Bedtime Stories

This is reminiscing about the bedtime stories I told my children and later my grandchild Jack when they were in their nightclothes in bed before going to sleep. I have told a thousand stories to them when they were children wherein they joined me on trips to the centre of the earth, to distant planets or shrunk in size to battle microbes and germs. We saved whole populations, met strange creatures and flew on our friend, Roger's flying carpet and space ship, usually leaving by the children's bedroom window. He regularly arrived through the same window to ask for our help when he faced battles to be won? When we were facing disaster the good fairy always arrived to save us at the last moment. We had a dragon, Dudley,( a green sloppy stuffed guy) who was a good friend, a bragger and not very bright and Rab, a worn out Rabbit, who had been a friend to three generations of children that always got us in trouble and we spent a lot of time in jail and breaking out? Mr and Mrs Ted ( our Teddy bears) and Raggedy Anne gave us good advice, the children listened and cautioned us, but Dudley and I didn't listen and that is why we were always in trouble. 

The stories were exciting to me as well because the kids and I and our stuffed toys told these stories and we had to share in sorting them out. The kids were serious critics as well and offered endless advice.

Our evenings were busy and I miss that now. I hope that David, Peter and Cathy are still looking after the much loved Raggedy and Rab in their retirement. Life is too quiet now.

THE ALIEN

The ALIEN

Alien: “Hello! I would like to have a hamburger”

shop lady:“Sir, this is a flower shop”

Alien:“What! No hamburgers?”

shop lady:“That's what I am telling you. Where are you from? You are dressed strangely and if I may say so you are very dirty.”

Alien:“I just arrived from a nearby place and decided to land here on this globe. Unfortunately we set down in a muddy place that had many large and fat pink creatures. I must say they were very friendly.”

shop lady:“It sounds to me that you were in a pig pen and this place is called Earth. Oh why am I talking to you? This conversation is ridiculous. You must leave.”

Alien:“Can you direct me to your leader so I can have hamburgers?”

shop lady:“Officer Bradshaw is outside. He is the man with a nice shiny badge on his hat and I'm sure he can help you (to herself – this guy belongs in the looney bin)”

Alien:“Thank you for being so helpful” He goes outside and walks up to Officer Bradshaw. “Hello Officer Bradshaw. The nice Earth lady in the store told me that you can tell me where I can have hamburgers”

OB: “MacDonald's is just across the street.” He points and says to himself “this guy is filthy, smelly and weird looking with his pointed ears and strange clothing. Sure talks strange too. I'd better keep an eye on him and alert the police station to be prepared to bring a straightjacket”

Alien: “oh thank you for being so kind. I will go across the street right away and order hamburgers” He crosses the street and goes into MacDonalds and goes up to the counter. “Hail fair beautiful Earth lady, will you give me hamburgers?

MacDo lady: to herself “Boy! this guy has quite a line but he sure is weird and dirty looking, but cute all the same.”

MacDo lady: “to go or to stay?

Alien: “You are so kind to make such an offer but I must go because my friends are waiting for me where we landed in what a nice shop lady tells me is a pig pen.

MacDo lady: to herself: “This is crazy but I will humour him” “How many hamburgers do you want and what do you want with it?” to herself: “Just to be safe I better get my supervisor over to listen in on this crazy guy.”

Alien: “ Oh about 150 and with everything else that goes with it. We must leave this Earth and my compatriots are hungry and waiting in the pigpen.”

The supervisor has arrived and is listening in. He has called the police station and they are on the way with their psychologist and a straightjacket.

MacDo Super: “ Thank you for your order. You will need a knapsack to carry all this. The bill for your order comes to 354 dollars”

Alien: “ What are dollars? What is paying? What is a bill? I can only offer you gold nuggets. Here is a bag of them. Is this enough? I must leave now” He places a bag containing about a kilo of nuggets on the counter, shoulders the huge bag and leaves. The value is roughly 46,000 Canadian dollars.

The police arrive with their psychologist and guns drawn to arrest the Alien

MacDo Super: “ Everything is fine officer. He was sure a very strange, dirty and smelly guy but he paid his bill in full and all of the staff here are very happy.

