Law School revitalized me in many ways. It was the first time I had been out of the Toronto area (or "Upper Canada", as it was called in the Maritimes) for many years. I was away from literally everyone I knew, and I had lots of time on my hands to think about the past and to develop in directions that amused or pleased me. There was clearly less pressure on me from others, because I had no standard to conform to, other than any I may have had for myself. It was also a lonely time, and in fact it must have got the best of me, because I reapplied to Osgoode Hall (which had previously accepted me, but I had declined) for admission and was again accepted for my second and subsequent years. However, Dean Murray Fraser specifically asked me to stay, which of course I did, and I have never regretted that decision.
When I first arrived in Halifax, I briefly questioned whether in fact I wanted to study law. Really, there had never been any question in my mind about that; I had thought about being a lawyer from the time I was a child, and the lawyers I had met over the years were obviously role models for me. And anyway, what was I going to do with a degree in Philosophy, which I had studied only as some kind of intellectual diversion before getting down to the business of earning a living through a trade, albeit a professional one. Still, I harbored the fantasy of being an artist of some description, perhaps an actor or a writer. As it turned out, writing again resurfaced in Law School the way it had begun at St. Andrew's - a pastime in a completely new environment. This time, however, I approached writing more seriously, more commitment to thinking and recording (though, frankly, the success of my efforts is questionable). By coincidence, I became involved in a "Free School" which had been started up in Halifax. The attempt was to teach children in a school outside the normal system. I suspect it failed. I know my attempts at teaching failed. I quickly learned that knowing something and teaching it are two different matters. And the children can quickly steer the conversation into absurd directions.
Studying was clearly the order of the day at Law School. My direction to becoming a professional was apparent:
I woke up at 7:30 this morning. As usual. And I immediately slipped into my programmed pattern of behaviour for the day. The pattern was not very complex; that is, it did not vary much. In fact, the pattern didn't vary at all. I just studied and went to classes all day. October 6, 1970.
And the pressure in law school is phenomenal. I'm just trying to get through each new day without letting one valuable hour of study slip by me. March 3, 1971.
The first year at Dalhousie was magical in many respects:
Recently I have spent a lot of time alone. Doing absolutely nothing. It energizes me beyond anything I ever do. Doing square root! Only later do I realize how many ideas have developed within me during theses moments of nothingness. March 6, 1971.
When I first arrived in Halifax, I briefly questioned whether in fact I wanted to study law. Really, there had never been any question in my mind about that; I had thought about being a lawyer from the time I was a child, and the lawyers I had met over the years were obviously role models for me. And anyway, what was I going to do with a degree in Philosophy, which I had studied only as some kind of intellectual diversion before getting down to the business of earning a living through a trade, albeit a professional one. Still, I harbored the fantasy of being an artist of some description, perhaps an actor or a writer. As it turned out, writing again resurfaced in Law School the way it had begun at St. Andrew's - a pastime in a completely new environment. This time, however, I approached writing more seriously, more commitment to thinking and recording (though, frankly, the success of my efforts is questionable). By coincidence, I became involved in a "Free School" which had been started up in Halifax. The attempt was to teach children in a school outside the normal system. I suspect it failed. I know my attempts at teaching failed. I quickly learned that knowing something and teaching it are two different matters. And the children can quickly steer the conversation into absurd directions.
Studying was clearly the order of the day at Law School. My direction to becoming a professional was apparent:
I woke up at 7:30 this morning. As usual. And I immediately slipped into my programmed pattern of behaviour for the day. The pattern was not very complex; that is, it did not vary much. In fact, the pattern didn't vary at all. I just studied and went to classes all day. October 6, 1970.
And the pressure in law school is phenomenal. I'm just trying to get through each new day without letting one valuable hour of study slip by me. March 3, 1971.
The first year at Dalhousie was magical in many respects:
Recently I have spent a lot of time alone. Doing absolutely nothing. It energizes me beyond anything I ever do. Doing square root! Only later do I realize how many ideas have developed within me during theses moments of nothingness. March 6, 1971.
And I had my share of romances. Halifax, while it certainly had its measure of dreadful weather (including in particular the winter slush), also enjoyed some of the finest blue skies imaginable. When the fresh sea air came off the Ocean, there was nothing like it. I often remembering walking along the beach in the local Park, for hours, just watching the sea and listening to all the sounds of gulls and surf and crackling rocks. There is no doubt that the distinctly refreshing environment played a big part in opening up my soul as wide as the nearby sea. And, too, Halifax is of course one of the oldest (if not in fact the oldest) cities in Canada, still enjoying the warmth and charm of the very old buildings which cluster upon the hills rolling down to the docks and Ocean. Architecture also stimulates me. All this is to say, however, that my romantic inclinations were prompted more by the environment than the person, but I have sweet memories nonetheless:
Many things spoke to me today. The windows of old houses, designed for distinguished Victorians. Curving stair-entrances, chandeliers, long dimly-lit hallways, large staircases, and stained glass windows, which kept me out but drew my imagination in.
A bit of spring today. The soft rain. Glistening on my glasses and cheeks. But still some damn snow on the sidewalks (more like slush, actually).
A brief windy sort of talk with someone today. Someone who comes out of my past with a very personal element but little else in common.
Then along that dull street with old houses that leads to Shelly.
She met me. And kissed me. I waited. And kissed her. I felt quiet. She made supper while I watched her. Her red sweater and short questions. She was happy to see me and I knew it. I watched her again. Ten times I felt like running over to her, and throwing my arms around her. But I just watched.
After that, dinner and torts. No wonder I feel ill now! What a mixture!
For a brief moment tonight I felt extremely happy to be alive. April 17, 1971.
