10: Conclusion

It was a little less than 7 years from when I stepped out the door of my family’s house on a cold night in October, 1960 until a warm August evening in 1967 when I stepped off the train at Montreal’s Windsor Station to begin my life as a university student. When Faye and I stood atop Mount Royal that first evening I felt a rush of excitement, joy, anticipation, and a love of this new city. Those first few weeks were an unfolding adventure. We spent our days at Expo 67, or simply exploring the city. We bunked with friends until we found a squatter’s house beside Sir George William’s main building. Byron was staying there as well. I then found a one room basement apartment on Lincoln Avenue, running between de Maisonneuve and Sherbrooke streets just a few blocks from campus. I lived there my first two years in Montreal, my home becoming a gathering place for the many new friends I was making.

I took to university life as though I had been born to it. I had promised myself that I would never miss a class if I could help it. I took careful notes, then typed them in the evenings, putting them into binders, one for each course. I slaved over research papers, striving to make footnotes and bibliographies as extensive and correctly formatted as I could, retyping complete pages if I found a single error. My professors noticed me, some befriending me as we gathered over beer at the many nearby pubs. I met heroes, like Irving Layton and Mordecai Richler, who were writers in residence when I was a student, Clark Blaise, who was teaching at Sir George, and Leonard Cohen who hung out in some of the same pubs I did. The world unfolded before me with avenues leading in any directions I chose to follow.

I started a major in English Literature, but was deeply demoralized and depressed following the police riot on the campus in 1969. I dropped a key course on Shakespeare, which I loved, and switched to a major in Comparative Religions, finishing my four-year degree a decimal point away from a citation for highest average in the department. I took a year of graduate work and then was given a teaching post while I completed my master’s thesis. I mumbled and stumbled my way through a course on “The History of the Relationship Between Science, Philosophy, and Religion in the Western World.” Relationships flourished and fell apart and I was lost at the end of that year, the thesis mainly untouched. Casting about I lucked into a job teaching general subjects to a grade seven class in a small town a short distance from Ottawa. I got used to finally having a decent income and bought my first car. I returned to Montreal for a year at McGill to get my diploma in secondary education and then wound up teaching high school English in Maniwaki where I stayed for seven years learning more from my students than I taught them. I joined Mensa to find avenues outside of the little town and met Ann. We married, moved to Ottawa, and raised three children while I worked for the federal government, first as an employee, then as a consultant. I was, at one time, one of Canada’s leading experts in midi-computer performance issues, giving talks at conferences across the country. I worked in almost every department of the government on short term and long term contracts. We retired to running a bed and breakfast in a village on the Rideau Canal. I supplemented our income for six years preparing income tax returns, and then, here I am, soon to be 70 years old, retired, our home and business on the market, looking forward to living out the remainder of our lives together with simple needs and simple pleasures.

Cite Etudiante de la Haute Gatineau, Maniwaki, Quebec, where I taught for seven years. Sometimes, during the winter, my students and I would say "to heck with it" and don cross-country skis to explore the trails near the school.

Everything that followed 1967 was a result of Sir George Williams University’s basic philosophy of giving people a second chance at an education. The cost to taxpayers to turn me from a non-skilled drifter into a highly skilled and highly paid contributor to the world about me? About $3,000—five years at $600/per, plus a $2,400 bursary for my year at McGill. I paid almost $3000 in income taxes my first year as a professional teacher. More than ten times that annually in my final years as a consultant. And that is where my deeply felt passion for social justice lays. It pays dividends when society spends a little bit of money and effort to give people a fair chance.

And what of those I knew during my seven years in Toronto? I’ve already noted that Mac Belt died a year before I entered Sir George. I visited Roy and Irma Strickland from time to time, especially when my sons were growing and whenever I was in Toronto on business. He died more than 10 years ago and Irma entered a facility to guide her through her declining years. The last time I spoke with her, she refused to tell me where she was going because, she said, she didn’t want anyone to see her as her mind left her. I visited John Lee when business took me Toronto. The last time I saw him he apologized for the way he had treated me, but I saw him only as someone who always stepped forward when I asked for help. His widow, Jean, and I correspond by telephone and email from time to time. I hope we can visit with her next time we are in Toronto. Marvyne and I are still friends. We visited each other every few years, though, as we age, travel is much less frequent. I visited the Heap family from time to time during my undergraduate years. There was a long gap, then I encountered Don at the Ottawa airport as I was returning from a business trip to Edmonton and he was headed for Toronto from his job as a Member of Parliament. I followed news about him until he died a year ago. Byron left Montreal a few months after I arrived, leaving his stone carving tools and pieces of soapstone with me. I carved a small figurine that is still on my desk beside me, though much chipped over the years. I don’t know what became of him.

