring back the body. Residents of North Bay anxiously awaited the return of the hearse. All eyes were intently turned toward the east end of Main Street. At long last, late in the afternoon, a horse-drawn dray appeared. The outfit came rapidly into view, with clouds of dust flying in all directions. The horses, driven at breakneck speed provided as much excitement and as many thrills as the chariot race of Ben Hur. Spectators noticed a familiar figure seated on the roughbox cracking a black snake whip over the racing steeds and waving his other hand to the startled onlookers who lined the sidewalks. To add to the din, the apparently resurrected Rip emitted raucous roars of jubilation to prove he was very much alive. He was really enjoying the experience of driving the hearse at his own funeral. This time the roughbox was not needed and neither were the three letters R-I-P, which could have served the dual purpose of identifying the corpse and expressing the reverential wish that Rip would "Rest-In-Peace." When the daughters and sons of the pioneers congregate for North Bay's old home week in the summer, they will be reminiscing about early days. Many will recall the rip-roaring, rip-snorting days when George Belton Ford, our Rip, did more than his share of roaring and snorting. Oldtimers will never forget the lonely figure of Old Rip as he wended his weary way along backwoods roads, unaccompanied by kith, kin or canine.

Article provided by J. W i l l i a m R i c h a r d s o n, son of Stan R i c h a r d s o n