Well, today was Christmas. I received this diary from Lindy - sure was nice of her. I got looks (sic) of nice presents from the family and I wish I could have been in Sweden with them too - but I still wanted to be with Grampie and Grammie - we had a great day - an excellent Christmas dinner and some people came over for a visit after supper (Mrs. Walters, Joe, and Lenna). My new ring was too small - will send it back to Mom and see what she thinks. I received a big sweater, socks, a game of Careers, Chess, a pen, candy, cuff-links, a soap ring, and lots of other things. Grammie and I went to midnight Mass last night and didn't get to bed until two o'clock. I am awfully sleepy now - had a wonderful Christmas. December 25, 1963.
That about says it all - jewellery, dinner and friendship with others, listing of assets and religion. Basically, the next thirty years just developed the themes and cost more. The visit with my maternal grandparents took place at their very modest, but equally clean, home in Mattawa, Ontario, near North Bay. It's not the type of town either my mother (Yvonne Marguerite Cournoyer) or I would ever make a point of visiting unless we had to. As far as I can tell, my mother and I have made a mission of avoiding such places as Mattawa most of our lives, and we view such venues as a form of purgatory, more as a voyage on the way down (when visiting) and the way up (when leaving). But apart from the physical environment, I have to say that I have exceptionally comfortable memories of the times I spent with my mother's parents. I just loved my grandfather's back shed. It smelled of thick, dry, clean wood. Even the floor was clean - no doubt the precursor to my mother's preoccupation. And my grandmother's plastic table cloth (more like an oil cloth with highly polished yellow flowers on it) is still nothing short of a tangible memory. I remember she knew how to spell very well, too, which is no small compliment considering she was strictly French Canadian peasant stock (Perrot) in a remote town where her husband (who was illiterate) was the foreman of a lumber mill (he had lost the index finger of his right hand to the first joint in a shop accident). It is significant to me that I spent as much time as I did with my maternal grandparents, since I hardly knew my father's father, and only once that I can recall (years later after graduating from law school) did I make a point of visiting my father's mother in Fredericton, N.B. where she was then living in the big old house at 301 Woodstock Road by the St. John's River as a widow. By contrast to my mother's side of the family, my father's family had grown up in the backseat of Packard's, and the ladies were accustomed to furs and diamonds, both of which foibles my father's mother encouraged my own mother to cultivate in my father at an early stage since she knew the window of opportunity on such matters was not without its limitations. My father's father was, among other things, a fox rancher, and my sister has inherited a beautiful “chubby” made from silver fox. The rings and gems which my father's mother had are thankfully still being enjoyed by subsequent generations and are destined for the same family enjoyment by my sister's girls.< Most of the people whom I visited with during my boarding school days were, I believe, people who wanted to have me around. But of course there were people who were fulfilling the perceived view that they had to "take care of me" during my parents' absence. Certain long-time friends of my parents, for example. True to form (perhaps fortunately for me) I was unaware of this obligation, and in certain instances I actually felt not only welcome, but that I was a positive asset to the scene (which, upon reflection years later, turns out to be a positive distortion of the truth). This was no more clear than upon my visits with people who had younger girls in their family. It was abundantly clear to me (and no doubt to them) that I had more interest in their parents than them. Generally, I liked "adult" things anyway. The younger girls, with their concerns about the Beatles and ballet, were little competition for the greater demands of pipe-smoking, economics and washing the old Mercedes convertible. But until I had been at St. Andrew's for quite a while, I could not rely upon the charity of parents of my own friends. I was stuck with the friends of my parents. This is not, however, to say that the visits with my parents' friends did not provide the fodder for some painfully ridiculous aspirations (or protestations), not to mention the almost soap-opera nature of some of my records at the time. I more than once decided that I was in love with one of their daughters. When it came to cultivating romantic images, I was in league with the best of them. This pattern, too, has continued throughout my life. Only recently can I say that I derive as much a thrill from what is happening as from what I imagine to be happening. My recording of events in my diary was not the only record I kept. I wrote letters. To family - parents and grandparents mostly (I think my mother still harbours hundreds of letters I wrote to her while in boarding school). Except for the past fifteen years of my life, I was an avid letter writer. Even recently, I have enjoyed the form of relief and pleasure I get from writing a long letter to someone whom I like. But most people I have anything to do with now are nearby, and writing them a letter would be absurd. But back then, at St. Andrew's, practically everybody I knew in the world was far away, so it made more sense to write to them. And for someone who was regularly receiving the beneficence of others, the communication of thanks was not without its place. Even as early as January 2, 1963, I was chastising myself about not getting certain things done: "Only one thing went badly today - I didn't memorize any lines". Those "lines" were lines from a play, The Monkey's Paw ". Considering my tender age and the fact that I was still on Christmas vacation, it seems significant to me that I was concerned about fulfilling a goal which I had obviously set for myself. Years later when I was studying