And Faye….We remained lovers for about a year after I left Toronto, visiting for weekends and over Christmas and Easter. I spent a month with her between my first and second year, but I became involved with someone else early in my second year and, though we always remained friends, we were headed in very different directions. She became a devotee of her guru and, after she gave birth to a daughter in 1970, eventually took off on a round world trip, following her teacher to India, Nepal, Bangladesh, and, eventually, to New Zealand where she settled. We wrote often and sometimes talked by telephone. She visited here five years ago as she made a world tour to visit family and old friends. Though I always treated her passion for Eastern mysticism and rejection of Western science and medicine with silent respect, when she became an ardent anti-vaccination crusader I could no longer remain silent. Now the silence between us grows.

And, what of my father? We spoke briefly on the phone a few times over the years and then, in 1982, with wife and new-born son, I made a determined effort to breach the gap. Our visits were friendly and respectful. He appreciated what I had done on my own and, in a way, it was similar to his story. He too had had no family support as he made his way out into the world, working and studying to make a place for himself. He told me his story as we drank beer in his garden. I was always appreciative of the opportunity I had to make my peace with him. He died in the late 1980’s of a heart attack. I got to know my mother when I located her in 1975, visiting her twice in Omaha where she owned a rock n roll bar called Penelope’s. She and her husband visited my young family as well. After her husband died she spent a week visiting me, telling me her story, shortly before she died in the mid 1990’s; she is buried in Tilden, Nebraska. The rest of my original family is estranged. They are like a distant troubled dream.

I am deeply aware of how lucky I was in many ways. I was something of a pioneer because, in 1960, young people did not leave comfortable middle-class homes and try their luck on the streets. But I had grown up reading books by people like Horatio Alger (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Horatio_Alger,_Jr.) and Charles Dickens (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Dickens) both champions of the poor and underprivileged, though with overly-simple recipes for their success. Still, I believed that honesty and diligence were key attributes. There were times in my life when the only defence I had against being unjustly accused or suspect was my reputation for veracity. For years, when I could afford it, I donated to Coventry House in Toronto, an organization set up to help young people such as I was, though social services are now overrun with young people needing help and guidance. After 1960 the number of young people leaving comfortable homes grew exponentially. No one, as far as I know, has undertaken a serious in-depth study of why so many14-year-olds don their shoes and jackets and head out the door into a potentially dangerous and very uncertain world.

I know why I did it. It wasn’t the unexpected beatings whenever I tried to express an opinion that contradicted my father’s view of things. It was that I was not allowed to be myself. I felt stifled and opposed at every turn. No one ever asked me what I wanted. Adults made all the decisions and it was up to me to accept what they wanted, unquestioningly. But, I didn’t know what I wanted—all I knew is that I did not want what they had decided was “best” for me. It took a long time for me to find my path, aided by people like Roy Strickland, Mac Belt, Don Heap, and John Lee who stood by ready to help, but who never interfered in my lonely search. One of the lessons I learned from the Algonquins in Maniwaki is that we do not own each other. Children are respected as autonomous creatures, in need of guidance, yes, but fully capable of making their own decisions. When I resided at the Toronto Psychiatric Hospital a resident doctor asked me how I thought people should raise their children. “Just leave them alone,” I answered, “Let them explore and find things for themselves.” And that is all I really wanted: to find out who I am.

009: I Take Charge of My Life

My first order of business on returning from Winnipeg was to find a place to live. All of the coops that I knew of were either full or closed. I checked the rooms for rent section of the Toronto Star over breakfast at Michael’s, then he dropped me off near the corner of Yonge and Bloor Streets as I had decided that a central location would do best and there were a number of cheaper older houses just tucked in behind that famous intersection. Michael must have loaned me money to get started and I quickly found a room in a tumble-down two story row house. As usual, it did not come equipped with a refrigerator, but there was a gas-fired hot plate that doubled as a heat source.