The Alien has arrived back at the pig pen.

Alien: He takes half of the contents of his MacDo bag and tosses it to the pigs who immediately snort to show their appreciation“Thank you kind pigs, unfortunately I have not yet learned your language but I promise I will when we return” He enters the space ship and is gone.

THE END

Surviving the Hurricane

Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.
- Mark Twain

 The sea hates a coward.
-  Eugene O’Neill

A work associate, Owen Smith, in the consulting firm I worked for at the time, owned a 38 foot sailing boat that he kept in a marina in the Bahamas. Irene and I were invited to join with him and his wife Linda and daughter X on a two week Caribbean cruise. Up to this point in time my only sailing experience was on a small sunfish that I kept at the Water Rat club near Ash Bridges Bay in the Toronto harbour.

Sailing with friends in the Caribbean seemed like an ideal way to spend a few weeks and we accepted his invitation and flew down to Grand Bahama Island and boarded the boat. Here is a picture of Owen's boat. It had a roomy rear cockpit with a large steering wheel. The interior came equipped with a galley, dinning area and sleeping accommodation for six people.

Our home for two weeks.

The sailboat beside us in the marina was a large Catamaran. This was the owner's second Catamaran because the first one had flipped in a storm and his wife had tragically drowned. He replaced his wife as well. From this story I began to realize that sailing on the ocean could be dangerous at times. 



The next day we loaded our sailboat with provisions and sailed out under a sunny sky. Owen informed me that we were experiencing a 30 knot wind and I observed that it was raising 5 foot waves that the boat easily handled. Under Owen's guidance I soon acquired the basic skills to steer the boat and handle the sails. Flying fish and dolphins kept us company so the beginning of the trip was quite exciting. A major drawback for me was that when I went down below the rolling of the boat made me feel quite nauseated and I quickly went up on deck again and immediately felt better (For the rest of the trip I stayed on deck when we were sailing and only descended into the galley when we anchored). Small islands dotted the horizon and as it was approaching lunchtime we headed for one and entered a beautiful bay and anchored for a swim in the calm and clear waters followed by a light lunch.

Then we set sail for the island of Bimini
.
Here are some pictures of Happy Us in the boat and on the Beach

 




On the way to Bimini the sun was still shining brightly but the waves were getting much higher and when we finally sailed into the Bimini harbor I asked why it was so packed with boats when we saw virtually none on the ocean. The response from a cluster of fellow sailors was " Haven't you noticed how rough the seas are out there?" It was my first day out, so what did I know? Owen who had joined racing teams from North America to England and was unperturbed. In any case the brief stay in Bimini was idyllic aside from the flea bites on the beach that left us itching for several days.

During the evening two phone calls were received on our boat from two larger boats seeking help to find a pilot to guide them into the harbor. (A pilot seemed to be someone prepared, day or night, to take out on the ocean a small open boat with an outboard motor similar to the one we kept at our cottage). One call for help was from a 60 foot sailboat and the other from a very large ocean going yacht both arriving from Miami. The next day to thank us we were invited on board. We chose to visit the yacht. It was huge, with estate rooms, a wide spiral staircase leading down to a large living room, a helicopter pad  complete with a helicopter on the back of the rear deck and a complete staff of sailors, cooks and kitchen staff. The hostess who greeted us as had taken this boat belonging to her family out of a marina in Florida. She looked very young, my guess was about sixteen, was formally dressed in a long gown and obviously reeking of money. Her younger brother and grandmother were accompanying her.  Name dropping by her included Henry Kissinger and someone from the Ford family.You had the feeling that talking with us was just a friendly gesture to mingle with the lower class.



After leaving Bimini a few days were spent traveling on a calm, hot and windless glassy sea. Breeze-less  we often had to turn on the engine to move the boat. Peaceful at first but then boring. and hot. Finally it was time to head back in the direction of the Grand Bahama island to take our flight back to Canada. The distance was about 105 km. The winds were up and the waves were getting higher  but we had become accustomed to that and we were being entertained by the flying fish and playful dolphins. The flying fish are quite remarkable leaping from the crest of one wave to another and often flying over the boat.

