Interestingly, there is a complete gap in my diaries from the time when I finished my Articles (August, 1974) until February 5, 1976 (when I was back working at Macdonald, Affleck). Had the gap been any earlier, I probably would not remember much about it. However, my times at Osgoode Hall were largely my times at Devonshire House as a Don, and I recall those days vividly. It was like returning to boarding school, but armed with all the knowledge and wisdom I had gained about living in that sort of environment. I recall, for example, peering out the window of my ground floor suite of rooms and seeing a new student arrive at the commencement of term with his parents.
They were from Timmons, Ontario, so I expect it is fair to say that the entire “Toronto Scene” was somewhat bewildering for the young chap. As his parents drove off in their Chevrolet, waving good- byes, I could see the new fellow was already having a tough time. Undoubtedly it was his first time away from home. I then made a point of ensuring that he got properly settled into his digs, and did what I could to ward off the immediate feelings of loneliness which are characterized as being “home sick”.
The men of Devonshire were of such an extraordinary nature that making friends took very little time, even for the most distant students. Much of their comraderie centred around the pranks they would formulate for the embarrassment of other students, the Dons or the general public. One antic theypulledonan unsuspectingsoulwastofillaplasticgarbagebagwithshavingcream,theninsert the open end of the bag under the door of the fellow’s room. When they then knocked upon the door, and heard the occupant coming to open it, they proceeded to drop several volumes of the local telephone directory onto the end of the plastic bag filled with the cream. The weight of the directories crashing onto the cream would cause the cream to expel through the open end (inside the room) with such force that the occupant was literally covered in the stuff!
They initiated me by gaining access to my apartment, removing the entire contents of furniture and reassembling everything on the front quadrangle exactly in the same way that it had been set up in my rooms. But I got my revenge at the end of term. It was, I had learned, the custom after the final meeting of the House in the Common Room, to tackle the Dons and - to the cry of “Showers!” - lead them struggling into the washroom and force them into the showers for a cold douche. It would of course have been futile to resist these fellows, many of whom were much larger and stronger than any of the Dons. However, what I did in advance of the meeting was go to the basement of the House and turn off the water. As the grabbed me for their mission, I put up sufficient resistance, and even asked that they might do me the favour of allowing me to remove my wrist watch so that I did not damage it in the water. When they finally got me to the appointed place and pushed me into the shower stall, picture their alarm upon releasing nothing more than a puff of air from the opened shower head! They knew instantly they had been taken, and the moment was forever lost!
Most of the students at Devonshire were engineers. They, like I, worked very hard (and played as hard too). When I took it into my head to start a debating society at Devonshire, the response was less than positive or exuberant. But I knew there was one thing that these engineers despised even more than fanciful language, and that was the students at the neighbouring residence of Trinity College (which is where most of my friends from St. Andrew’s had gone). I felt that the fittest way to enhance the debating spirit was to fire it up with a bit of competition. So one Sunday morning I trotted over to Trinity and asked to see their “Speaker of the House”, to whom I was then introduced during his breakfast in the very clerical looking dining hall. When I mentioned to the Speaker that I wanted to challenge his team’s finest to a debate with the Devonshire boys, he did not even respond or blink or anything for a good minute and a half. He just kept chewing on his food, never even looked up. Then, he put down his fork, and asked me if I were serious. After overcoming the assurances of my bona fides, we then immediately undertook to set a date. We decided that the first debate would take place in the Great Hall of Trinity, since there really was nowhere at Devonshire which lent itself to such an event. And we decided that the resolution for debate would be “RESOLVED: That Little Red Riding Hood is a Sexual Myth”. The choice of Government and Opposition would be determined by a flip of a coin on the night of the debate.
They were from Timmons, Ontario, so I expect it is fair to say that the entire “Toronto Scene” was somewhat bewildering for the young chap. As his parents drove off in their Chevrolet, waving good- byes, I could see the new fellow was already having a tough time. Undoubtedly it was his first time away from home. I then made a point of ensuring that he got properly settled into his digs, and did what I could to ward off the immediate feelings of loneliness which are characterized as being “home sick”.
The men of Devonshire were of such an extraordinary nature that making friends took very little time, even for the most distant students. Much of their comraderie centred around the pranks they would formulate for the embarrassment of other students, the Dons or the general public. One antic theypulledonan unsuspectingsoulwastofillaplasticgarbagebagwithshavingcream,theninsert the open end of the bag under the door of the fellow’s room. When they then knocked upon the door, and heard the occupant coming to open it, they proceeded to drop several volumes of the local telephone directory onto the end of the plastic bag filled with the cream. The weight of the directories crashing onto the cream would cause the cream to expel through the open end (inside the room) with such force that the occupant was literally covered in the stuff!
They initiated me by gaining access to my apartment, removing the entire contents of furniture and reassembling everything on the front quadrangle exactly in the same way that it had been set up in my rooms. But I got my revenge at the end of term. It was, I had learned, the custom after the final meeting of the House in the Common Room, to tackle the Dons and - to the cry of “Showers!” - lead them struggling into the washroom and force them into the showers for a cold douche. It would of course have been futile to resist these fellows, many of whom were much larger and stronger than any of the Dons. However, what I did in advance of the meeting was go to the basement of the House and turn off the water. As the grabbed me for their mission, I put up sufficient resistance, and even asked that they might do me the favour of allowing me to remove my wrist watch so that I did not damage it in the water. When they finally got me to the appointed place and pushed me into the shower stall, picture their alarm upon releasing nothing more than a puff of air from the opened shower head! They knew instantly they had been taken, and the moment was forever lost!