A very magical time (although equally brief) was spent with Terry Martens, who was I understand Canada’s first female Oceanographer. It is not surprising of course that she should be working and studying in Halifax. Her technical knowledge of the sea did not, however, tarnish her romantic view of it. She introduced me to my first “clam dig” along the shoreline after the tide had gone out. I recall that we went somewhere near Lawrencetown, which had a beautiful coastline. With our rubber boots on, we went around the mucky sand, carrying our plastic pails like children, digging up the clams with large and brightly coloured spoon-like plastic shovels. We took our finds back to Domus Legis where I lived on the top floor and cooked them in some boiling water. We may have even dignified the meal with some corn-on-the-cob, but I can’t remember. What I can remember, is that it was virtually impossible to rid the clams of the sand from which we had taken them. Nonetheless, the adventure was fun. Terry was a terrific cook. She also invited me to her spacious but modest downtown apartment for dinner one miserably cold, rainy Saturday night. I was treated to home-made baked beans, and black bread baked in a tin can (the two ends of which had been removed). That bread, with a good measure of sweet butter melted on top of it, was beyond description. When Terry got a job the following summer in Florida (along some coast again), she had also taken an apartment in Ottawa. I was invited to take care of her two Siamese cats, in exchange for the use of her apartment, which I considered more than a reasonable offer, for no other reason than I could be on my own, out of my parents’ house for a least several weeks. I have never been terribly fond of cats, and I mistakenly assumed that if I simply fed these animals the rather elaborate dish (boiled chicken livers and milk) which Terry had instructed me to do, they would leave me alone to my own devices. This was not to be so. When I had mounted the stairs of the Sandy Hill converted apartment building to the second floor entrance, I was immediately greeted by the cats, who twined their way in and out of my legs, and practically inhibited me from travel throughout the apartment. Even after I had succeeded in preparing their meal and putting it on the kitchen floor for them, they could not have been more disinterested in it. Their sole and devoted preoccupation was me. They continued to follow me so closely that even when I had seated myself at a desk to do some reading or paperwork, they would crawl up onto the desk, then lie across the back of my neck upon my shoulders, purring and generally making a nuisance of themselves, including taking swipes at my pen as I wrote. It was only when I reluctantly stopped everything, put the pen and books down, and began to play with them for several minutes, then they released me to the evening, and undertook their own meal of the day.
Many things spoke to me today. The windows of old houses, designed for distinguished Victorians. Curving stair-entrances, chandeliers, long dimly-lit hallways, large staircases, and stained glass windows, which kept me out but drew my imagination in.
A bit of spring today. The soft rain. Glistening on my glasses and cheeks. But still some damn snow on the sidewalks (more like slush, actually).
A brief windy sort of talk with someone today. Someone who comes out of my past with a very personal element but little else in common.
Then along that dull street with old houses that leads to Shelly.
She met me. And kissed me. I waited. And kissed her. I felt quiet. She made supper while I watched her. Her red sweater and short questions. She was happy to see me and I knew it. I watched her again. Ten times I felt like running over to her, and throwing my arms around her. But I just watched.
After that, dinner and torts. No wonder I feel ill now! What a mixture!
For a brief moment tonight I felt extremely happy to be alive. April 17, 1971.
A very magical time (although equally brief) was spent with Terry Martens, who was I understand Canada’s first female Oceanographer. It is not surprising of course that she should be working and studying in Halifax. Her technical knowledge of the sea did not, however, tarnish her romantic view of it. She introduced me to my first “clam dig” along the shoreline after the tide had gone out. I recall that we went somewhere near Lawrencetown, which had a beautiful coastline. With our rubber boots on, we went around the mucky sand, carrying our plastic pails like children, digging up the clams with large and brightly coloured spoon-like plastic shovels. We took our finds back to Domus Legis where I lived on the top floor and cooked them in some boiling water. We may have even dignified the meal with some corn-on-the-cob, but I can’t remember. What I can remember, is that it was virtually impossible to rid the clams of the sand from which we had taken them. Nonetheless, the adventure was fun. Terry was a terrific cook. She also invited me to her spacious but modest downtown apartment for dinner one miserably cold, rainy Saturday night. I was treated to home-made baked beans, and black bread baked in a tin can (the two ends of which had been removed). That bread, with a good measure of sweet butter melted on top of it, was beyond description. When Terry got a job the following summer in Florida (along some coast again), she had also taken an apartment in Ottawa. I was invited to take care of her two Siamese cats, in exchange for the use of her apartment, which I considered more than a reasonable offer, for no other reason than I could be on my own, out of my parents’ house for a least several weeks. I have never been terribly fond of cats, and I mistakenly assumed that if I simply fed these animals the rather elaborate dish (boiled chicken livers and milk) which Terry had instructed me to do, they would leave me alone to my own devices. This was not to be so. When I had mounted the stairs of the Sandy Hill converted apartment building to the second floor entrance, I was immediately greeted by the cats, who twined their way in and out of my legs, and practically inhibited me from travel throughout the apartment. Even after I had succeeded in preparing their meal and putting it on the kitchen floor for them, they could not have been more disinterested in it. Their sole and devoted preoccupation was me. They continued to follow me so closely that even when I had seated myself at a desk to do some reading or paperwork, they would crawl up onto the desk, then lie across the back of my neck upon my shoulders, purring and generally making a nuisance of themselves, including taking swipes at my pen as I wrote. It was only when I reluctantly stopped everything, put the pen and books down, and began to play with them for several minutes, then they released me to the evening, and undertook their own meal of the day.
My increased intellectual awareness, combined with my introspection, somehow attracted people to me, people I liked having attracted to me, people whom I considered bright and interesting. One of those people was George "Butch" MacIntosh, with whom I would later (in my second year of law) share a house on Spring Garden Road, along with Danny LePrès.
When I first met him, Butch lived with his parents, Dr. and Mrs. George K. MacIntosh, D.D.S. in a thoroughly charming house on Spring Garden Road, closer to the University. He would visit me occasionally at Domus Legis. I cannot remember how or where we met exactly, but I assume it was some inconsequential encounter at the Law School. Butch was one year ahead of me. Butch's personalityimmediatelyendearedhimtome. Hewaspunishinglyintellectual,butchild-likecurious, a rather volatile and evanescent combination. Aside from a commitment to law, he was hopelessly dedicated to women, about whom he would romanticize endlessly. Butch was in fact romantic on many levels. He was, for example, stirred quite markedly by music (I remember he would even carefully transcribe the lyrics of Gordon Lightfoot's many current hits).
When Butch, Danny and I lived together on Spring Garden Road, we occupied a somewhat ignored old house belonging to the faceless nuns who owned a larger tract of land next to the house:
This is a little brown house on Spring Garden Road. So old is this house, that I can see signs of its eventual death - light switches are failing, walls are beginning to crumble when the 'fridge door is slammed. But it is a warm house. With our affectionate cat named "Ferraddy". September 7, 1971.
When I first met him, Butch lived with his parents, Dr. and Mrs. George K. MacIntosh, D.D.S. in a thoroughly charming house on Spring Garden Road, closer to the University. He would visit me occasionally at Domus Legis. I cannot remember how or where we met exactly, but I assume it was some inconsequential encounter at the Law School. Butch was one year ahead of me. Butch's personalityimmediatelyendearedhimtome. Hewaspunishinglyintellectual,butchild-likecurious, a rather volatile and evanescent combination. Aside from a commitment to law, he was hopelessly dedicated to women, about whom he would romanticize endlessly. Butch was in fact romantic on many levels. He was, for example, stirred quite markedly by music (I remember he would even carefully transcribe the lyrics of Gordon Lightfoot's many current hits).