philosophy at Glendon Hall in Toronto, I learned about existentialism, and the general theory that"you are what you do". Not unexpectedly, I related to that theory rather readily; and, still do. I was eventually to adopt the more pedestrian philosophy that one should first do what one has to do, and the rest will take care of itself. Clearly connected to the so-called "protestant work ethic". It is this, if anything, which distinguishes the love of work from the love of money, which naturally was not a driving force in my school days. A subsequent entry also highlights another feature which was to become quite significant in my life: the recording not only of events, but also of time (January 6, 1964: "Well, I finally did it. This afternoon, I worked for three point five hours and...I somehow managed to finish learning the script of the Monkey's Paw. What an accomplishment!"). In my later practice of law, I adopted a system of accounting to my Clients which included an extremely detailed record of the time I had spent fulfilling a certain task, the majority of which tasks comprised no more than five minutes. I have also surrounded myself throughout my life with time pieces: wrist watches, pocket watches, mantel clocks, ship's bells, grandfather clocks, wall clocks and boudoir clocks. This is something I may have perhaps inherited from my paternal grandfather, who, when he died, had something in the neighbourhood of forty watches, one of which each grandchild was entitled to choose. The fascination with time pieces is not, however, a mere preoccupation with the passage of time and the recording of it. Rather, it is a distinct affinity for the precision of the instrument, its accuracy and minute detail. In fact, most small, beautiful things appeal to me. Although I have regrettably never been an avid reader, I nonetheless have more than a passing interest in words. A family friend had given me a couple of his books to read when I was about fourteen years. I quickly recognized that the most stimulating element of not being able to comprehend the books was the possibility of increasing my vocabulary. The subject matter was lost on me in comparison to my preoccupation with the meaning of the new words being used.
Keeping a diary allowed me to have someone to talk to. Someone private, with whom I could be open. And it permitted subsequent examination. Consider, for example, the entry of January 5, 1964:
I discovered a few interesting things about myself today. I find that I am quite safe if I remain quiet - so from now on, I am going to endeavor (sic) to keep my mouth
shut - and educate myself!
I finally realized the things which are going to be the most important to me and I will try to gain achievement in the fields which I need not name.
The recollection of those important things that "I need not name" is forgotten. What amuses me is the early feeling I had that I should "remain quiet" about something. A form of repression, I suppose; and, for good or bad, certainly not a practice I have adopted.
The first day I arrived at St. Andrew's (which was about a week before the other boys who were already attending the school arrived), I recall being alone at the end of the day in my rather dismal room in Fourth House. When "lights out" was proclaimed by the House Master (Mr. Lloyd Campbell MacPherson), he said "Goodnight, Chapman"; and I said "Goodnight"; and he said "Goodnight, Sir!", which I then dutifully echoed. The room had two beds in it, as did most of them in the Upper School. So I was waiting for my roommate. His name was Keith Forsythe. He had been at St. Andrew's from the Lower School days at MacDonald House. I've pretty well lost touch with Keith, but I remember him very fondly. Keith was a singular person in many ways. To start with, he was a hockey player on the First Team. This in itself was an astounding accomplishment, since I know of no other boy who, at the age of 14 or 15, was playing against the much bigger and more developed 18 and 19 year old boys on the First Team. And Keith was good. Very good. I needn't tell you that when our gym Master (Mr. Aubrey Holmes) wanted to forgo the pleasure of our company for a wintry afternoon period, and would send us packing out-of-doors to play hockey, Keith skated circles around all of us. There were of course some members of our class who were from the Caribbean and could not have been expected to be as good skaters as most of the local Canadians, but Keith was by far the best. He even took it upon himself to isolate the puck in front of the net (which was normally unattended), then pass the puck to me to permit me to score! This, I can assure you, is the kind of roommate everyone wants. He did, in many ways, seem mature beyond his years. Somehow, somewhere he had experienced more than the rest of us. Maybe it was just that he rubbed shoulders with the older boys in the locker room after the First Team games. Whatever it was, he was more worldly. He didn't even care to have much to do with his peers. In fact, his days at St. Andrew's were numbered. On January 8, 1964 I wrote, "Keith brought some awfully bad news - his parents may separate and Keith will, more than likely, be going to a public school at half term." I also noted that he wasn't doing very well in his studies. What the statistics were for divorce back thirty years, I don't know. It was, however, to become a common event in the lives of the boys at the school. Most of the boys remained in the school following such upheaval in their family. Keith did not. And when he left, he really left. He left more than the school. He tried to leave society (the "citizens" as he called them). Years later in 1967 when I was entering undergraduate studies at Glendon Hall, Keith appeared one day on a Harley Davidson motorcycle. He talked to me about the disdain he had for what might conveniently be described as upper middle class society. He would, for example, enjoy attempting to "drag race" a Cadillac from a stop light. His father used to drive an Eldorado, and Keith hated it. I loved it, and Keith would arrange to let me drive it when I told him I preferred the Caddy to the back seat of the Harley.