Owen's daughter suddenly received on the wireless an urgent warning for all ships to immediately leave the ocean for a safe harbor because we were about to find ourselves in the middle of a hurricane. We were half way between Bimini and Bahama Island so what were we to do? The hurricane would hit long before we reached any safe harbour. We took down the sails and lowered the keel as the sunny skies darkened as though at 3PM night was arriving. Owen had experienced rough sailing before so he had a sense for what had to be done without delay. He and I clipped on our harnesses to the helms railing and the women ordered to go below and the hatches closed. A boat is not a place for a democracy. One person is in charge. I sometimes found this hard to accept and there were occasions when his decisions weren't the best, but that is the way it had to be.

Howling winds soon raised mountainous waves in no definable pattern. We later learned that the winds included blasts of up to 100 knots ( 185 kph) and it was clear that these waves towered high above the boat's 45 foot mast. You may have heard the reports about Hurricane Ivan in the Caribbean in 2005 when winds like this produced swells close to  100 feet high.

Steering and controlling the boat then became a process of plunging down in the troughs and holding the boat steady facing the rising hills in front rather than letting the boat flounder and possibly being rolled over in the troughs. The boat seemed so small surrounded by these seemingly angry and towering waves. We repetitively uttered four letter words and Holly Jeez!! as we confronted the latest contortion of these mountains breaking over us. Up and down the hills we traveled in this way in a driving rain with every so often a wave slapping the boat and Owen and I disappearing under a flood of water until this sturdy boat popped up again like a cork. Was I frightened? No, because all my attention was focused on fighting the storm and it appeared that this sturdy boat wasn't breaking up. There was no time for panic.

As for Irene and Linda, they hung on for dear life in their bunks, and later said they willed themselves into a coma. The wind dictated our direction and we were averaging about 12 kph without sales and with the wind on our back. X was downstairs trying to reach someone on our radio.Finally after several hours she reached a shore weather station who gave us our position and suggested that since we weren't taking on any water we had no choice but to ride the storm out. We would surely break up on the rocks if we attempted to approach the shoreline.  The person at the weather station also added that they were about to go out in a tugboat in the storm to get a line on a tanker in distress and would try to stay in touch with us as well. About half an hour later he phoned and said his tugboat was in distress, its interior a wreck and they were taking on water. He was calling in for help. In the meantime the storm raged on and our battle continued.

Finally it was nearing midnight and after nine hours of battling without a letup we were exhausted. A large tanker unloading platform loomed ahead. It was used to unload large ships anchored about a mile or so offshore with pipe lines leading to tanks on the shore. In this storm there were of course no ships but the platform was there and we figured if we could get in a position downwind from it we could turn on our boat's engine and point ourselves toward the harbor. The entrance was narrow, about 100 feet wide, with on either side high man-made rocky cliffs to  shelter the inner harbor from the winds. With the high winds and the waves crashing against the rocky shoreline any attempt to enter the narrows would involve avoiding the cliffs on either side and a surfing exercise. Owen was patient and we spent at least an hour in the storm trying to position the boat in the right direction to surf through the narrows. Finally he said "lets go!" and off we went buried in the surf and once through with a sigh shouted "we've made it!" but just then through the surf we saw rocks ahead and a second move to the right was maneuvered just in time and we found ourselves in a sheltered lagoon with the winds above the rocks shaking the mast as the boat glided up to a wharf and we tied up. Not a word was spoken and no one appeared from down below for the better part of an hour. As agnostics no thanks were offered to the Gods. Finally we drifted off to our bunks and slept soundly until mid morning.

As we sat the next morning with our coffee the tugboat captain arrived just to tell us of his night in the storm and to share surviving. He told us of the wreckage in his boat with the fridge and stove breaking loose and the mess throughout the cabin.

The storm has dissipated and Owen decided we had to sail up to our marina about twenty miles up the coast to end the voyage. The waves were still high and Irene and Linda wanted no more of the sea and called for a cab to join us there when we arrived.