When Butch, Danny and I lived together on Spring Garden Road, we occupied a somewhat ignored old house belonging to the faceless nuns who owned a larger tract of land next to the house:
This is a little brown house on Spring Garden Road. So old is this house, that I can see signs of its eventual death - light switches are failing, walls are beginning to crumble when the 'fridge door is slammed. But it is a warm house. With our affectionate cat named "Ferraddy". September 7, 1971.
The cat purrs like a tractor beside me. The dear animal loves affection, just to be close to people after being alone most of the time. What does he do when we're not here? Does he just mope around, listlessly looking out the closed window at the cool air? His ears move constantly, following the disappearing street sounds. And his eyes watch the ink flow from my pen. Now he's wrapped himself around my shoulders and neck. Purring as always, but happier now. Should I move, I can guarantee a good set of claws in my back. Move slowly is the cat's message. September 28, 1971.
It was an unwritten rule that, if students had a house, they would have parties, which we did quite frequently. This especially pleased Butch and Danny, who were always trying to gather together as many women as possible; and it also pleased me, because it was the only occasion on which they would clean the house. On one particular occasion, we had invited a very large number of people, including a lot of the Law School Professors. Following our rather tiresome afternoon preparations, I decided to retire to the Lord Nelson Hotel for a beer or two and something to eat before the party started. While I sat alone in the watering hole ("The Beverage Room", as it was called), I overheard two other fellows next to me say that there was a big party on Spring Garden Road tonight, and they intended to go. When I subsequently headed back to the house (a little later than I had planned), the place was already bulging with people. As I approached the jammed doorway to enter, someone asked me who I was, and I felt rather odd and estranged having to explain that I lived there. Upon gaining entrance, one was almost totally immobile. The staircase even was packed to the landing; the lights were horribly low; and everyone it seemed was attempting to communicate with other people in other parts of the halls or rooms by standing on tip-toe and shouting over the heads of all who intervened. The next day, the place was a mess. Someone had brought an enormous bag of peanuts in the shell, and the shells had been dropped all over, including on the shag carpet, to which the shells clung like nits. The vacuum cleaner was totally useless for the cause. And my bedroom appeared to have been the scene of less than stable conversation, since an entire bookshelf had been pulled from the wall, bringing everything on it crashing to the floor, where most of it broke.
At the end of my first year of Law School, I became close to Bruce McIntosh and his fiancee, Sue. While Bruce and I had been in the same classes for most of first year, it was only one Saturday evening when we were both studying in the library that we became friends. Bruce asked me to join him for a drink at the Jury Room in one of the downtown hotels. We spent the rest of the evening together, and got to know one another over more than a few glasses of beer. I think it was on that night, on our way home, that he instructed me in the Halifax tradition of voiding one's bladder on the Robbie Burns statue in the park across the street from the Lord Nelson Hotel. Picture my embarrassment to this day!
Sometime after that first encounter, I was invited by Bruce to join him for a long weekend (perhaps Easter) at his parents' home in New Glasgow. Bruce (who feigned an innate dislike for "Upper Canadians") had great fun at my expense. He cautioned me that his parents' home was really quite
It was an unwritten rule that, if students had a house, they would have parties, which we did quite frequently. This especially pleased Butch and Danny, who were always trying to gather together as many women as possible; and it also pleased me, because it was the only occasion on which they would clean the house. On one particular occasion, we had invited a very large number of people, including a lot of the Law School Professors. Following our rather tiresome afternoon preparations, I decided to retire to the Lord Nelson Hotel for a beer or two and something to eat before the party started. While I sat alone in the watering hole ("The Beverage Room", as it was called), I overheard two other fellows next to me say that there was a big party on Spring Garden Road tonight, and they intended to go. When I subsequently headed back to the house (a little later than I had planned), the place was already bulging with people. As I approached the jammed doorway to enter, someone asked me who I was, and I felt rather odd and estranged having to explain that I lived there. Upon gaining entrance, one was almost totally immobile. The staircase even was packed to the landing; the lights were horribly low; and everyone it seemed was attempting to communicate with other people in other parts of the halls or rooms by standing on tip-toe and shouting over the heads of all who intervened. The next day, the place was a mess. Someone had brought an enormous bag of peanuts in the shell, and the shells had been dropped all over, including on the shag carpet, to which the shells clung like nits. The vacuum cleaner was totally useless for the cause. And my bedroom appeared to have been the scene of less than stable conversation, since an entire bookshelf had been pulled from the wall, bringing everything on it crashing to the floor, where most of it broke.
At the end of my first year of Law School, I became close to Bruce McIntosh and his fiancee, Sue. While Bruce and I had been in the same classes for most of first year, it was only one Saturday evening when we were both studying in the library that we became friends. Bruce asked me to join him for a drink at the Jury Room in one of the downtown hotels. We spent the rest of the evening together, and got to know one another over more than a few glasses of beer. I think it was on that night, on our way home, that he instructed me in the Halifax tradition of voiding one's bladder on the Robbie Burns statue in the park across the street from the Lord Nelson Hotel. Picture my embarrassment to this day!
Sometime after that first encounter, I was invited by Bruce to join him for a long weekend (perhaps Easter) at his parents' home in New Glasgow. Bruce (who feigned an innate dislike for "Upper Canadians") had great fun at my expense. He cautioned me that his parents' home was really quite
"country" and that they did not have hot running water. As I was more than a little gullible, I fell for it, much to his delight I am sure! When it came time for a bath after arriving at the house, I was told that they would have to get the water and heat it up. Needless to say, the house could not have been further from being "country". It was in fact a very grand home on a hill overlooking the Town. And Bruce's parents were clearly among the leading lights of New Glasgow. His father had been a lawyer, and was then the Crown prosecutor. He later went on to the Supreme Court of Nova Scotia. Bruce himself did rather well also, taking silk as one of Her Majesty’s Counsel Learned-in-the-Law.
The real fun with Bruce, however, came the following summer when I was asked to attend his wedding. The "preliminaries" were held at their summer residence on Melmurby Beach. Not surprisingly, they were surrounded by other cottagers who were all somehow related to one another. The parties were endless. The whole affair lasted at least a week, following which I had a complete physical collapse.