The recollection of those important things that "I need not name" is forgotten. What amuses me is the early feeling I had that I should "remain quiet" about something. A form of repression, I suppose; and, for good or bad, certainly not a practice I have adopted.
The first day I arrived at St. Andrew's (which was about a week before the other boys who were already attending the school arrived), I recall being alone at the end of the day in my rather dismal room in Fourth House. When "lights out" was proclaimed by the House Master (Mr. Lloyd Campbell MacPherson), he said "Goodnight, Chapman"; and I said "Goodnight"; and he said "Goodnight, Sir!", which I then dutifully echoed. The room had two beds in it, as did most of them in the Upper School. So I was waiting for my roommate. His name was Keith Forsythe. He had been at St. Andrew's from the Lower School days at MacDonald House. I've pretty well lost touch with Keith, but I remember him very fondly. Keith was a singular person in many ways. To start with, he was a hockey player on the First Team. This in itself was an astounding accomplishment, since I know of no other boy who, at the age of 14 or 15, was playing against the much bigger and more developed 18 and 19 year old boys on the First Team. And Keith was good. Very good. I needn't tell you that when our gym Master (Mr. Aubrey Holmes) wanted to forgo the pleasure of our company for a wintry afternoon period, and would send us packing out-of-doors to play hockey, Keith skated circles around all of us. There were of course some members of our class who were from the Caribbean and could not have been expected to be as good skaters as most of the local Canadians, but Keith was by far the best. He even took it upon himself to isolate the puck in front of the net (which was normally unattended), then pass the puck to me to permit me to score! This, I can assure you, is the kind of roommate everyone wants. He did, in many ways, seem mature beyond his years. Somehow, somewhere he had experienced more than the rest of us. Maybe it was just that he rubbed shoulders with the older boys in the locker room after the First Team games. Whatever it was, he was more worldly. He didn't even care to have much to do with his peers. In fact, his days at St. Andrew's were numbered. On January 8, 1964 I wrote, "Keith brought some awfully bad news - his parents may separate and Keith will, more than likely, be going to a public school at half term." I also noted that he wasn't doing very well in his studies. What the statistics were for divorce back thirty years, I don't know. It was, however, to become a common event in the lives of the boys at the school. Most of the boys remained in the school following such upheaval in their family. Keith did not. And when he left, he really left. He left more than the school. He tried to leave society (the "citizens" as he called them). Years later in 1967 when I was entering undergraduate studies at Glendon Hall, Keith appeared one day on a Harley Davidson motorcycle. He talked to me about the disdain he had for what might conveniently be described as upper middle class society. He would, for example, enjoy attempting to "drag race" a Cadillac from a stop light. His father used to drive an Eldorado, and Keith hated it. I loved it, and Keith would arrange to let me drive it when I told him I preferred the Caddy to the back seat of the Harley.
I lost touch with him eventually. I somehow know, feel or imagine that he got a job slinging beer bottles at a Brewer's Retail; that he got married or shacked up with some woman, maybe even had a child; and might have been into motorcycle gangs and drugs. I really don't know for sure, although I did one night (years later in Almonte) manage to contact him by telephone in Toronto (through his uncle who was his namesake), but I was too drunk to remember the next day what he may have said.
The school left little to the imagination. The diaries are riddled with references to evening studies, early morning studies, rehearsals for a play, team sports and piano practice. The pace was obviously frenetic. In later years, it became even more complicated with duties as a House Captain or Prefect, working on the school year-book and undertaking religious matters directed to admission to the Anglican Church of Canada. The Christian theme is very evident. We frequently had guest speakers at our Sunday night Chapel visits, emphasizing "...the strong foundation which you can find in Christianity (April 19, 1964)".