One of the former residents of the Dupont coop had a room nearby. He and I met for lunch every day at a hole in the wall. He paid and kept track of the expenses in a notebook. He loaned me money from time to time for cigarettes and my room rent. A couple of times I went to a day job office. Men would begin showing up at 5:00 am and wait on benches. Between 6:00 am and 7:00 am contractors looking for day labourers would arrive and select us on a first-come first-hired basis. I worked at the Toronto train yards where my job was to take crates of produce from the trains to waiting trucks. It was so cold that sometimes I took refuge in a refrigerator car, just to get out of the biting wind. The $5.00 or so that I made for a day’s hard labour was enough to buy food for about a week.

It took a few weeks of effort, but I found a job working in a bank as a ledger clerk. The bank was located on King Street, a short subway ride away, though I usually walked to and from work. The bank, The Provincial Savings Bank of Ontario, had been one of the first to introduce computers in the banking field, though it abandoned them after a short trial. I can’t imagine what sort of computers had been available in 1966 as there were only multi-million dollar mainframes that required armies of people in lab coats in constant attendance, or toys. I suspect the latter. A few years earlier, one of my teachers had introduced me to a new “computerized” learning tool. Essentially it was a plastic frame that held two platens on which a scroll of paper could be rolled. Strategically-placed windows in the plastic cover revealed questions and the correct answers on the paper. While the teacher marvelled, I thought it was a piece of junk, figuring that anyone could have replicated this wonder of advanced technology with a shoe box and a couple of pencils to act as the platens.

In any case, I was the replacement for the junked computers in the bank. My job was to take the slips of paper on which the tellers had written out the details of the transaction and duplicate the information on ledgers cards which were, essentially, pieces of cardboard with lines and columns pre-printed. These cards were kept in the vault and stored by account number. The tellers did not do the actual arithmetic of the transactions; that was my job. Every time I made an error in addition or subtraction I had to fetch the error book from the vault and take it and the card to the accountant who would initial my correction. The more errors I made, the more nervous I got, which led to more errors.

Did I mention that I hated the job?

A young teller and I struck up a friendship when we discovered we shared the same attitudes towards the bank and the other employees. She slipped me pills that she said were tranquillizers to help me get through the day. I spent my evenings and weekends with Byron and a few of his friends who had gotten together to rent a large apartment. He adored my poetry and could recite a number of my works from memory. I read on the weekends at the Inn of the Unmuzzled Ox on Huron Avenue becoming one of their regulars. I saw Marvyne, my poet friend—another graduate from the University of Manitoba—frequently, sharing writing and insights. I was becoming familiar with the works of the Montreal school: Irving Layton and Leonard Cohen, buying their books when I could afford them.

As the winter morphed into spring, Marvyne invited me to share a large house that she and an elderly gentleman were renting. Expenses were shared equally and we took turns preparing the evening meals—which seemed to be mainly pan-fried pork chops, mashed potatoes and a vegetable. I had a large comfortable room with a balcony. Faye would be returning to Toronto at the end of the school year and we all assumed that she would be sharing with me. Meanwhile, I had earned enough money at the bank to pay back those who had been sponsoring me and to fly to Winnipeg to spend the Easter weekend with Faye.

The woman at the bank mentioned that her boyfriend had a good job at the Department of Chemistry of the University of Toronto and that there was an opening. So, I went to the university’s personnel office to apply. The two men I talked to were unaware of the opening, but they checked and discovered that I was right. One said that he thought the position required a completed course in high school chemistry, but I assured him that my friend who worked there did not meet that requirement. And, so I was hired. My salary was $200 a month. My friend’s name was also Ron, so there were two of us. We were lab assistants. There were five or six of us and our job was to each take responsibility for a pair of chemistry labs, ensuring that all required equipment and supplies were clean and prepped for the classes. Between each pair of labs was a supply room that doubled as an office, and we were each ensconced in one of them during the school year. During classes students would come to the window to ask for chemicals or specific pieces of equipment that we would hand them and check off on the student’s ledger card. Actual classes were infrequent and we spent the between class time cleaning the labs and restocking our supply rooms.