Looking back on it we were fortunate to have taken this voyage with Owen, a seasoned and disciplined sailor (and RAF pilot) who never lost his cool throughout this saga.

When I read about people who dream about sailing around the world in a small boat I quietly say to myself "good luck". 

My Victory over Corrupt Politicians

We bought our first house in 1958. The company I worked for transferred me from Ottawa to Toronto to become a district engineer for building and maintaining service stations. The house was on Applefield Drive in Scarborough and we paid a premium price of $12,500 for the privilege of owning a  property on the edge of a wooded ravine. A variety of wild animals showed up on our lawn from the ravine including rabbits, snakes, turtles, skunks, racoons and the occasional deer.

On visiting the municipal offices to obtain a building permit I asked to see the maps of the area. They included symbols indicating construction plans in the ravine. Since Reeve Campbell ( later the mayor of Toronto) had made a speech earlier that stated that the ravine would become a park I was surprised to see this and immediately wrote to the Planning Commissioner to inquire about it. His response was that they had rezoned the area from a park to a sewer easement because it would provide financing for property developments including an apartment to be built behind my house.. I wrote a letter back replacing the  Reeve's words referring to a park and parkland with sewer and sewer easement. The replied in a letter stating that the township needed the money from selling some land.

To protest I organized a trip with my neighbours to the Ontario Planning Board. My protest obviously interfered with the judge's busy schedule for the day and he called for a coffee break claiming that our protest was heard. No decisions were taken so feeling depressed I spoke to Penny and Casson, one of my building contractors about this; He informed me that a group of crooked politicians were making a lot of money.through rezoning land.

Fortunately a well known Canadian author, Pierre Burton, had uncovered a similar scandal of corruption in North York that had filled the newspapers for weeks. I phoned the Planning Commissioner in Scarborough and informed him that I would be phoning Pierre Burton the following morning at 9AM . At 8AM Reeve Campbell and two associates arrived on my doorstep and informed me that they had held a snap meeting that same evening and decided to rezone the land to parkland again This would become the largest park in Metro Toronto. They even suggested that I would end up with a swimming pool (which never materialized).

This park is now called Thomson Park after the Thomson Family who settled in the area around 1830 but maybe it should have been named after Pierre Burton or possibly Don Currie who saved it from becoming a sewer easement. I never told Pierre Burton about this at the time but finally a few years later decided to tell him the full story, but sadly he had died a few months earlier..  .

The Story of Hardy S.

Just Following Orders

The year was 1959 and we were living in Scarborough. I was working with Shell Canada at the time as a district engineer responsible for the maintenance and building of gas stations and storage terminals in  Toronto. All the work was carried out by building contractors. I would prepare building specifications and a request for submissions and send it to qualified contractors who would bid on the work with the lowest bid being rewarded the work.  One of my regular contractors was Hardy S. That's not his full name but you will understand why I don't give it to you when I have finished telling you this story.

Hardy was one of my best contractors, performing work to the highest standard, scrupulously honest and completing assignments on time. He was also a gentleman and pleasant to deal with on a human level. He immigrated to Canada from Germany in 1948, three years after the end of World War II. Soon after he started up his construction company, met and married a Canadian girl, was granted citizenship and bought a home in Scarborough.  Over time our relationship became friendly and we shared many conversations over coffee about our families, thoughts and past experiences.

One day during a routine inspection of one of his building sites he said that he wanted to talk about something important and we should  go off for a coffee in a nearby restaurant. I was somewhat surprised by his earnestness but otherwise there was nothing unusual about taking a coffee break. When we entered the restaurant he chose a booth away from the other clients because, as he said, he wanted to talk.

Here is essentially what he told me as best I can remember it. 

" I want to tell you that I was in the German SS during the War. My Canadian wife and children know nothing of this. She knows that I was just a German soldier on the Russian Front but because of the horrors of  that war she has accepted my silence about what took place. As for my children, they are now only 3 and 5 and too young to know any of this."

I asked, "Hardy, why are you telling me this?"

" I've never spoken to anyone in Canada about this including any of the German immigrants I've met here. I guess  I just feel I have to tell someone. Just let me continue with what I want to say."