Competition has always been a part of my life. Mostly confined to intellectual and academic matters, not so much because I'm particularly bright, but more because I was definitely not the most likely to succeed in sports (even though I like the "private" sports like skiing, bicycling and swimming, which I enjoy more for the exercise than the competition). The early school days nurtured the competitive spirit. We were constantly being quizzed, and the marks were quick to be returned. Most likely, this methodology of teaching (peculiar largely to Mr. Tibor Bozay, my first French master) was designed to impress our studies on our little brains. But it also encouraged competitiveness, and quite likely also discouraged those who were unable to keep up. The competitiveness also involved "comparativeness", in that I was soon in a horse-race with others for the top mark ("I got back the French quiz and I have a mark of 28/30 which isn't too bad. Daniel got the same mark though."January14,1964). Builti nto this preoccupation was also a general paranoia as "...I must make use of every possible minute as these things (studying and reading) are important" (January 14, 1964). When I was in law school I was hounded by this nightmare that I had failed to pursue my studies of a particular course, and that the examination was tomorrow and I had not prepared for it; that I had an entire book to read. The same dream resurfaced occasionally years after I had left school. It was somehow illustrative of a deeper fear: "Well, I'll try to do better tomorrow" (January 14, 1964). Part of "doing better" appears to have been getting up rather early in the morning (say three o'clock) to study. In my first year at St. Andrew's, I would, on these early morning studies, drape a small towel or T-shirt over the goose-neck lamp on my desk to focus the light onto the pages I was reading, so as not to disturb my sleeping roommate, Keith. It turned out in fact that Keith disturbed me more than I disturbed him, as he would engage in loud snoring bouts, which I eventually terminated in frustration by turning his head (actually twisting it would be more exact) on the pillow to permit a new flow of air which gave temporary relief from the noise. While I am not entirely certain whether I have some kind of persecution complex, there is no doubt that I was positively driven by the reward system, and probably am to this day (perhaps that explains all my indulgences from food and furnishings to cigarettes and cars). Aside from the mere competition, there was clearly also the desire to "keep score" of what I had done. Just another aspect of record keeping, I suppose; but it was as well an effort to measure the quality of what I had accomplished, if for no other reason than to prove to myself that I had done something throughout the day. In a less
The school left little to the imagination. The diaries are riddled with references to evening studies, early morning studies, rehearsals for a play, team sports and piano practice. The pace was obviously frenetic. In later years, it became even more complicated with duties as a House Captain or Prefect, working on the school year-book and undertaking religious matters directed to admission to the Anglican Church of Canada. The Christian theme is very evident. We frequently had guest speakers at our Sunday night Chapel visits, emphasizing "...the strong foundation which you can find in Christianity (April 19, 1964)".
Competition has always been a part of my life. Mostly confined to intellectual and academic matters, not so much because I'm particularly bright, but more because I was definitely not the most likely to succeed in sports (even though I like the "private" sports like skiing, bicycling and swimming, which I enjoy more for the exercise than the competition). The early school days nurtured the competitive spirit. We were constantly being quizzed, and the marks were quick to be returned. Most likely, this methodology of teaching (peculiar largely to Mr. Tibor Bozay, my first French master) was designed to impress our studies on our little brains. But it also encouraged competitiveness, and quite likely also discouraged those who were unable to keep up. The competitiveness also involved "comparativeness", in that I was soon in a horse-race with others for the top mark ("I got back the French quiz and I have a mark of 28/30 which isn't too bad. Daniel got the same mark though."January14,1964). Builti nto this preoccupation was also a general paranoia as "...I must make use of every possible minute as these things (studying and reading) are important" (January 14, 1964). When I was in law school I was hounded by this nightmare that I had failed to pursue my studies of a particular course, and that the examination was tomorrow and I had not prepared for it; that I had an entire book to read. The same dream resurfaced occasionally years after I had left school. It was somehow illustrative of a deeper fear: "Well, I'll try to do better tomorrow" (January 14, 1964). Part of "doing better" appears to have been getting up rather early in the morning (say three o'clock) to study. In my first year at St. Andrew's, I would, on these early morning studies, drape a small towel or T-shirt over the goose-neck lamp on my desk to focus the light onto the pages I was reading, so as not to disturb my sleeping roommate, Keith. It turned out in fact that Keith disturbed me more than I disturbed him, as he would engage in loud snoring bouts, which I eventually terminated in frustration by turning his head (actually twisting it would be more exact) on the pillow to permit a new flow of air which gave temporary relief from the noise. While I am not entirely certain whether I have some kind of persecution complex, there is no doubt that I was positively driven by the reward system, and probably am to this day (perhaps that explains all my indulgences from food and furnishings to cigarettes and cars). Aside from the mere competition, there was clearly also the desire to "keep score" of what I had done. Just another aspect of record keeping, I suppose; but it was as well an effort to measure the quality of what I had accomplished, if for no other reason than to prove to myself that I had done something throughout the day. In a less
charitable sense, I may have been busy just to be busy: "I conclude this:- when I have nothing to do, I do not do my best - I will try to overcome this in the future (January 24, 1964)".