Soon after I started, university classes ended for the summer. We had three months to thoroughly clean the labs. Under the work benches were small lockers that were assigned to individual students during the school year. We removed the contents of these lockers, cleaned everything and restocked them for the next student. We also spent a lot of time socializing with the other employees. Our manager was an elderly Dutch gentleman who had been captured by the Japanese in the Philippines during the war. He was friendly and not very demanding of his “boys,” as we were known.  As long as the labs were clean and stocked he left us to our own devices. Over the summer I sometimes found a quiet corner of a lab and curled up with a book, reading the days away. I read “Lord of the Rings” in its entirety over my first summer there, and re-read the entire collection the next summer. In other words, life was being good to me. I was making more than enough money for my needs in a job that was reasonably enjoyable and non-stressful. I had a comfortable place to live. I enjoyed my walks across Queen’s Park and the University of Toronto campus to and from work. My evenings were free to work on poetry or to read at the Inn of the Unmuzzled Ox where I was making friends with other poets and musicians.

I had decided to take guitar lessons. I found a teacher who ran a Flamenco studio with his wife. He taught guitar, she dancing. Marvyne loaned me an old guitar she had, but within a few weeks my teacher said one of his students was upgrading and I could buy the old guitar for a reasonable price. I did. I still own that guitar. Because I read music fluently and had already played with a guitar a few years earlier, I progressed quickly. I was delighted with the exotic scales and rhythmic patterns.

Faye was due to return to Toronto in June. We spent her first day back making out in my room, but she told me that she did not intend to live with me and had made arrangements to live in a coop just south of Dundas Street. I was devastated. In my depression I withdrew from my housemates, refusing to eat with them or to engage in any conversations with them. I did my chores and paid my share of expenses, but otherwise avoided them. But, as my depression lifted I took stock of my situation, deciding I had enough income to afford an apartment of my own. I rented a comfortable one bedroom furnished apartment between Yonge and Bay Street two blocks south of Bloor.

I also had reached a realization that I was never going to graduate from high school. Neither correspondence courses nor night school had worked for me. That didn’t stop me from attending university, however. The University of Toronto offered non-credit courses in the evenings. I enrolled in a course on World Religions. I was thrilled to be sitting in one of those old fashioned lecture halls, with its semi-circle of ascending seats, the lecturer in the pit at the base. It did not take me long, however, to become disenchanted with the lecturer. His understanding of other religions was shallow. Instead he focused on the architecture of holy buildings, showing slides of various temples, churches, and synagogues, mainly exteriors. He giggled and waffled for a few weeks about whether or not he should show us slides of obscene carvings that graced a Hindu temple he had visited. In the end, he decided that we were all adult enough. The famous carvings were indistinct blobs scratched in stone. I don’t think any of us were impressed. The coup de grace, as far as I was concerned, in the downfall of this guy’s credibility as a university lecturer came when he told us that he once met an Indian holy man who told him that he had studied Judaism and had lived as a Jew for several years; he then studied Christianity and lived as a Christian for several years; and then a Buddhist. The holy man then told him that he had discovered that they are all, essentially, the same. What a marvellous insight I thought as the lecturer paused, then said, “Of course, we all know that’s ridiculous.”

Throughout the fall, Byron was a frequent visitor, staying with me for a week or so when he was between apartments. He and I went to a Bob Dylan concert one evening, a spur of the moment decision. Dylan was playing Massey Hall and we had no trouble getting seats in a box overlooking the stage.

One of the poet friends I had made through the Inn of the Unmuzzled Ox committed suicide by jumping from the Don Valley Viaduct. Byron told me that Henry had tried to visit me before he leapt but I wasn’t home that evening. The inquest into Henry’s death was held by Toronto’s celebrity coroner, Morton Shulman. Byron and I, with some of Henry’s other friends, went to the final hearing. A seedy-looking man was testifying that he was in prison and that Henry visited him frequently, telling him about how troubled he was by the drug trade that his friends were involved with. I was sitting with Henry’s friends and none of us had heard of this fellow before, nor of any visits that Henry had been making to the prison. Dr. Shulman then instructed the jury, telling them to rule that Henry had been under the influence of LSD. Byron raised his hand to object and Dr. Shulman told him to keep quiet or he would have us removed. During the break while the jury thought things over, Byron, I, and some of Henry’s friends, were struck dumb. What LSD? If Henry had been taking LSD he was very good at keeping it a secret from us. And who the heck was this guy telling the court such a strange story about Henry? The jury ruled as Dr. Shulman had ordered them to and the next day the headlines were filled with stories about the hippy who thought he could fly while under the influence of LSD. We all knew the story was a complete fabrication, but it got Dr. Shulman the headlines he loved and led to the eventual criminalization of LSD.