During this same period, I was becoming close to Heather Gunn:
Halifax has been good to me since I arrived (for second year). She has welcomed me every morning with blue sky. The streets are dry and the trees are green. Heather has been a model friend, kind, helpful, and most of all companionship. September 7, 1971.
Heather's parents, Judge and Mrs. William Gunn, lived in Halifax. The Judge was originally from a legal family in Sidney, Nova Scotia, where he had learned a good deal of street sense, which I understand he applied with great success (to the delight of the local Bar) in his courtroom. Judge Gunn could do such marvellous things with Latin and French derivatives, that he would have made a New Yorker from the Bronx look positively posh! One story of his I remember in particular is the one he tells of his father, who was practicing law in Cape Breton during the rum running era. Apparently one of these rum runners came into the old lawyer's office, sat down, and when the lawyer asked him "So what's your story?", the rum runner replied "That's what I'm paying you for!"
Heather and I would eventually (in third year on November 7, 1972) become engaged to be married, a mistake which finally ended only after she and I went to Ottawa together for Articles. While we enjoyed one another's company, we were not meant to marry one another. Both of us were to blame, I suppose, for seeking something from one another that was more apparent than real. There was never any nastiness or even hard feelings, just a sense of failure, I guess. As things turned out, she married Joe Weir (also from the Law School), and I believe they and their children are very happy.
Heather and I went to the high-cliff beach at Lawrencetown one gloomy, cold Saturday morning before settling back into the law library to study. She had made shrimp sandwiches (with crusts removed), fresh muffins and hot coffee, which we enjoyed while sitting in the car (her father's car) overlooking the crashing Ocean below.
Heather's Aunt Greta and Uncle George lived in the Halifax area, and they had a very charming
The real fun with Bruce, however, came the following summer when I was asked to attend his wedding. The "preliminaries" were held at their summer residence on Melmurby Beach. Not surprisingly, they were surrounded by other cottagers who were all somehow related to one another. The parties were endless. The whole affair lasted at least a week, following which I had a complete physical collapse.
During this same period, I was becoming close to Heather Gunn:
Halifax has been good to me since I arrived (for second year). She has welcomed me every morning with blue sky. The streets are dry and the trees are green. Heather has been a model friend, kind, helpful, and most of all companionship. September 7, 1971.
Heather's parents, Judge and Mrs. William Gunn, lived in Halifax. The Judge was originally from a legal family in Sidney, Nova Scotia, where he had learned a good deal of street sense, which I understand he applied with great success (to the delight of the local Bar) in his courtroom. Judge Gunn could do such marvellous things with Latin and French derivatives, that he would have made a New Yorker from the Bronx look positively posh! One story of his I remember in particular is the one he tells of his father, who was practicing law in Cape Breton during the rum running era. Apparently one of these rum runners came into the old lawyer's office, sat down, and when the lawyer asked him "So what's your story?", the rum runner replied "That's what I'm paying you for!"
Heather and I would eventually (in third year on November 7, 1972) become engaged to be married, a mistake which finally ended only after she and I went to Ottawa together for Articles. While we enjoyed one another's company, we were not meant to marry one another. Both of us were to blame, I suppose, for seeking something from one another that was more apparent than real. There was never any nastiness or even hard feelings, just a sense of failure, I guess. As things turned out, she married Joe Weir (also from the Law School), and I believe they and their children are very happy.
Heather and I went to the high-cliff beach at Lawrencetown one gloomy, cold Saturday morning before settling back into the law library to study. She had made shrimp sandwiches (with crusts removed), fresh muffins and hot coffee, which we enjoyed while sitting in the car (her father's car) overlooking the crashing Ocean below.
Heather's Aunt Greta and Uncle George lived in the Halifax area, and they had a very charming
country home in the Margaree Valley in Cape Breton. We visited this home in the Valley for Thanksgiving weekend, and the environment was perfect. While there was no electricity (we used kerosene lamps with wall reflectors mounted behind them), we did have running water because the water was piped down the mountain side to the home. And there was plenty of heat from the big cast iron stove. In the autumn, everything was particularly enchanting since we were surrounded by thousands of colourful trees. And the simple dirt roads that led into the place ensured a quiet undisturbed stay. Behind the house in a distant field was the Plaster Pond, which I recall being a small body of water, very clear, and I imagined there were fish in it. Somehow the Plaster Pond reminds me of Heather. She was an oddly magical person, with a good splattering of mystery and the simple beauty that her name and heritage imply.
The pattern of things to come was being etched out quickly at Law School. The demands of studying and papers were rigorous. People darted in and out of my life, just long enough to permit us a brief moment of amusement and distraction, and then back to the books. This was the way it would be for at least the next twenty years, whether during Articles or the Bar Admission or practicing law. It was only in the recessionary period of the late 1990's that I began to slow down:
I'm not getting an awful lot done these days. It takes so long to see progress in law. I'm headnoting a lot, getting the law, doing the assignments, and leaving time for text-reading, piano, writing, letters and sketching. October 12, 1971.
My references to God were not infrequent:
Life holds out its secrets to me every day. Some of them I grasp. I need to be very sure of what decisions I make in the near future. I'm pretty well set on staying by the Ocean for a long time. I hope I live a long life. But I know that that hope only stalls my needed confrontation with God. October 12, 1971.
At the same time, I engaged in lengthy daily writings devoted to analysis of life, my friends, myself. Much of what I wrote was distinguished more by its commitment than by its interest or insight. Outside the realm of predictable law, the path was not so easily found, and I was clearly wandering about. Perhaps I expect too much of myself at the age of twenty-two years:
When I write as much as I have written tonight, I realize that this is not what I wanted to discover about life at all. The secret is really no closer, as I search blindly for something I feel is right under my nose. January 23, 1972.
During the summer recesses from law school (that is, after the first and second years), I worked for the office of the Judge Advocate General (the legal department of National Defense) in Ottawa. My father secured the job for me through the then Judge Advocate himself, Brig. Gen. Mac MacLaren. As I look back upon that opportunity, there were certainly some advantages. The government, for example, would have paid my legal education, had I committed myself to JAG for a minimum three year period. And there would have been a pension plan, the possibility of considerable travel, not
The pattern of things to come was being etched out quickly at Law School. The demands of studying and papers were rigorous. People darted in and out of my life, just long enough to permit us a brief moment of amusement and distraction, and then back to the books. This was the way it would be for at least the next twenty years, whether during Articles or the Bar Admission or practicing law. It was only in the recessionary period of the late 1990's that I began to slow down:
I'm not getting an awful lot done these days. It takes so long to see progress in law. I'm headnoting a lot, getting the law, doing the assignments, and leaving time for text-reading, piano, writing, letters and sketching. October 12, 1971.