The competition engendered by the School even extended to the fashion forum. As the "new boys" made their way into the society of St. Andrew's College (which meant learning certain songs, performing certain duties, etc.), they became entitled to wear the "Old Boy's" tie, which was a green light for any other school tie one might choose. Before that happy day, the only tie one could wear was the rather drab and plain dark blue "new boys" tie, a bit of unsophisticated textile akin to something you might imagine a bus driver to wear.
And the early period betrays the influence of religious training: "I am, however, remembering that this good fortune was due to God's will and I am indeed grateful" (January 16, 1964). Throughout my career at St. Andrew's, we were of course literally going to Church "every day and twice on Sundays". TheChapel(as it is more properly called) is very much a focal point of the school, being the venue for the annual Christmas Carol Services, the weekly Sunday "vespers", not to mention the numerous weddings which followed for the Old Boys in later life.
Life at St. Andrew's was not entirely life at St. Andrew's. They took us places - places like Horse Shoe Valley for skiing, the O'Keefe Centre (now the Hummingbird) for a concert, Stratford for Shakespearean theatre, art galleries, cathedral masses, play houses, movies, etc. In the midst of all this, on campus there were play rehearsals, sports activities, cadets, the regular studies of course and even piano lessons.
There were repeated references to my continuing love for certain girls, whose names no longer mean anything to me. People like "Rosemary" and "Janet". I cannot help but feel that I was simply fulfilling some kind of belief that one must have those "characters" in one's life to complete the set. No small surprise that little if anything was said about them, other than their name. There appears to have been no "relationship" at all.
There were odd, wicked moments too:
Peter Clarkson had a neat way of getting attention for a little while - he put on a mourning act because his budgie died (he wouldn't tell who died - I found out from Dave). Neat, eh? January 24, 1964.
The profundities of life were not lost on us in 1964:
At dinner, I talked with Bichan about nitroclycerine. C3H5 OH3 + 3HNA3. January 25, 1964
And again:
I really had an enjoyable day. This morning, I went to the Anglican Church with Pete
The competition engendered by the School even extended to the fashion forum. As the "new boys" made their way into the society of St. Andrew's College (which meant learning certain songs, performing certain duties, etc.), they became entitled to wear the "Old Boy's" tie, which was a green light for any other school tie one might choose. Before that happy day, the only tie one could wear was the rather drab and plain dark blue "new boys" tie, a bit of unsophisticated textile akin to something you might imagine a bus driver to wear.
And the early period betrays the influence of religious training: "I am, however, remembering that this good fortune was due to God's will and I am indeed grateful" (January 16, 1964). Throughout my career at St. Andrew's, we were of course literally going to Church "every day and twice on Sundays". TheChapel(as it is more properly called) is very much a focal point of the school, being the venue for the annual Christmas Carol Services, the weekly Sunday "vespers", not to mention the numerous weddings which followed for the Old Boys in later life.
Life at St. Andrew's was not entirely life at St. Andrew's. They took us places - places like Horse Shoe Valley for skiing, the O'Keefe Centre (now the Hummingbird) for a concert, Stratford for Shakespearean theatre, art galleries, cathedral masses, play houses, movies, etc. In the midst of all this, on campus there were play rehearsals, sports activities, cadets, the regular studies of course and even piano lessons.
There were repeated references to my continuing love for certain girls, whose names no longer mean anything to me. People like "Rosemary" and "Janet". I cannot help but feel that I was simply fulfilling some kind of belief that one must have those "characters" in one's life to complete the set. No small surprise that little if anything was said about them, other than their name. There appears to have been no "relationship" at all.
There were odd, wicked moments too:
Peter Clarkson had a neat way of getting attention for a little while - he put on a mourning act because his budgie died (he wouldn't tell who died - I found out from Dave). Neat, eh? January 24, 1964.