When Faye told me she had been sleeping with a young writer I was, at first, deeply upset, but, oddly enough, soon became adjusted to the idea. We were not married or living together and saw each other infrequently. Where we were drifting apart was over her new-found interest in Eastern spirituality. I was curious about it—after all, I was taking a course in world religions—but I resisted attending meetings with her and her guru—or bikkhu, as she called him. Though she followed him for the rest of her life, I never met him or saw him in person. Despite this—and I don’t fully understand this—we decided shortly after Christmas to begin living together. The idea was I would rent a small room—a closed-in porch really—at the coop she was living in, but we would actually be sharing her room. As far as I knew she continued to see her writer friend from time to time until I left for Montreal. I never knew what became of their relationship and never asked. After a few months, because of friction in the coop, Faye and I moved to the Dundas Street coop where we rented a room on the third floor overlooking the street.

In something of an effort to find a common interest, we both signed up for an extension course at the University of Toronto for the winter session on Psychology and Literature. We studied Dostoyevsky’s “Crime and punishment” in class. Faye also began taking a course in Flamenco dancing at the studio where I was studying guitar. In the spring I signed up for a course in life drawing at the Ontario School of Art, and, after a week or so, Faye also joined the class. When her mother suddenly died we went to Winnipeg for a week, staying with Faye’s relatives who promised to throw us a genuine Ukrainian wedding when we took that step.

My life probably would have continued along pretty much the same lines—living in an uneasy relationship, working in a minimum-skills job while writing and reading poetry and taking courses in whatever caught my fancy—except for the fact that a young man joined our crew in the Chemistry Department for a few weeks. He told me stories about Montreal and about this fantastic university there where everyone was high all the time, despite the presence of the RCMP headquarters across the street. What caught my interest was the fact that one did not need a high school diploma to enroll. The only requirement was that one be 21 years old—and I had met that criteria a few months before. I wasn’t interested in the drug angle, but the fact that this might be the entry to the world I longed for fired my interest.

I went to the Toronto Public Library and examined the calendar for Sir George Williams University. The young man was correct. I needed to be 21 years old—check—to have worked for at least two years—check—and have two confidential letters of recommendation forwarded directly to the registrar—that I could arrange to have done. I examined the calendars of other universities and discovered that mature matriculation wasn’t restricted to Sir George Williams, but the requirements were tougher elsewhere. Twenty-five was a common minimum age; it was 30 for the University of Toronto at the time.

I applied and phoned Mr. Strickland who agreed to write the recommendation letter for me. When I called the Big Brothers the receptionist who answered the phone sounded surprised when I asked for Mr. Belt and handed the phone to someone else. “Can I ask what this is about?” the man inquired. I explained that I was one of Mr. Belt’s cases and that I needed a recommendation from him. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but Mr. Belt passed away about a year ago.” I’ve always been sorry that he never knew that his faith and efforts with me would eventually pay off. Don Heap agreed to write the second letter. I was accepted. Classes would begin in early September. I applied for student assistance from the Ontario government who agree to give me a $600 bursary and guarantee a student loan for about the same amount. That gave me about $800 for living expenses for a school year after tuition, which was less than $400 at the time. It was enough.

Montreal, as seen from atop Mount Royal.

Alice Heap gave me the name and address of the Student Christian Coordinator in Montreal and I sent him a letter asking if he could give me any assistance in locating a place to live, preferably a student coop. He never replied. Faye threw a party for me two days before we were to leave for Montreal. Ironically, I never saw any of the people who attended the party, with the exception of Don Heap, again. In the middle of August, 1967, Faye and I took a train to Montreal, planning to visit Expo 67 and locate somewhere to live while she returned to Toronto. We stayed with friends who had recently relocated to Montreal and our first night there Faye and I climbed Mount Royal and looked out over the city, glowing in the night, that was to be my home for the next several years.