My references to God were not infrequent:
Life holds out its secrets to me every day. Some of them I grasp. I need to be very sure of what decisions I make in the near future. I'm pretty well set on staying by the Ocean for a long time. I hope I live a long life. But I know that that hope only stalls my needed confrontation with God. October 12, 1971.
At the same time, I engaged in lengthy daily writings devoted to analysis of life, my friends, myself. Much of what I wrote was distinguished more by its commitment than by its interest or insight. Outside the realm of predictable law, the path was not so easily found, and I was clearly wandering about. Perhaps I expect too much of myself at the age of twenty-two years:
When I write as much as I have written tonight, I realize that this is not what I wanted to discover about life at all. The secret is really no closer, as I search blindly for something I feel is right under my nose. January 23, 1972.
During the summer recesses from law school (that is, after the first and second years), I worked for the office of the Judge Advocate General (the legal department of National Defense) in Ottawa. My father secured the job for me through the then Judge Advocate himself, Brig. Gen. Mac MacLaren. As I look back upon that opportunity, there were certainly some advantages. The government, for example, would have paid my legal education, had I committed myself to JAG for a minimum three year period. And there would have been a pension plan, the possibility of considerable travel, not
to mention the other spin-offs that are so peculiar to the military (officers' messes, etc.). The JAG office was somewhat unusual, in that everyone in it was male, including the stenographers. This was supposedly so because some of the court martials could become rather risque, and I guess they felt that such evidence might cause embarrassment to the "fairer sex". Every morning, the entire legal department would assemble promptly at ten-thirty in the library, sitting around the long board-room table in the centre of the room, awaiting the arrival of the General. When the General arrived (carrying his already lit panatella cigar), the gentlemen about the table would rise and stand almost at attention, greeting the General, then waiting for him to give the signal to sit once again. Then followed coffee, tea and something to nibble on. It seems like another world, when I think of it now.
The Professors I had at law school, while not as memorable as those I had at St. Andrew's, did however leave me with some images. Dr. Horace Read was undoubtedly the oldest member of the staff. He taught contract law in my first year. In fact, I hesitate to say that he taught anything, because I actually learned more about what those professors were all trying to teach us (namely, the "legal method") from one of the senior students, Terry Cooper. Terry summed up the legal method succinctly as follows: State the question; state your answer; apply the law to the facts to support your answer; draw a conclusion, and provide an alternate answer in case you are wrong. Anyway, getting back to Horace Read, what I do remember about him (in fact about the only thing I remember about him apart from his obvious frailty) was his true story about a Harvard aircraft which was, because of an extremely strong headwind, flying backwards across a tarmac. I have no idea in what context that story surfaced, but I remember it.
On the other end of the scale was Assistant Professor Ian B. Cowie, who was about the same the age as I. He and I became friends at the law school. When he later moved to Ottawa to join the government (Indian Affairs) and later to conduct his private consulting practice for native Indians, we continued our association. At law school, our favourite haunt was the Piccadilly Tavern, which we customarily frequented on a Friday or Saturday night for a hot chicken sandwich and beer. We would spend the entire evening gawking at the other patrons, cracking jokes to one another, and cavorting with other like-minded individuals whom we knew, including Janet Bird. Janet was the authority on all the gossip in Halifax. She practically made a career of it, and she could keep us amused for hours. I shall always think of Janet as one of those “real” Halegonians. She knew simply everybody; and she appeared to know things about them that they might not generally wish to have known by others. Through Janet’s eyes there was almost a Mafia undercurrent in local Halifax society. She was quite well connected. When, in later years, she took up residence in Chester, it seemed only fitting that she should lodge herself among the well-to-do in that rather comfortable niche of Nova Scotian landscape.
As I neared the end of my second year of law school, I had all the customary and expected anxieties to get it over. There was a saying we had about law school: “The first year they scare you to death; the second year they work you to death; and the third year they bore you to death.” Luckily, I never projected enough into the future to see all the additional work that lay ahead of me during Articles at Macdonald, Connolly, 100 Sparks Street, Ottawa and the Bar Admission Course at Osgoode Hall, Toronto:
The Professors I had at law school, while not as memorable as those I had at St. Andrew's, did however leave me with some images. Dr. Horace Read was undoubtedly the oldest member of the staff. He taught contract law in my first year. In fact, I hesitate to say that he taught anything, because I actually learned more about what those professors were all trying to teach us (namely, the "legal method") from one of the senior students, Terry Cooper. Terry summed up the legal method succinctly as follows: State the question; state your answer; apply the law to the facts to support your answer; draw a conclusion, and provide an alternate answer in case you are wrong. Anyway, getting back to Horace Read, what I do remember about him (in fact about the only thing I remember about him apart from his obvious frailty) was his true story about a Harvard aircraft which was, because of an extremely strong headwind, flying backwards across a tarmac. I have no idea in what context that story surfaced, but I remember it.
On the other end of the scale was Assistant Professor Ian B. Cowie, who was about the same the age as I. He and I became friends at the law school. When he later moved to Ottawa to join the government (Indian Affairs) and later to conduct his private consulting practice for native Indians, we continued our association. At law school, our favourite haunt was the Piccadilly Tavern, which we customarily frequented on a Friday or Saturday night for a hot chicken sandwich and beer. We would spend the entire evening gawking at the other patrons, cracking jokes to one another, and cavorting with other like-minded individuals whom we knew, including Janet Bird. Janet was the authority on all the gossip in Halifax. She practically made a career of it, and she could keep us amused for hours. I shall always think of Janet as one of those “real” Halegonians. She knew simply everybody; and she appeared to know things about them that they might not generally wish to have known by others. Through Janet’s eyes there was almost a Mafia undercurrent in local Halifax society. She was quite well connected. When, in later years, she took up residence in Chester, it seemed only fitting that she should lodge herself among the well-to-do in that rather comfortable niche of Nova Scotian landscape.
As I neared the end of my second year of law school, I had all the customary and expected anxieties to get it over. There was a saying we had about law school: “The first year they scare you to death; the second year they work you to death; and the third year they bore you to death.” Luckily, I never projected enough into the future to see all the additional work that lay ahead of me during Articles at Macdonald, Connolly, 100 Sparks Street, Ottawa and the Bar Admission Course at Osgoode Hall, Toronto:
It’s one thing to learn a trade. But the burden of work in law grows every day. There seems to be no way out: “Huis Clos”. Perhaps it’s all indicative of the trap of life in which I am caught. The thing which I try to keep in the back of my mind is that this law business is just a future job. But, look at me: all I talk about is law. February 8, 1972.