The profundities of life were not lost on us in 1964:
At dinner, I talked with Bichan about nitroclycerine. C3H5 OH3 + 3HNA3. January 25, 1964
And again:
I really had an enjoyable day. This morning, I went to the Anglican Church with Pete
Clarkson and I am finally convinced that I will, if I can manage it, become a member of the Anglican Church. The minister is indeed a nice man. January 26, 1964
And again:
This evening, we had a good chapel service. Rev. Ross K. Cameron spoke about the Christian religion. He said that we must make up our mind to follow Christ. After Chapel, Dave, Pete and Bill Grand and I went skating.
And there were the expected youthful things:
This afternoon, on our way home from Aurora, Dave and I ran all the way. January 26, 1964
And again:
...because Dave and I were throwing napkins in the milk and water pitchers after dinner (and we were caught!) 'ole Fudd (Mr. MacPherson) made the two of us scrub walls. Boy, he can be the most appalling being at times. Oh well, it was fun. February 1, 1964
While I was developing these affectations for religion, music and the theatre, my roommate (Keith Forsythe) was developing his own very different persona: "Count Cool" and the "Members of the Syndicate". I was never aware of where he picked up that stuff. He must have been reading something somewhere, but he never shared his literature with me (perhaps because he would not have liked me to know his source). Anyway, I must have felt the fabrication suited Keith, since I recorded that it was right up there with "life, family, girls" (January 26, 1964).
The awareness of personal development abounds:
Well, I merely want to say that I had a fairly good day. I did, however, make several sad and repeated discoveries about myself. I must keep very quiet at all times because the minute that I open my mouth, I overdue (sic) everything and I end up by making a fool of myself. Second, I must be a true friend to DD (David Daniels), respect him and what he does, and make firm decisions on my believes (sic). With this accomplished, I feel sure that I will improve. As usual, it will be a strain on me to keep quiet and to think what I know without hurting people's feelings. My loquacious flattering is indeed fake - I will attempt to subdue this. January 29, 1964
And again:
I found out another omnipresent frailty of my character - and I am unhappy - I must stop telling little white lies by fooling people.
And again:
This evening, we had a good chapel service. Rev. Ross K. Cameron spoke about the Christian religion. He said that we must make up our mind to follow Christ. After Chapel, Dave, Pete and Bill Grand and I went skating.
And there were the expected youthful things:
This afternoon, on our way home from Aurora, Dave and I ran all the way. January 26, 1964
And again:
...because Dave and I were throwing napkins in the milk and water pitchers after dinner (and we were caught!) 'ole Fudd (Mr. MacPherson) made the two of us scrub walls. Boy, he can be the most appalling being at times. Oh well, it was fun. February 1, 1964
While I was developing these affectations for religion, music and the theatre, my roommate (Keith Forsythe) was developing his own very different persona: "Count Cool" and the "Members of the Syndicate". I was never aware of where he picked up that stuff. He must have been reading something somewhere, but he never shared his literature with me (perhaps because he would not have liked me to know his source). Anyway, I must have felt the fabrication suited Keith, since I recorded that it was right up there with "life, family, girls" (January 26, 1964).
The awareness of personal development abounds:
Well, I merely want to say that I had a fairly good day. I did, however, make several sad and repeated discoveries about myself. I must keep very quiet at all times because the minute that I open my mouth, I overdue (sic) everything and I end up by making a fool of myself. Second, I must be a true friend to DD (David Daniels), respect him and what he does, and make firm decisions on my believes (sic). With this accomplished, I feel sure that I will improve. As usual, it will be a strain on me to keep quiet and to think what I know without hurting people's feelings. My loquacious flattering is indeed fake - I will attempt to subdue this. January 29, 1964
And again:
I found out another omnipresent frailty of my character - and I am unhappy - I must stop telling little white lies by fooling people.
And again:
Well, I really must be going for know (sic). I will try to be good tomorrow and do everything the right way. February 13, 1964.
The socializing at St. Andrew's was quite humourous:
Well, tonight we had our skating party and, of course, I had a blind date. Boy, it was such a new experience. First, the girls got off the buses and we paired off. After that we had dinner followed by skating. The girl I was with was called Brenda Chappel - she was one of the cutest ones there and I felt pretty damn lucky. After skating, we went over to the tuck shop and got some doughnuts and cookies. Then we went over and danced. I made very few mistakes tonight. I held hands with her immediately (so there was no beating around the bush) and I waltzed with her for the same reasons. When we waltzed, we got really close together, and boy was she built. She didn't talk much and neither did I so all went well. Even the goodbye was well said. She's a nice Kid. February 8, 1964.