1965: The Heaps and the Dupont Street Coop

The spring and summer of 1965 I rented a room from the Heap family. They lived, at the time, near Broadview Avenue between Gerrard and the Danforth. Don worked in industry as a shop steward, though he was an ordained Anglican priest. He believed his ministry was among the workers and the poor. He had a small office on the third floor in their home with an altar where he conducted communion services. They had two daughters and four sons, one of whom was adopted. There was no doubt that Alice ran the household. Chores were divvied up and everyone was expected to contribute. My job was to keep the kitchen floor clean. Every second night, after everyone was in bed, I’d wash then spread liquid wax on the floor. Meals were simple and basic. A frequent dish was chicken giblets served in egg noodles.

When Don went to Selma, Alabama to march with Dr Martin Luther King Jr the entire family staged a sit-in in front of the American conciliate on University Avenue. I joined them when I wasn’t working. They often entertained young writers, poets, and social activists in their home and the dinner table sparkled with lively discussions on the current state of the world. Don was friendly towards me, but there was a reserve in his manner. Still, he was always supportive. He attended my going-away party when I left for Montreal and I visited the family a few times during my university undergrad years.

My first assignment as a security guard was at a major high rise subsidized housing project called Regent Park. There were guards posted 24 hours a day, usually two during the day and early evening, but only one overnight. I worked either 3:00 pm until 11:00 or sometimes 11:00pm until 7:00 am. When there were two of us, we’d patrol the grounds, but, when I was left alone overnight I’d stay in the office reading or writing poetry. It was a relatively quiet job. Only once there was a fight that I and the other guard had to break up, and one time I watched a lone police officer arrest and take two men into custody as the sun was rising. One evening a group of punks threatened to beat me with a baseball bat after my partner left in the evening. I called the office at Barnes and was advised to lock myself in the office until relief arrived. A car arrived with a senior employee at the wheel and he drove me home.

They posted me to guard a wood-working factory evenings and weekends where I walked among the machinery in the darkened corridors. Then Barnes arranged for me to work at Connaught Laboratories in northern Toronto. It was a huge sprawling medical research and vaccine production centre on Steels Avenue which, at the time, marked the end of Toronto. Across the road from the centre were farmers’ fields. There were dozens of buildings in the complex with barns for horses, cattle, and sheep used in the production of insulin or for research. Shifts were from 5:00 pm until 8:00 am and we worked every second night, with back to back shifts every second weekend. There were two guards on duty. We had our home bases in different buildings and never met during the night. We were issued time clocks and had to follow a specific route at specific times throughout the night, punching the clocks at various stations. I liked the work. It was quiet, my task was simple, and I enjoyed the animals. I took an alarm clock to work and, during the wee hours, would set it to wake me for the next rounds. Otherwise, I had lots of time to read and write poetry in the tranquil setting.

Faye, meanwhile, had been getting work as a supply teacher, something she kept at for the rest of her life. It gave her freedom, variety, and enough of an income to support herself. In the spring she joined a camp set up by the Student Christian Movement as a paid employee. She was the cook of the camp and lived on the premises. Our sex lives took a break during the time she was at the camp. I had mixed feelings about it because it was a Canadian-Cuban fellowship camp. Several students from Cuba summered there, including one who had been her boyfriend in Cuba the previous summer. When the camp ended in late August, she returned to Winnipeg to complete her final year at the University of Manitoba. I wrote her almost daily, long epistles describing my thoughts and emotions. There were typewriters at the labs and I had lots of free time.

Also that spring I wrote the Royal Conservatory’s harmony and counterpoint exams. My scores were near perfect. Mr. Knechtel drilled me in preparation for my grade six violin exam and it was shortly after that that the dean of the college gave me a guided tour of the facilities. Practice rooms all emitted music of a complexity that I felt was beyond my skills; I felt lost in the stage where they produced operas. Dr Neel told me he had heard I had an unusual talent; he knew of my circumstances and mentioned the possibility of a scholarship. As far as I knew I would have to complete highschool first, so that was uppermost in my mind. I had decided that I would try night school as the path to the highschool diploma and then I would worry about a career in music.

A problem with night school was that I was working nights. I told Barnes that I’d have to give up the job at the labs, but hoped they could find something that would fit my schedule. I had also decided that it was time to leave the Heaps and strike out on my own, sort of. There was a student coop on Dupont Street at the corner of Bathurst where a number of musicians and recent graduates from the University of Manitoba lived. That’s where I wanted to live, but as a full member, not a charity case. I would soon be 20 years old and my six months of a steady income as a security guard gave me a sense that I could look after myself.