It’s too bad I have to waste away the winter days in pursuit of these studies. It’s the pressure that’s killing me. I can see that I won’t really relax until this year is over. And that’s probably as good a time as any, although it seems like a long time during which to endure this suffering. February 9, 1972.
I’m drunk. And it’s been a necessity, since I’ve spent a whole week doing nothing but fantasizing about life - hoping for the dreams that will never come. I am crazy. And at times, as I push myself through the madness of law, trying to face the realities of law, I don’t believe I am actually trying to become a lawyer. February 17, 1972.
It has been a long time since I felt like writing anything. I’ve been very confused lately. This is the first night in quite a while that I have broken my passion for a drink, and it took all the forces of luck to subdue me. There’s no one around. Everything, by chance, is closed. It’s Good Friday. The year is so close to an end that there is virtually nothing for me to think about, save studying. Mercantile scares me. Admin(istrative law), Con(stitutional law), Civil (litigation) and Will are all controllable. There’s still time left. Lots of things have happened lately. There’s been too much drinking. I’ve left part of myself behind somewhere. I’m still thinking about life a lot. Many things discourage me, and I sometimes feel that our society is in a hopeless mess, where rationality (except for the furtherance of selfish ends) has long died away. I feel the roots of power-hunger searching for soil in my heart. And God sounds like some ancient nursery rhyme. The dictators of our world, the lust for money, the search for power - all frighten me. And I see little way of withstanding its suffocating pressures. I will never see myself involved in that world. Working is such madness at times. Oddly enough, though, some good values have been developing in me as well. A love for my family, and a desire to unite our members, much as my Father is trying to do now. A new found belief in the establishment, as a vehicle of change and improvement. And thoughts about how certain people are not good for me. And how I must endeavour to become more involved in the affairs of our society. Perhaps that will never happen. I’m certainly not involved in the affairs of my present micro society. Nothing interests me here. And I’ve been terribly tired these days. I’m so fatigued. I want a hair cut and some new clothes. I’m looking forward to May 5th, when exams end. March 31, 1972.
And even at the beginning of my third year of law, the view was not as refreshed as one might have expected after a summer’s retreat:
Another year of work. That’s it. Just work. Can’t glorify the thing. It’s a job. Must be done. September 5, 1972.
Even from the time I was at St. Andrew’s College, the subject of tobacco filtered into many of my dailydiaryentries. ButnothingtoppedtheentryofSeptember10,1972,whereIappeartohavebeen engaged in a mini-essay on the subject:
Every time I think of tobacco, I immediately conjure up in my mind an image which I presume the tobacco will create in me. Think plain-ends, and you’ve got a grubby intellectual (say, David Cole). Think pipe, and you’ve got hot coffee, security, and rain outside. Think menthol cigarettes, and you’ve got some closet queen. Whenever I give into those fantasies, I am immediately aware of the futility of my real aim. I cannot make myself into someone else with tobacco.
Sometimes tobacco pleases me. If I’m drunk or extremely fatigued, I’ll smoke. Only when my mind is able to romp on the feathered-fields of the higher mental registers, am I able to see through the foolishness of smoking. I do so envy clean young bodies.
Sometimes I feel all my hang-ups about tobacco are completely ridiculous. The pipe can be so enjoyable at a time like this, just writing and listening to the wind. (But the next morning, I always regret it.) What I’ve got is this problem of continuity. Mainly, I like to think I am capable of fitting into a continuous pattern. But my only continuity lies in my lack of continuity. I have no commitment to one thing.
The other problem with tobacco is that it’s expensive, and it inevitably leads me to indulge in other expensive habits - like drinking beer.
And the worst part of the whole mess is that, when the sun finally does shine again, and I feel like running and exercising, all I can think about is the mess my body’s in, and here I am again - trying to get healthy. So I spend the whole day feeling thinner than I did yesterday when I drank all that beer. And the whole time, I know I’m fatter, and my lungs are blacker. And I wanted to buy some tobacco tonight!
What it boils down to is a syndrome, one which is extremely boring, uneventful and fatal.
Pipes still amuse me, though. The wood that a pipe is made of, and the dirt one gets on one’s hands when smoking a pipe, and the tobacco leaves, all have an earthiness about them. I still admire messy, dirty people. Their abandon is personified in their messy appearance. But the trouble is that it doesn’t always rain, and the weather isn’t always cool, and one sunny day I’m gonna want my white teeth and clean mouth and thin abdomen. This problem of discontinuity can only be resolved by avoiding
Even from the time I was at St. Andrew’s College, the subject of tobacco filtered into many of my dailydiaryentries. ButnothingtoppedtheentryofSeptember10,1972,whereIappeartohavebeen engaged in a mini-essay on the subject:
Every time I think of tobacco, I immediately conjure up in my mind an image which I presume the tobacco will create in me. Think plain-ends, and you’ve got a grubby intellectual (say, David Cole). Think pipe, and you’ve got hot coffee, security, and rain outside. Think menthol cigarettes, and you’ve got some closet queen. Whenever I give into those fantasies, I am immediately aware of the futility of my real aim. I cannot make myself into someone else with tobacco.
Sometimes tobacco pleases me. If I’m drunk or extremely fatigued, I’ll smoke. Only when my mind is able to romp on the feathered-fields of the higher mental registers, am I able to see through the foolishness of smoking. I do so envy clean young bodies.
Sometimes I feel all my hang-ups about tobacco are completely ridiculous. The pipe can be so enjoyable at a time like this, just writing and listening to the wind. (But the next morning, I always regret it.) What I’ve got is this problem of continuity. Mainly, I like to think I am capable of fitting into a continuous pattern. But my only continuity lies in my lack of continuity. I have no commitment to one thing.
The other problem with tobacco is that it’s expensive, and it inevitably leads me to indulge in other expensive habits - like drinking beer.
And the worst part of the whole mess is that, when the sun finally does shine again, and I feel like running and exercising, all I can think about is the mess my body’s in, and here I am again - trying to get healthy. So I spend the whole day feeling thinner than I did yesterday when I drank all that beer. And the whole time, I know I’m fatter, and my lungs are blacker. And I wanted to buy some tobacco tonight!
What it boils down to is a syndrome, one which is extremely boring, uneventful and fatal.