The socializing away from St. Andrew's also told its own story:
This afternoon also, I met Bill Mulock and a friend of his who has his driver's licence and also a blue Corvair convertible. So, the three of us went for a drive out to Mulock's place and, boy, does the Big Moo ever have a nice house. He also has swimming pool. February 15, 1964
As we moved through the ranks of the cadet corps (No. 142 St. Andrew's College Highland Cadet Corps), we joined in the dining and dancing festivities of the Annual Cadet Ball. Dressed as we were in the kilt, complete with white spats, white shoulder strapping, tartan fly and shining brass buttons, we no doubt looked quite striking next to the young ladies in their long gowns and wrist corsages. In the latter years of school, the Ball was actually only the beginning. The "best part" (as far as we were concerned) involved what was euphemistically called the "breakfast party" afterwards. I need not say that there was more "party" than "breakfast" at these events, which customarily took place in one of the downtown Toronto hotels, like the King Edward or the Royal York, where we would book a suite, having abandoned the chauffeur driven limousine for the next six hours. At times, our behaviour at these establishments was less than gentlemanly, and it was therefore no surprise to us upon returning to school the following Monday to discover a telegram posted on the House bulletin board from the Headmaster informing us that one or the other of the hotels had banned St. Andrew's boys from their premises. On one occasion, we decided to hold the breakfast party at a friend's residence (his parents were out of town). The only catch was that the friend lived in Kingston. We therefore arranged a club car on a train from Union Station late in the evening, then headed off to Kingston. By the time we got there, we were all so tired and worn out that we really had little energy left at all to do any possible damage to anyone (including ourselves) or anything.
The socializing at St. Andrew's was quite humourous:
Well, tonight we had our skating party and, of course, I had a blind date. Boy, it was such a new experience. First, the girls got off the buses and we paired off. After that we had dinner followed by skating. The girl I was with was called Brenda Chappel - she was one of the cutest ones there and I felt pretty damn lucky. After skating, we went over to the tuck shop and got some doughnuts and cookies. Then we went over and danced. I made very few mistakes tonight. I held hands with her immediately (so there was no beating around the bush) and I waltzed with her for the same reasons. When we waltzed, we got really close together, and boy was she built. She didn't talk much and neither did I so all went well. Even the goodbye was well said. She's a nice Kid. February 8, 1964.
The socializing away from St. Andrew's also told its own story:
This afternoon also, I met Bill Mulock and a friend of his who has his driver's licence and also a blue Corvair convertible. So, the three of us went for a drive out to Mulock's place and, boy, does the Big Moo ever have a nice house. He also has swimming pool. February 15, 1964
As we moved through the ranks of the cadet corps (No. 142 St. Andrew's College Highland Cadet Corps), we joined in the dining and dancing festivities of the Annual Cadet Ball. Dressed as we were in the kilt, complete with white spats, white shoulder strapping, tartan fly and shining brass buttons, we no doubt looked quite striking next to the young ladies in their long gowns and wrist corsages. In the latter years of school, the Ball was actually only the beginning. The "best part" (as far as we were concerned) involved what was euphemistically called the "breakfast party" afterwards. I need not say that there was more "party" than "breakfast" at these events, which customarily took place in one of the downtown Toronto hotels, like the King Edward or the Royal York, where we would book a suite, having abandoned the chauffeur driven limousine for the next six hours. At times, our behaviour at these establishments was less than gentlemanly, and it was therefore no surprise to us upon returning to school the following Monday to discover a telegram posted on the House bulletin board from the Headmaster informing us that one or the other of the hotels had banned St. Andrew's boys from their premises. On one occasion, we decided to hold the breakfast party at a friend's residence (his parents were out of town). The only catch was that the friend lived in Kingston. We therefore arranged a club car on a train from Union Station late in the evening, then headed off to Kingston. By the time we got there, we were all so tired and worn out that we really had little energy left at all to do any possible damage to anyone (including ourselves) or anything.
And of course the masters at the school were unforgettable:
This afternoon, Jamie (Mr. James Carman Mainprize) went crazy and once again refused to teach. March 2, 1964
We had nicknames for virtually all the Masters: Fudd (the rather portly Mr. Lloyd C. MacPherson), Thube (Mr. Theodore Gibb, whose signature looked like his nickname), Mither Timth (Mr. Timms, who had a slight lisp), Pussy Ives (Mr. Ken Ives, who made a habit of catching boys talking after "lights out" by wearing hush-puppy shoes to shelter his approach from our wary ears), and so on. The Masters were unquestionably among the most dedicated people in the world. Their work was not only teaching, but getting the boys going in the morning, ensuring they were in bed at night, supervising evening studies, coaching sports and being there for spiritual and other emergencies.