"I grew up on a farm, was a simple farm boy, never travelled far from home and didn't know much about the world. In 1936 a law was passed that all German children of the Aryan Race  when they turned 14 were compelled to join the Hitler Youth. The Boy Scout movement had been banned and many of it's sports and recreational activities were incorporated into the Youth movement.  Living an isolated life on the farm I was happy to be a member because I found friends there, and engaged in sports and outings. We also regularly listened to lectures and received endless literature talking about the superiority of the Aryan race and the decadence of other races, particularly the Jews, Gypsies and Slavs. When German troops moved into Austria in 1938 and invaded Poland the following year, the Hitler Youth were being geared for war and marching and weapons training became an additional part of our weekly activity. I turned sixteen that year and by then had already become a local troop leader over younger boys. Soon after I was selected to join the SS and in early 1943 sent off to Poland  with several other new recruits to work in a concentration camp. The prisoners in the camp I was assigned to were a mix of  Jews, Gypsies and other people - mostly Slavs - that were deemed undesirables and I initially assumed were there to provide forced labour for the Third Reich. The men were housed in one section of the camp and the women in another.

When I first arrived in the camp along with the other new recruits we were ordered to observe the disciplining of prisoners to harden us up before taking on our duties. These wretched prisoners looked like they were on starvation diets. It wasn't uncommon for them to try to sneak back in the food line to steal more food for themselves and others. Our job was to watch over the meal and if anyone was caught misbehaving or simple stealing another crust of bread they were to be beaten. The beatings were brutal beyond belief and I'm sure some prisoners came close to dying. On the first few days after I arrived I would cry myself to sleep from what I was observing but within a few months I began to harden and believe these prisoners deserved their brutal beatings. I soon vigorously played my part. 

I'm not going to tell you any more other than to say I became a soldier in the Waffen SS on the Russian Front. I did terrible things and I now look back in horror at what I became." 

I listened to Hardy tell me this over 50 years ago and I can only speculate on what he had done. At the outbreak of the war Hardy was one of 8.8 million boys who were members of the Hitler Youth.

They estimate that 6 million Jews were either systematically exterminated - mostly in gas ovens - or died from starvation, disease or exhaustion. If we add to this the extermination of gypsies, slavs, Jehovah Witnesses, homosexuals and others deemed undesirables the total is between 11 and 17 million civilian men, women and children of all ages who were slaughtered by the Germans. The Waffen SS, an army working independently but in parallel to the  German army was assigned the leading role in all this slaughter. From what little Hardy told me that day I don't have any doubt that he  took an active and willing part in this. He admitted that he eventually came to believe that the prisoners in the concentration camp deserved the harsh treatment; he had become indoctrinated. From then on it is likely that when it was his responsibility to commit unspeakable acts of violence he acted without remorse. Why he confessed to me that day I don't really know. 

After the war at the Nurenberg trials the Waffen SS was deemed a criminal organization except that conscripts from 1943 on were exempt from that judgment as they were deemed forced to join. Many of these young recruits like Hardy immigrated to Canada and the US with the governments full awareness of their service in the Waffen SS. Because of that clearance there wasn't anything I could do with Hardy's confession. 

It raises the moral issue of what do you do when you are a member of an organization where following orders requires you to perform criminal acts. Millions of innocent people murdered every day by soldiers just following orders.

Shortly after my conversation in that coffee shop with Hardy S, I was transferred to another job in Shell and lost track of him. It is likely that 50 years later his Canadian children have children of their own and Hardy is an aging grandpa.   

Dawson College, McGill's Annex 1948-50

Sports -The Waloopers

The 30's and 40's when I was growing up was an era without TV, computers, and all those hand held devices that now keeps everyone permanently on line. There was The Great Depression going on and then a war so there wasn't much money around either and marketers hadn't yet discovered something called a youth market. Typical of that era the moms expected their kids to 'go out and play' after school and on the weekends.  Once we reached about 10 or 11 years of age the boys left cops and robbers behind and the girls put their dollies away. At that age getting together with friends became what it was all about and this usually meant spending a lot of time playing sports. Most of it was pretty informal without any adult supervision or coaching. It was sports like pickup softball, touch football or street hockey where we made up the rules depending on how many wanted to play; anyone was welcome. The score wasn't important and the objective was simply to have some fun.  If we didn't have a puck for our street hockey a handy frozen horse bun, always plentiful on the roads, was quite acceptable. Back then kids got a lot of exercise and there weren't many fat ones.

