The singular feature about Articling (at least in the days when I did it) was that you barely got paid for it. If I remember correctly, my annual salary may have approached $4,000, if that. Which meant that the luxuries of life were unattainable, and one even had to be creative about the necessities. Fortunately for me, the necessities were all I needed at that time. Having broken off my engagement with Heather in the summer after leaving Halifax, I made a not unexpected about-face which included a passionate conviction to losing weight, eating only raw foods, no drinking (though I still smoked very heavily), very little socializing, going to bed early, getting up early to bicycle as much as 150 miles a week, and the like - or the dislike, if you will! I lived in Pestallozzi College, 160 Chapel Street on the corner of Rideau Street.
This was a new high-rise red-brick complex built for young persons (mostly students); and while the cost for an apartment was low ($225 per month), the amenities were good (hardwood floors throughout, separate rooms for bath, living and kitchen; free off-suite laundry facilities on each floor). My furnishings left a lot to be desired - a couple of wicker chairs my parents had in the basement; a water bed (which was only on the floor, encased by pine walls, but not on a stand); and a couple of cheap side tables and lamps. The day that I bought a case of beer (a six-pack only, not 12 or 24!), I thought I had reached the epitome of success. I even invited people over to enjoy it with me. And a visit to Harvey’s hamburger joint down the street was not taken lightly, but rather was “dining out” in the finest tradition. The vegetable and fruit market (the Byward Market in the centre of Ottawa) was of course close by, and I could buy enough food there to last me a week for a mere few dollars. It would have been unheard of to buy such a thing as olive oil to put on the vegetables! Small wonder I lost 40 pounds in short order!
The sylph-like figure was not, however, to last. Following a respectable period of mourning (after I broke things off with Heather), I did of course make new friends in Ottawa; and that inevitably led to the usual hang-outs in bars and restaurants. As my social agenda increased, my bicycling and early nights decreased. I was however, during this period, very aware of being alone in Ottawa. Since I was not living with my parents, from whom I felt ostracized because of the problems with Heather, and because I had no other connections in Ottawa to speak of, I really felt that for the first time “I have my very own life (October 10, 1973)”. This, combined with an emerging sense of maturity, made me feel somewhat uncomfortable, as I began to see the future of work and routine coming into focus. Nonetheless, I still had time to visit the Chez Henri in Hull, P.Q. until the wee hours of the morning. Several of us would close the bar in Ottawa, then head over to the Hull side for continued indulgence. The “Chez” was an incredibly colourful and noisy place, positively full of characters whom one could stare at for long periods. Even the staff was unusual. We usually terminated our evening by stopping into some restaurant for Chinese food.
My work at Macdonald, Affleck was a necessary evil. My Principal was Mr. Robert McLachlan, who frankly did little to supervise or improve my work. He was over-worked, ate a lot of pills (he had a drawer full of them), and eventually died at a relatively young age (in his fifties, I believe)of a heart attack. As the articled clerk, my office was basically in a “back room”, at the end of the hallway, not far from the Secretaries’ lunch room (where all the good gossip took place, starting at eight o’clock in the morning). Apart from some minor bits of imaginative drafting, most of the time was spent rushing to and from the Registry Office to close real estate deals. I did not have to do any title searches, since we had one paralegal (also named Bill) who did only that for all the members of the firm. Bill and I later became friendly enough to go bicycling together in the summer months, but he unfortunately had a mental breakdown one day on his way to the Registry Office. I had just left the Registry, and I saw him coming towards me, carrying a brief case of files. As he came into view, he just threw the entire brief case into the air, and the papers and certified cheques went flying everywhere. He must have disappeared right after that, leaving me to pick up the pieces, so to speak. Later, I learned that he had checked himself into the Royal Ottawa. All I remember about him was when he asked me in my office one day whether I thought girls would like him better if he purchased a Corvette.