The sixties had one significant element which abounded throughout the world:
The Beetles were on TV tonight and they were really terrific. Don Robson, Bob Kilgour, Keith and I all had a talk about the Beetles for a while - it was O.K. February 9, 1964
While I mentioned my family in almost every diary entry ("I received a few letters from home and all is well for them." April 20, 1964), it seems that the separation from family was taken as a given, and there is no obvious "home sickness" or anything like that.
The first year at St. Andrew's involved a growing relationship with Bill Grand. He lived down the hall from me. Fourth House, where we resided, had the outer appearance of an attractive full-brick residence with ivy on the walls, facing onto the central parade grounds, across from the Chapel. Inside, however, was a different story. While some of the upper rooms in the older part of Fourth House had still retained some of their charm (one of the rooms I later had there even had its own fire place), the lower level was quite "modern" in the worst sense of the word, with plain walls, barren hallways and uninviting surroundings generally. It reminds me of the cinder-block residence I lived in at Glendon Hall after I left St. Andrew's. Anyway, Bill Grand and I had an obvious affection for one another. On April 20, 1964, I recorded that he had invited me to spend a weekend with him and his father at their cottage on Grand Island in Muskoka (which was a summer resort for many of the families from St. Andrew's). Bill and I had our fair share of mutual activities, including Cadets (we were in the same platoon) and sports (football). And, for the first year (Fourth Form) anyway, we were in the same class (IVB), although that changed the following year when I "graduated" to a more academic strain (IVA).
Sex was not a completely forbidden subject. In one of our confirmation classes, "We next talked about prostitution, adultery and few other things concerning sex, which (we) discussed in a very straight forward but meaningful way (April 21, 1964)". It wasn't until Mr. Louis Pitman got hold of us next year that we really tackled the subject through the vehicle of J. D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye. But even then, it was little more than passive observation, and certainly nothing
approaching what I understand is the more current form of scientific inquiry and explanation.
The little green diary has a number of platitudes which amuse me:
Time is a wonderful thing - so mean and yet so good. April 20, 1964.
You know, it seems as though everybody talks about time as being the most important thing in the whole world, and I am inclined to agree. There never is enough but I do utilize all the time I have, I think. April 21, 1964.
We had a cadet practice and Corporal Addison balled me out several times because my dressing was bad but I kept my mouth shut and it payed (sic) off. You can only give commands when you learn to take them. April 22, 1964.
You know, life really fascinates me. It is so much fun to sit back and watch people. When I pray to God in Church every morning I always ask for wisdom because I think that that is the best thing anyone could ask for. I would like to have deep insight into life and be able to understand just what makes people tick. I hope to do this through a period of time by writing down what I learn about life in this diary. People very often make fools of themselves because they talk too much and in the process, they reveal things about themselves which people, their friends for example, accumulate over a period of time and after a while, they are able to make a pretty fair estimation of you. Another thing which greatly influences my life is nostalgia. I find that even a single note of music, a blade of green grass, a falling leaf, and other seemingly useless things have the greatest effect on me. April 22, 1964.
The little green diary has a number of platitudes which amuse me:
Time is a wonderful thing - so mean and yet so good. April 20, 1964.
You know, it seems as though everybody talks about time as being the most important thing in the whole world, and I am inclined to agree. There never is enough but I do utilize all the time I have, I think. April 21, 1964.
We had a cadet practice and Corporal Addison balled me out several times because my dressing was bad but I kept my mouth shut and it payed (sic) off. You can only give commands when you learn to take them. April 22, 1964.
You know, life really fascinates me. It is so much fun to sit back and watch people. When I pray to God in Church every morning I always ask for wisdom because I think that that is the best thing anyone could ask for. I would like to have deep insight into life and be able to understand just what makes people tick. I hope to do this through a period of time by writing down what I learn about life in this diary. People very often make fools of themselves because they talk too much and in the process, they reveal things about themselves which people, their friends for example, accumulate over a period of time and after a while, they are able to make a pretty fair estimation of you. Another thing which greatly influences my life is nostalgia. I find that even a single note of music, a blade of green grass, a falling leaf, and other seemingly useless things have the greatest effect on me. April 22, 1964.
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