In my teens most of us began to take one or more sports more seriously. My choices were skiing, swimming, tennis. I never became a member of the big three sports teams (Football, Hockey and Basketball) that awarded players huge crests to display on their jerseys and made them trophy catches for some of the prettiest girls in the school. My swimming and soccer team crests were tiny and not held in high esteem. In other words I was a good student but an obscure run-of-the-mill athlete.

At Dawson College intramural sports were a big thing with as many teams formed as people who wanted to play. Floor hockey and basketball were the most popular team sports - I recall at least 10 or more teams for each sport - and I looked around for teams that I might join. It soon became apparent that with many of these teams were in place from previous years and I since I couldn't claim any passed team experience I was destined to spend a lot of time as a second stringer warming a bench. I decided to form my own teams instead and talked to my room mates and some others, most of whom had limited experience as well, and liked the idea and we put together teams for floor hockey and basketball.

To join the leagues our teams had to have a name and  I can't recall who named them, I suspect it was Don Beauprie, and the name chosen was the Waloopers or something like that. Then to my surprise Don asked if he could supply our publicity. No other team had anyone supporting them with publicity but the team liked the idea and we said, "If it isn't going to cost us anything, why not?" Don then came up with the idea that we needed uniforms that would change each time we played and posters would be put up throughout the college announcing the date of the next game and include the statement, "What will the Waloopers winning wardrobe be this time?"

I can't recall where we got the ideas and materials but each time we changed outfits: for example  from, sugar sacks, to diapers, to Indian warpaint and even normal garb.

This publicity brought out a lot of students to watch our games. And from game to game the numbers kept growing.

As for our basket ball team I don't recall many winning games because with the exception of one skilled player, John Garneau, we were inexperienced neophytes having a good time and 'learning on the job'. Several  of us liked to spend our spare time shooting baskets but the art of the game eluded us. The quality of team play was extremely varied in the league with some teams having serious members from the national team of their respective nations and high school stars, and fortunately a few teams like the Waloopers. For us it was a lot of fun and exercise.

McGill threatened at one time to ban floor hockey because the authorities claimed that it resulted in more injuries than the combined injuries of all other intramural and intercollegiate sports. For those of you reading this not familiar with this sport, the rules of this game are the same as ice hockey. As shown in the photo the stick is straight and the puck is a round felt disc shaped like a doughnut. Placing the stick in the doughnut allows the player to stick handle and pass just as in hockey. However a hefty player once in control of the doughnut can decide to charge like a bull thus resulting in violent clashes. Unlike hockey there was little or no protective gear and bruises and bloodied hands and shins and bruised ribs were common.

As an occasional volunteer to referee these games I must confess that the quality of refereeing left a lot to be desired and at times it could be a highly dangerous profession because of the emotional outbursts of players and their supporters disputing our well intentioned decisions. Some teams were formed around cultural heritage, Students with a Latin American or Mediterranean Rim background were particularly prone to doing this. Supported by their rabid fans, and with their nation's honour at stake, it added fuel to the fire. A menacing crowd surged onto the floor whenever a penalty or offside was called. It became difficult to find any referees who had the courage to volunteer for these games.

Following a shaky start The Waloopers floor hockey team began to win most of its games. I think that Don Beauprie's  marketing effort pumped a lot of adrenaline into our system and no doubt this had something to do with it. In the semi finals we faced a team from the McGill campus that included many players from the university's football team. It was a brutal game, more like rugger, and I recall at one point being tossed into the third row of seats. Suffice it to say we won because the McGill team thought they were playing  football and forgot about the puck.