The Dupont coop was a lively place. One of the members, Wayne, was a recent graduate of the University of Manitoba. He played guitar and sang lusty folk songs like “The Winnipeg Whore” and “Four and Twenty Virgins” that had us in stitches. There were other grads of the U of M in the house as were some of the frequent visitors. All were trying to figure out what to do with their degrees. One of visitors was Bob Davis, one of the founders of one of Canada’s oldest political journals, This Magazine. I babysat for Bob and his wife from time to time. Another was Michael Moore, later to become a senior editor at The Globe and Mail. I took on the role of treasurer, meaning I was responsible for collecting each member’s share of the expenses and paying the bills.

Barnes found me odd jobs from time to time, such as sitting in a truck depot or a discount store watching for shoplifters (I never caught any). Then I got more regular work on the Toronto ship yards, guarding ships as they were being unloaded or sometimes standing on deck throughout the night. One of my unofficial tasks was to translate the Portuguese-English of the stevedores unloading the ships for the Russian-Italian-Swedish-whatever-English of the ships’ crews. However, in December the port closed for the winter and work became scarce.

I had decided to take grade 12 history at night school. The teacher was a weirdly odd right-winger whose theory of history was that civilization was born in Greece, moved to Europe, then to the Americas, meeting stiff resistance from savages all the way. It was now trying to advance into Asia but was meeting the usual resistant, this time from primitive Vietnamese. For some reason civilization had always moved inexorably westward and was always met by fierce resistance to be overcome, though everyone was grateful once they finally submitted. I was so angered and outraged that I sputtered incoherently as he condescendingly called me a “commie dupe” and other such idiocies. After about 6 weeks of this nonsense I quit, thoroughly disgusted.

As the fall progressed more people moved into the coop. One was a self-confessed thief who regaled us with stories of his exploits. He specialized in safe cracking and told us how he and friends would steal different types of safes and take them out to the country where they’d figure out how to crack them. He was also a teller of tall tales, telling us about an island in the Pacific Ocean where canaries rested on their migrations. The result was an island covered in guano, miles deep in places. Apparently gardeners would pay top dollar for the stuff, so, if we could raise the money to hire a ship, we could all be rich. He also had a violent temper and one night assaulted a young pregnant woman who was seeking refuge after running away from home. Don and Alice Heap took her to live with them after that, but she ran away and, last we heard, was in Quebec City. We evicted the thief from the household. I’ve met people like him from time to time: tellers of big stories with childishly violent outbursts when opposed, even with the opposition is all in their imaginations.

Another newcomer was Byron, who was to be my close friend for a couple of years. He had moved into the coop with one young woman, but, soon switched to another. He had been a student at McGill University in Montreal and had travelled to the Belcher Islands in James Bay where he stayed for a year. He had with him a trunk filled with Inuit soap stone carvings that he had brought back. He had a story for each carving, some of which were not anything like what we had come to associate with Inuit work—such as a life-sized head of a woman he called Mary, and carvings of seascapes with sea creatures barely visible below the surface. Byron had some carving tools and repaired damaged carvings, especially amulets.

Faye came to stay with me during her Christmas break, about three weeks in duration. We spent Christmas day at the Heaps. After she returned to Winnipeg, it was apparent that the house was in desperate straits. Some people had moved out and those remaining had no income. We would scrap together what we could to buy fuel oil ten dollars’ worth at a time and resorted to stripping the basement of whatever wood we could find to burn in the fireplace. One night Byron, his girlfriend, and I were so hungry we put together what change we had and went to an all-night coffee shop on Yonge Street. We counted out our pennies on the counter and determined we could afford two cups of coffee and a single donut to share between the three of us. On the way back to the co-op, cutting through Yorkville Village a police officer stopped us, asking us where we were going and where we lived. On learning we shared the same address he asked Byron’s girlfriend, “Which one’s your sugar daddy.” Byron said, “I’ve had enough of this shit” and started to walk away when the police office grabbed him and swung him up against a fence, snarling, “You don’t walk away from me!” Fortunately, at that moment, another officer appeared from across the street and calmed things down.