This was a new high-rise red-brick complex built for young persons (mostly students); and while the cost for an apartment was low ($225 per month), the amenities were good (hardwood floors throughout, separate rooms for bath, living and kitchen; free off-suite laundry facilities on each floor). My furnishings left a lot to be desired - a couple of wicker chairs my parents had in the basement; a water bed (which was only on the floor, encased by pine walls, but not on a stand); and a couple of cheap side tables and lamps. The day that I bought a case of beer (a six-pack only, not 12 or 24!), I thought I had reached the epitome of success. I even invited people over to enjoy it with me. And a visit to Harvey’s hamburger joint down the street was not taken lightly, but rather was “dining out” in the finest tradition. The vegetable and fruit market (the Byward Market in the centre of Ottawa) was of course close by, and I could buy enough food there to last me a week for a mere few dollars. It would have been unheard of to buy such a thing as olive oil to put on the vegetables! Small wonder I lost 40 pounds in short order!
The sylph-like figure was not, however, to last. Following a respectable period of mourning (after I broke things off with Heather), I did of course make new friends in Ottawa; and that inevitably led to the usual hang-outs in bars and restaurants. As my social agenda increased, my bicycling and early nights decreased. I was however, during this period, very aware of being alone in Ottawa. Since I was not living with my parents, from whom I felt ostracized because of the problems with Heather, and because I had no other connections in Ottawa to speak of, I really felt that for the first time “I have my very own life (October 10, 1973)”. This, combined with an emerging sense of maturity, made me feel somewhat uncomfortable, as I began to see the future of work and routine coming into focus. Nonetheless, I still had time to visit the Chez Henri in Hull, P.Q. until the wee hours of the morning. Several of us would close the bar in Ottawa, then head over to the Hull side for continued indulgence. The “Chez” was an incredibly colourful and noisy place, positively full of characters whom one could stare at for long periods. Even the staff was unusual. We usually terminated our evening by stopping into some restaurant for Chinese food.
My work at Macdonald, Affleck was a necessary evil. My Principal was Mr. Robert McLachlan, who frankly did little to supervise or improve my work. He was over-worked, ate a lot of pills (he had a drawer full of them), and eventually died at a relatively young age (in his fifties, I believe)of a heart attack. As the articled clerk, my office was basically in a “back room”, at the end of the hallway, not far from the Secretaries’ lunch room (where all the good gossip took place, starting at eight o’clock in the morning). Apart from some minor bits of imaginative drafting, most of the time was spent rushing to and from the Registry Office to close real estate deals. I did not have to do any title searches, since we had one paralegal (also named Bill) who did only that for all the members of the firm. Bill and I later became friendly enough to go bicycling together in the summer months, but he unfortunately had a mental breakdown one day on his way to the Registry Office. I had just left the Registry, and I saw him coming towards me, carrying a brief case of files. As he came into view, he just threw the entire brief case into the air, and the papers and certified cheques went flying everywhere. He must have disappeared right after that, leaving me to pick up the pieces, so to speak. Later, I learned that he had checked himself into the Royal Ottawa. All I remember about him was when he asked me in my office one day whether I thought girls would like him better if he purchased a Corvette.
Actually, I am the last one to be commenting upon people’s idle speculations about the value of material possessions. My devotion to material needs and desires is well known, as is my delight in outward appearances (mine and others). It is perhaps a fine line only that separates the materialist’s way of life from that of the lunatic who sees his own narcissistic face shining back from the polished hood of a Corvette. However fine that line may be, I still applaud myself for seeing less than the morbid side of such self-admiration. Rather, I see the things of my life as pleasures to enjoy again and again. And there is little doubt that these same things have enhanced more than one evening of a visitor’s stay with me. Although to be truthful, I cannot help but recall the comment that John Fitchett (whom at the time I had only just recently met) made many years later in Almonte after several cocktails and settling into dinner at my home: “Billy”, he said, “You and I should really go shopping someday. Put all this shit in the basement or burn it, and I’ll show you some nice stuff!” Or words to that effect. What I do remember distinctly is reacting with a considerable degree of alarm, not only because of what he had said, but also because of his apparent total lack of remorse, misgiving or apology which followed the statement. This, I was to discover over the next number of years, was Johnnie at his best. Say it like it is! In fairness though, John is also able to withstand a good measure of personal assault himself. At least he takes as good as he gets! For example (and here I am again getting ahead of myself a bit), I laugh when I think of the late afternoon that John and I came rolling back to his very well appointed apartment on Bronson Avenue from the watering hole in the Market. We had to get my dog Monroe out of hawk (John never objected to my leaving Monroe at his place if we had to go somewhere) to permit him to void his bladder. And lest we were to expire from thirst (and I think it actually was quite a hot day in July), John wasted no time, before our departure with Monroe in tow, mixing up some rather generous gin martinis in his equally generous Waterford cut crystal tumblers. As we went onto the sidewalk sporting our martinis (and likely a cigarette) heading towards Bronson, with Monroe ahead of us watering the lawns, John noticed an obviously disoriented gentleman making his way with saucer eyes in our direction. John made some cutting remark about the evil effects of drugs upon the riff-raff, to which I replied without a moment’s hesitation (other than perhaps a steadying sip of my martini), “What the hell are you talking about! Look at us!”