Pipes still amuse me, though. The wood that a pipe is made of, and the dirt one gets on one’s hands when smoking a pipe, and the tobacco leaves, all have an earthiness about them. I still admire messy, dirty people. Their abandon is personified in their messy appearance. But the trouble is that it doesn’t always rain, and the weather isn’t always cool, and one sunny day I’m gonna want my white teeth and clean mouth and thin abdomen. This problem of discontinuity can only be resolved by avoiding
tobacco at all times!
It still pleases me immensely to rise in the morning, early, and have a hot bath, feeling my lengthening finger nails and hair, knowing that I have by-passed booze and tobacco the day before. This joy, like so many others, is a fleeting one. And by the time I’ve left the steamy bathroom, I can almost taste the black coffee and sweet tobacco.
I appear to have been on a roll in September, 1972, for I also wrote on September 11th of that year about my “writing”:
Don’t really know what it is that makes me write in this book. I never think of publishing anything, although I’ve occasionally thought of consolidating the three books which I have written since Grade X. Mostly I think of these pages as a record of my life for anyone (especially my family) who may be interested. And sometimes, I just like the feeling of talking to the book. The empty book. Like so many of my listeners, this empty book soaks up my emotions, and like a wandering cat, I leave the book each night. Writing is a potential source of inventiveness for me. Much of my writing is hardly inventive, but a least I have a chance to be inventive, doing this. I want my life to be inventive.
When I write, I seem to be telling someone a story. Perhaps I am thinking ahead to the day when I may be reading these words to someone, or someone may be reading them.
Sometimes I think my writing is worthless because it has no message. I’m no Marx with a social theory; no Kant with a philosophy; no Camus with an idea. My accounts are simply personal history. I’ve often thought how exciting it would be to feel that my writings were “underground” material, with severe political implications, with cutting social comments. Then I would feel more important while writing. But, as it is, my writing is just a bunch of words; the ill-expressed thoughts of a somewhat confused and presently unimaginative boy.
Style is important, because it reflects the thought patterns I have been trained to adopt. Of course, a change of style will only occur when I change my thought pattern. And the reason I want to change my thought pattern is because I’m not satisfied with its grotesquely shallow means of conveying how I really feel Leaving aside all the philosophical problems of whether man thinks in words and sentences and subjects and predicates, I am not satisfied with the style of writing which I use. Two things are important: 1.) write what I feel; and 2.) convey to a reader what I felt.
The technique of writing is something I keep in mind whenever I write anything. After all, the style should be a thing of which the reader is unaware, just as personality is initially unimportant when I am confronted by someone who interests me. Personality, like style, is merely a mode of expression which grows out of the person, or content, himself. For example, when I live, I do not stylize my behaviour (except in embarrassing situations). Any subsequently labelled personality is only a vague attempt at describing the person himself. But, I suppose that just as there are rules of life, so too there may be rules of writing. What we say, and the way we say it, can often be very different.
I appear to have been on a roll in September, 1972, for I also wrote on September 11th of that year about my “writing”:
Don’t really know what it is that makes me write in this book. I never think of publishing anything, although I’ve occasionally thought of consolidating the three books which I have written since Grade X. Mostly I think of these pages as a record of my life for anyone (especially my family) who may be interested. And sometimes, I just like the feeling of talking to the book. The empty book. Like so many of my listeners, this empty book soaks up my emotions, and like a wandering cat, I leave the book each night. Writing is a potential source of inventiveness for me. Much of my writing is hardly inventive, but a least I have a chance to be inventive, doing this. I want my life to be inventive.
When I write, I seem to be telling someone a story. Perhaps I am thinking ahead to the day when I may be reading these words to someone, or someone may be reading them.
Sometimes I think my writing is worthless because it has no message. I’m no Marx with a social theory; no Kant with a philosophy; no Camus with an idea. My accounts are simply personal history. I’ve often thought how exciting it would be to feel that my writings were “underground” material, with severe political implications, with cutting social comments. Then I would feel more important while writing. But, as it is, my writing is just a bunch of words; the ill-expressed thoughts of a somewhat confused and presently unimaginative boy.
Style is important, because it reflects the thought patterns I have been trained to adopt. Of course, a change of style will only occur when I change my thought pattern. And the reason I want to change my thought pattern is because I’m not satisfied with its grotesquely shallow means of conveying how I really feel Leaving aside all the philosophical problems of whether man thinks in words and sentences and subjects and predicates, I am not satisfied with the style of writing which I use. Two things are important: 1.) write what I feel; and 2.) convey to a reader what I felt.
The technique of writing is something I keep in mind whenever I write anything. After all, the style should be a thing of which the reader is unaware, just as personality is initially unimportant when I am confronted by someone who interests me. Personality, like style, is merely a mode of expression which grows out of the person, or content, himself. For example, when I live, I do not stylize my behaviour (except in embarrassing situations). Any subsequently labelled personality is only a vague attempt at describing the person himself. But, I suppose that just as there are rules of life, so too there may be rules of writing. What we say, and the way we say it, can often be very different.
The record of events for the last year of law school was quite frenetic. There was an intensity that seemed to be enhanced by the approaching end of studies, combined with no small amount of fear about the exam results, what I would be doing in the future, and general reflection upon my entire past. My relationships with everyone seemed to be very dramatic, not the least of which was my engagement to Heather. At that time, I was living with Bill Piercey, a young lawyer in Halifax, a graduate from Dalhousie University. Bill wanted nothing more than a roommate to share the rent, and that is about the extent of our relationship. Oddly enough, the one thing I remember about Bill more than anything is that he taught me to make lists - shopping lists. Before I met Bill, my routine at the grocery store was to roll the cart down every isle, looking up and down the shelves, in hopes of finding what I wanted. Without fail, however, I would return home to discover I had forgotten something I needed. I later tried reducing the error factor by thinking of things in terms of “basics” - bread, butter, cheese, etc. This did not do much to contribute to my success. Finally, I clued into the fact that Bill’s list-making was not a “fuddy-duddy” undertaking, and I began to make my own. Over the years, I have developed a passion for lists, to the point where I not only add items to my grocery list at home the minute I am getting low on something, but also making notes “on the fly” so to speak to remind me of things which occur to me out of nowhere (sometimes in the middle of the night), and which I know I will never remember later. It’s an obvious way to manage work, but it is equally strange how few people recognize or practice the virtue, though I suppose in this, like so many other things, I am obsessive.