Talk radio shows had been shouting about “hippies” for the past year or so, with callers complaining about how they couldn’t tell the boys from the girls and stories about innocent girls falling prey to “free love” and other such nonsense. I never really thought they were talking about me or my friends specifically. For one, none of us partook in illegal drugs, though we were generally sympathetic to those who did. I did know a few artists who wore their hair very long, but, generally, hair did not get much longer than what the Beatles were sporting. What we did do that people might have been talking about was not visit a barbershop every two weeks to get the back of our heads shaved up to the crown. The reasons were partly to do with our anti-military biases, but mainly to do with insufficient income. We lived together in co-ops not for the orgies (which I never heard of happening) but to share expenses. Many people were paired up into couples and enjoyed sex without benefit of clergy and, in that, we were probably the first generation to do so openly. The pill, recently invented and available, took a lot of the risk out of such relationships. But, “free love” existed mainly in the overheated imaginations of people who didn’t understand what was going on in the minds and environments of young people during the 1960’s.

What really seemed to raise the ire of the talk show hosts was the area around Yorkville Avenue. Because of the cheap rents a number of coffee houses and bars featuring folk artists like Ian and Sylvia Tyson, Joni Mitchel, Peter Paul and Mary had sprung up. Ronnie Hawkins’ “The Hawk’s Nest” was just a few blocks away. Young people, drawn to the music, flocked to the scene, causing general hysteria in the louder aspects of the press. When I walked through the area on weekends it seemed that most of the traffic was people who had come to stare at the “hippies” and make fun of anyone who was dressed in blue jeans and whose hair covered their collars. Though we sometimes went to hear specific groups perform in Yorkville, generally speaking the true “hipsters” gathered in expresso bars on Elizabeth and Elm Streets near the Toronto General Hospital. I recall sneeringly referring to the ones gathering in Yorkville on the weekends as “hippies” meaning “little hipster.” Bob Dylan sang, “The Times, They Are a Changin’” and, in a sense they were, but not in the ways the press was focused on. The American war in Vietnam was slowly making its way into the public’s awareness and American draft dodgers were starting to appear in co-ops throughout Toronto.

At the end of January I received a letter from Faye in which she said that her typewriter was broken. Students, then, needed typewriters. So, I crated my typewriter, packed some clothes and boarded a bus for Winnipeg, coming to her rescue. I think that I may have also been looking for a way to escape the oppressive and depressive atmosphere of the co-op as it disintegrated. I boarded the bus at midnight. The trip took about 36 hours. As I headed further north in Ontario, then swept the high arc over Lake Superior it grew increasingly colder. At the bus stop in Port Arthur I heard Nancy Sinatra’s “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’” for the first time. It seemed it played, with increasing loudness, at every bus stop after that. We stopped every three hours. Every second stop would be a quick 20 minute break—just enough time for a coffee; the alternating stops would be for about 45 minutes—enough time for a full meal. We move through the tundra west of Lake Superior throughout the night and when I awoke in Manitoba, I was bewildered, wondering why the bus was in the middle of a frozen-over lake. I then realized this was my first glimpse of the prairies. The taxi driver I caught at the bus terminal told me on the way to Faye’s apartment that the temperature was -100F with the windchill. I believed him. During the two weeks I stayed with Faye in Winnipeg that winter it was unbelievably and unrelentingly cold.

Faye’s typewriter had been repaired by the time I arrived. She took me to her classes with her. I recall one where the lecture was on the employment of onomatopoetic devices in Beowulf. Mainly what I remember of those two weeks in Winnipeg was the intense cold. I kept an extra pair of jeans handy that I’d pull on over the ones I was already wearing before venturing outside. I was impressed by the fact that store owners did not mind when we waited for buses in their doorways—something no Toronto business owner would have tolerated. But, in the end, I rode a bus back to Toronto, joining a group of three other young people on the journey. I was thrown out of a bar in Sudbury for ordering a beer during a stop (the drinking age at the time was 21). Two of our group paired up, cuddling together on the long ride through the night. The other girl and I necked for a while, but there was no spark and we both dozed off.

We arrived in Toronto in the early morning and I invited my travel companions to the co-op I had left two weeks before. We taxied there, but the front door was locked with a new, strong lock. (We had never locked the door.) So, I took them to another co-op on Dundas Street, but we couldn’t rouse anyone there. In the end we returned to the bus station and I phoned Michael Moore, a recent grad of the UofM, who picked me up and took me back to his place. I spent the night, then the next day set about searching for a place to live.