Some aspects of my materialism were, however, less admirable. There is no question that I continued to harbour the commitment to acquisition which I had begun to cultivate years before at boarding school and in Toronto generally. In those environments, I was frequently surrounded by people who were well-to-do, and their material possessions were even more obvious. Whether it was the drive to imitate or emulate; or mere envy and jealousy is, pardon the pun, quite immaterial. What is clear from my diary records is that the more closely involved I became with the legal environment, the more anxious I was becoming about my material world and the “image” that I felt possessions projected about me. To be blunt, it was a bit of an illness, not a healthy attitude. I mention this, not because I am particularly anxious to betray one of my many weaknesses, but rather because the preoccupation seems to have either been sated or vanished over the years. I feel that that particular shallowness has been replaced by a more genuine concern for community involvement and general satisfaction with what I have. But, after all, this is not an unexpected development with age. Some things do perhaps change!
Some aspects of my materialism were, however, less admirable. There is no question that I continued to harbour the commitment to acquisition which I had begun to cultivate years before at boarding school and in Toronto generally. In those environments, I was frequently surrounded by people who were well-to-do, and their material possessions were even more obvious. Whether it was the drive to imitate or emulate; or mere envy and jealousy is, pardon the pun, quite immaterial. What is clear from my diary records is that the more closely involved I became with the legal environment, the more anxious I was becoming about my material world and the “image” that I felt possessions projected about me. To be blunt, it was a bit of an illness, not a healthy attitude. I mention this, not because I am particularly anxious to betray one of my many weaknesses, but rather because the preoccupation seems to have either been sated or vanished over the years. I feel that that particular shallowness has been replaced by a more genuine concern for community involvement and general satisfaction with what I have. But, after all, this is not an unexpected development with age. Some things do perhaps change!
On December 11, 1973 (my birthday), I was reflecting upon my life as I suppose one is wont to do on such occasions, and I stated that:
This is the first time in ages that I actually feel confident and secure. I am pleased with my job, and the prospects for the future look good.. I talked tonight with Robbie about my possible return to Halifax to practice law. Ottawa is a good place, and I suppose I could make an interesting career here. But there is something attractive about the Ocean and the difficulties of life in Nova Scotia.
I certainly would not have been the first person to profess a love for the sea. Nonetheless, it is an attraction which has never left me. Lakes and rivers leave me cold. I remember when I first came to Ottawa after three years of studies in Halifax, I was plagued by some unknown anguish and anxiety, which only months later I characterized as an emotional separation from the Ocean. And the reference to the “difficulties of life in Nova Scotia” was at the time a very real and plausible observation. We in Ontario and “Upper Canada” generally are quite insulated from a great deal of the daily struggles which people in the Maritime provinces must undergo. There simply is not the same amount of public funding available. This is not, however, to say that a majority of the people inthoseprovinceswouldforaminutegiveupthelifetheyhavethere. LifeinNovaScotiaalways seemed very tangible to me, less artificial than, say, in Toronto. Which I suppose is a small complement, but it at least illustrates a faint bit of truth in what I am saying.
As the term of Articles wore on, I had to address where I was going to live in Toronto when I attended the Bar Admission Course at Osgoode Hall, and how I was going to pay for it. As early as April 15, 1974 (the Bar exams commenced in September following) I made reference to communications with Dean Charles Lennox of Devonshire House, University of Toronto, to whom I had applied for a job as a Don of Residence. I had also applied to Glendon Hall for a similar position, but it was clear that being at University of Toronto would better, since the residence was within walking distance of Osgoode Hall on the corner of University Avenue and Queen Street.