Battered and torn we left the field of battle. I believe it was only a day or two later we were playing the final match. I recall passing by the beds of our team members pleading for them to rise up for the match. The typical answer was "I'm dying and go away" although there were murmurs of "I'll think about it". With the exception of our goalie who was on crutches and another with his arm in a sling they did show up at game time. I don't know what is in that adrenalin but within minutes of the game starting these wounded warriors had forgotten their aches and pains. I can't remember who the other team was but it was a well fought battle that we narrowly lost.

Dawson College, McGill's Annex 1948-50

Sports, Pranks, Social Events vs Education and how I almost screwed up

These stark frame buildings were quickly thrown up in 1941 as an RCAF training base. The base was undoubtedly a replica of many others and ideally set up for this purpose with barracks, a large canteen, class rooms, lecture halls and an array of indoor facilities for physical exercise such as a gymnasium, weight room, and bowling alleys. The flat and barren outdoor areas undoubtedly provided ample space for marching, shooting and whatever else military people commonly dream up. The objectives were clear and the recruits were disciplined, trained, acquired some physical conditioning before moving on to take their part in the war.

In May 1945 the war in Europe came to  an end and a few months later the dropping of two atomic bombs ended the war in the Pacific. I was 16 and working as bell hop in a summer hotel in Knowlton, Quebec when I heard the news that the bombs had been dropped, Many of the guest in the hotel were airmen and soldiers just back from the war in Europe and with their wives and girlfriends. We realized that the war would soon be over and we celebrated late into the night. It was a few days  later when the horror of those bombings began to sink in and I remember weighing and discussing with others whether a major crime had been committed..

With the troops coming home the RCAF training base was closed in 1945 and then reopened as Dawson College to handle the overflow of science and engineering students at McGill .The students were a mix of adolescent kids away from home for the first time, and war veterans catching up from several missed years of schooling and many with a family to support.

For the veterans they were clearly there for an education and Dawson College was no different from any other military facility they had to put up with for the past several years. They were a serious and hardworking group of students and had little patience for the fun loving adolescents.

For the adolescent students (overwhelmingly boys taking science and engineering back then) it was, and still is, a difficult period for many of handling the freedom that goes with escaping from family constraints, discovering beer drinking,  late nights, girls, sports, and sharing the general exuberance and spontaneity of teenage life with others. I recall being told by a professor at the start that from past experience 40% could be expected to drop out in their first year and only about one third would end up graduating. Are these figures correct? I don't know, but certainly the classes were much smaller in the final two years and many of my classmates had either left school or switched to take other courses.

Clearly some adolescent students came better prepared to enter university than others. They demonstrated study habits and a mature sense of purpose that I was still lacking. They had fun too but they knew why they were there. I had always taken for granted in high school that I would maintain a superior average without much effort. My dad would comment, "I'm worried because I don't see you spending enough time to prepare for your exams." and I would answer,"I'm ok. Stop worrying."


I confess that in that first semester I pursued sports, pranks and my social life with a vengeance.  I was failing to complete assignments, skipping some classes - often just to shoot baskets in the gym, and generally screwing up. I was abruptly and bluntly advised by the Administration following the marking of the Christmas exams that my marks didn't justify remaining in school. Facing failure a light bulb finally came on. I had worked in lumber camps and the mines to help pay for my education, What a waste. I would leave many good friends behind. What kind of career opportunities and life experiences would  I be missing? What would I say to my parents who had sacrificed so much? My priorities now were all wrong.  I had never experienced failure in any course up to now and now realizing that I was facing being asked either to leave or straighten up it was clear that I was being given a chance and it was obvious what I had to do. It would mean a lot of catching up to overcome those lousy first term results.

When the Winter Carnival was over at the end of January I attended all my lectures and even took notes rather than reading the newspaper at the back of the room, hit the books and began to study in earnest between lectures and late into most nights. In May I passed the year with a high second class average which must have meant a lot of A's considering the failing grades of that first term.

For the remaining three years leading up to graduation it was smooth sailing. My character and interests didn't really change that much but my priorities clearly had. I guess I was finally leaving part of my childhood behind.