The apartment Bill Piercey and I had was located on the second floor of a converted building on Spring Garden Road. It was a good location, half-way between the University and downtown. But it was as sterile as my relationship with Bill. We seldom had much to do with one another, and we certainly never socialized together. When I left the apartment at the end of the year, I remember calling a moving company to remove my furniture, which they were welcome to keep, since I was certainly not bringing it to Ontario. The fellow charged me to remove all my furniture - fifty dollars!
When the exam results finally came through, and I had graduated from law school, my first mission was to buy a box of cigars, and then drop into the Royal Bank of Canada next to the Lord Nelson Hotel, where I had enjoyed my fair share of quart bottles of beer with friends. The banks had, for the past year, been busy sending the members of the graduating class form letters inviting us to take the opportunity to borrow money from them. My visit to the Royal (where I had my small account) was, however, not the success I had imagined it would be. I asked to borrow one hundred dollars, which the loans officer said would be no problem at all, if I would just have my “father sign here”. I declined the invitation, and went further up the street to the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce,
The apartment Bill Piercey and I had was located on the second floor of a converted building on Spring Garden Road. It was a good location, half-way between the University and downtown. But it was as sterile as my relationship with Bill. We seldom had much to do with one another, and we certainly never socialized together. When I left the apartment at the end of the year, I remember calling a moving company to remove my furniture, which they were welcome to keep, since I was certainly not bringing it to Ontario. The fellow charged me to remove all my furniture - fifty dollars!
When the exam results finally came through, and I had graduated from law school, my first mission was to buy a box of cigars, and then drop into the Royal Bank of Canada next to the Lord Nelson Hotel, where I had enjoyed my fair share of quart bottles of beer with friends. The banks had, for the past year, been busy sending the members of the graduating class form letters inviting us to take the opportunity to borrow money from them. My visit to the Royal (where I had my small account) was, however, not the success I had imagined it would be. I asked to borrow one hundred dollars, which the loans officer said would be no problem at all, if I would just have my “father sign here”. I declined the invitation, and went further up the street to the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce,
where I asked to borrow five hundred dollars, to which the loans officer replied, “How do you want that - cash or cheque?”. I must have learned something from that exercise, because since then I have had little patience with banking officers when it comes to borrowing money, and I have found that, with a bit of effort, one can usually locate a sympathetic lender.
The final touch in Halifax were the days I spent with Butch MacIntosh’s parents, Dr. and Mrs. Geo. K. MacIntosh, at their lovely home on Spring Garden Road, near the University. Exams were over, I had given up my tenancy, and was for a short while without a place to live. Dr. MacIntosh had a well-known appreciation of alcohol. Butch often spoke of his father coming into his bedroom with his cronies when Butch was only a baby, breathing alcohol fumes all over the child, and saying the silly things parents in that condition usually say. While I was staying with the family, we enjoyed the customary late-afternoon cocktail hour. On one occasion, however, I noticed that the pattern changed considerably. Dr. MacIntosh’s brother, a member of the cloth from Cape Breton, was visiting and staying for dinner. At the end of the day, instead of being asked by Dr. or Mrs. MacIntosh whether I would like my usual this or that, to my astonishment, I was asked if I might have a cup of tea as usual (emphasis added)! Taking the cue, I accepted the invitation, at which point Dr. MacIntosh did something else which was out of the ordinary: he got up from his chair, left the room, went into the kitchen (where the booze was stored), and - and here’s the unusual part - closed the door behind him. Then I knew for certain we were involved in a subterfuge, designed entirely to disguise something from visiting Father MacIntosh. Directing my attention back to the kitchen, I heard cupboard doors being opened, the usual “clinking” of hardware, but what reappeared moments later was not an inviting high-ball, filled with ice, with beads of water on its outside, but rather a remarkably feminine looking tea cup and saucer. I was given my tea, but upon my first sip of it (in fact the first glancing sniff of it gave it away!), I knew at once the Doctor had been up to his tricks, and the dark liquid was not only clear tea, but an ample portion of amber rum. Over the course of the next hour or so, the Doctor, Mrs. MacIntosh and I all repeated this delightful visit to the kitchen, each time returning with the same proper looking tea cup and saucer, making certain however to deliver “the right one” to Father MacIntosh. I doubt very much that we made any impression of propriety or sobriety upon the Father, who I am sure would have seen through the entire charade as quickly as I had. But what matters is that we felt compelled to do it, and Father MacIntosh probably felt compelled to turn a blind eye (since I was informed that he genuinely considered drinking a serious offence).
The final touch in Halifax were the days I spent with Butch MacIntosh’s parents, Dr. and Mrs. Geo. K. MacIntosh, at their lovely home on Spring Garden Road, near the University. Exams were over, I had given up my tenancy, and was for a short while without a place to live. Dr. MacIntosh had a well-known appreciation of alcohol. Butch often spoke of his father coming into his bedroom with his cronies when Butch was only a baby, breathing alcohol fumes all over the child, and saying the silly things parents in that condition usually say. While I was staying with the family, we enjoyed the customary late-afternoon cocktail hour. On one occasion, however, I noticed that the pattern changed considerably. Dr. MacIntosh’s brother, a member of the cloth from Cape Breton, was visiting and staying for dinner. At the end of the day, instead of being asked by Dr. or Mrs. MacIntosh whether I would like my usual this or that, to my astonishment, I was asked if I might have a cup of tea as usual (emphasis added)! Taking the cue, I accepted the invitation, at which point Dr. MacIntosh did something else which was out of the ordinary: he got up from his chair, left the room, went into the kitchen (where the booze was stored), and - and here’s the unusual part - closed the door behind him. Then I knew for certain we were involved in a subterfuge, designed entirely to disguise something from visiting Father MacIntosh. Directing my attention back to the kitchen, I heard cupboard doors being opened, the usual “clinking” of hardware, but what reappeared moments later was not an inviting high-ball, filled with ice, with beads of water on its outside, but rather a remarkably feminine looking tea cup and saucer. I was given my tea, but upon my first sip of it (in fact the first glancing sniff of it gave it away!), I knew at once the Doctor had been up to his tricks, and the dark liquid was not only clear tea, but an ample portion of amber rum. Over the course of the next hour or so, the Doctor, Mrs. MacIntosh and I all repeated this delightful visit to the kitchen, each time returning with the same proper looking tea cup and saucer, making certain however to deliver “the right one” to Father MacIntosh. I doubt very much that we made any impression of propriety or sobriety upon the Father, who I am sure would have seen through the entire charade as quickly as I had. But what matters is that we felt compelled to do it, and Father MacIntosh probably felt compelled to turn a blind eye (since I was informed that he genuinely considered drinking a serious offence).
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