Something which was rather unusual for me was the assistance I gave to Robbie Gourgon, a young friend of mine, in getting accepted to the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design. I not only arranged his introduction to the Admission’s Officer (whom I had known at Law School), but also arranged for him to meet Mr. Eric Balcolm. Eric, who lived outside Halifax, was a former Member of the Nova Scotia Legislature. He had a history of providing financial support to young academics who
This is the first time in ages that I actually feel confident and secure. I am pleased with my job, and the prospects for the future look good.. I talked tonight with Robbie about my possible return to Halifax to practice law. Ottawa is a good place, and I suppose I could make an interesting career here. But there is something attractive about the Ocean and the difficulties of life in Nova Scotia.
I certainly would not have been the first person to profess a love for the sea. Nonetheless, it is an attraction which has never left me. Lakes and rivers leave me cold. I remember when I first came to Ottawa after three years of studies in Halifax, I was plagued by some unknown anguish and anxiety, which only months later I characterized as an emotional separation from the Ocean. And the reference to the “difficulties of life in Nova Scotia” was at the time a very real and plausible observation. We in Ontario and “Upper Canada” generally are quite insulated from a great deal of the daily struggles which people in the Maritime provinces must undergo. There simply is not the same amount of public funding available. This is not, however, to say that a majority of the people inthoseprovinceswouldforaminutegiveupthelifetheyhavethere. LifeinNovaScotiaalways seemed very tangible to me, less artificial than, say, in Toronto. Which I suppose is a small complement, but it at least illustrates a faint bit of truth in what I am saying.
As the term of Articles wore on, I had to address where I was going to live in Toronto when I attended the Bar Admission Course at Osgoode Hall, and how I was going to pay for it. As early as April 15, 1974 (the Bar exams commenced in September following) I made reference to communications with Dean Charles Lennox of Devonshire House, University of Toronto, to whom I had applied for a job as a Don of Residence. I had also applied to Glendon Hall for a similar position, but it was clear that being at University of Toronto would better, since the residence was within walking distance of Osgoode Hall on the corner of University Avenue and Queen Street.
Something which was rather unusual for me was the assistance I gave to Robbie Gourgon, a young friend of mine, in getting accepted to the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design. I not only arranged his introduction to the Admission’s Officer (whom I had known at Law School), but also arranged for him to meet Mr. Eric Balcolm. Eric, who lived outside Halifax, was a former Member of the Nova Scotia Legislature. He had a history of providing financial support to young academics who
were in financial need. As it turned out, Eric’s assessment of people’s ability was more finely tuned than my own at the time. While Robbie did in fact go to the College (without Eric’s financial assistance), his stay there did not last long. I imagine that it was partly my fault for pushing him into something for which he really was not well suited. However, it did give him an opportunity and perhaps a few memories.
Before I leave the subject of Eric Balcolm, I must recount a story which he told me on one of my visits to his beautiful home on the South Shore outside Halifax. The property was quite extensive, located a spit from the Ocean, and on it was a large and comfortable old home, packed to the rafters with antiques of every description. Eric, who did not drink a drop of alcohol, loved to entertain. On one occasion, he had orchestrated a large tea party and the Premier of the Province had been flown in by helicopter for the afternoon, landing on the lawns beside the home. There were about 500 people in attendance. One lady came up to Eric during the course of the tea and asked where he had rented 500 tea cups and saucers and spoons for the party, to which Eric promptly replied that he had not rented them at all, that he in fact owned them all! What he hadn't told her, however, was that he used to own the Paramount Hotel in Wolfville, and I guess he brought some of the goods with him for occasions such as this.
Before I leave the subject of Eric Balcolm, I must recount a story which he told me on one of my visits to his beautiful home on the South Shore outside Halifax. The property was quite extensive, located a spit from the Ocean, and on it was a large and comfortable old home, packed to the rafters with antiques of every description. Eric, who did not drink a drop of alcohol, loved to entertain. On one occasion, he had orchestrated a large tea party and the Premier of the Province had been flown in by helicopter for the afternoon, landing on the lawns beside the home. There were about 500 people in attendance. One lady came up to Eric during the course of the tea and asked where he had rented 500 tea cups and saucers and spoons for the party, to which Eric promptly replied that he had not rented them at all, that he in fact owned them all! What he hadn't told her, however, was that he used to own the Paramount Hotel in Wolfville, and I guess he brought some of the goods with him for occasions such as this.
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