Most of the students at Devonshire were engineers. They, like I, worked very hard (and played as hard too). When I took it into my head to start a debating society at Devonshire, the response was less than positive or exuberant. But I knew there was one thing that these engineers despised even more than fanciful language, and that was the students at the neighbouring residence of Trinity College (which is where most of my friends from St. Andrew’s had gone). I felt that the fittest way to enhance the debating spirit was to fire it up with a bit of competition. So one Sunday morning I trotted over to Trinity and asked to see their “Speaker of the House”, to whom I was then introduced during his breakfast in the very clerical looking dining hall. When I mentioned to the Speaker that I wanted to challenge his team’s finest to a debate with the Devonshire boys, he did not even respond or blink or anything for a good minute and a half. He just kept chewing on his food, never even looked up. Then, he put down his fork, and asked me if I were serious. After overcoming the assurances of my bona fides, we then immediately undertook to set a date. We decided that the first debate would take place in the Great Hall of Trinity, since there really was nowhere at Devonshire which lent itself to such an event. And we decided that the resolution for debate would be “RESOLVED: That Little Red Riding Hood is a Sexual Myth”. The choice of Government and Opposition would be determined by a flip of a coin on the night of the debate.
Over the next few weeks, I was able to put together several teams, and we practised the art of rhetoric among ourselves, usually on a Sunday evening. I made a point of getting as many people from the various Houses of Devonshire to attend as audience, and again fed the competitive spirit by pitting the team from one House against the team of another. Certain routines developed, one of which was that I, as the Speaker, had to give a joke at the beginning of each debate. When this custom proved less than delightful, I resorted to the mean level of inviting certain attractive ladies whom I knew in Toronto to do the honour of commencing each evening with a joke of their own. Fiona St. Clair was one particularly good sport. She arrived for the Christmas debate decked out with bells, which she had cleverly hung from the tips of her ample bosoms. The boys were ecstatic, and would not stop shouting “Fiona, Jump up and Down! Jump up and Down!” She was a decided hit, and provided a return engagement more than once.
On the night of our debate with Trinity, I arrived reasonably early at the Hall to ensure that everything and everyone was in order. The Trinity boys, dressed as always in academic gowns and ties, were seated at their table already, poring over their notes, which of course could be adapted either way in the debate, without fear of having to support or oppose the Resolution. The crowds had started togather, but they were only people fromTrinity. I began to worry increasingly that my boys had either forgotten about the whole affair, or got the wrong night, or had decided not to come, in favour of something more relaxing - like beer and pizza. As the minutes ticked by, and we drew closer to the appointed hour, there were still no Devonshire boys. But then the rumble began to filter up into the hall from the stairs below. What followed was true to form for the Devonshire boys. In they came, first the team, then the supporting members, all dressed in hard hats, blue jeans and work boots, carrying a very large banner, on which was written “Trinity Boys Suck!”. This entrance created a bit of a stir, I can tell you; and immediately set the tone of the evening that was to follow. I honestly cannot remember who won the debate, nor do I recall the result of the House Division at the end. What I can remember is that both teams and their respective supporters retired to the popular public house (the Embassy Tavern) on Bloor Street, where between rounds of draft beer and general hilarity, the Devonshire boys would grab the lower drape of the Trinity boys’ gowns to wipe the residual beer off the tables. We never had a repeat engagement with Trinity, but I think it was the first time in the history of Devonshire House that any of its men had ever come close to debating Trinity College. The House tried to continue the debating effort in the year following my departure to return to the practice of law in Ottawa. I was even invited to return on one occasion to judge their final debate of the year. At that time, they also presented me with a gavel “To Mr. Speaker” in recognition of my contribution to the House in this regard.
On the night of our debate with Trinity, I arrived reasonably early at the Hall to ensure that everything and everyone was in order. The Trinity boys, dressed as always in academic gowns and ties, were seated at their table already, poring over their notes, which of course could be adapted either way in the debate, without fear of having to support or oppose the Resolution. The crowds had started togather, but they were only people fromTrinity. I began to worry increasingly that my boys had either forgotten about the whole affair, or got the wrong night, or had decided not to come, in favour of something more relaxing - like beer and pizza. As the minutes ticked by, and we drew closer to the appointed hour, there were still no Devonshire boys. But then the rumble began to filter up into the hall from the stairs below. What followed was true to form for the Devonshire boys. In they came, first the team, then the supporting members, all dressed in hard hats, blue jeans and work boots, carrying a very large banner, on which was written “Trinity Boys Suck!”. This entrance created a bit of a stir, I can tell you; and immediately set the tone of the evening that was to follow. I honestly cannot remember who won the debate, nor do I recall the result of the House Division at the end. What I can remember is that both teams and their respective supporters retired to the popular public house (the Embassy Tavern) on Bloor Street, where between rounds of draft beer and general hilarity, the Devonshire boys would grab the lower drape of the Trinity boys’ gowns to wipe the residual beer off the tables. We never had a repeat engagement with Trinity, but I think it was the first time in the history of Devonshire House that any of its men had ever come close to debating Trinity College. The House tried to continue the debating effort in the year following my departure to return to the practice of law in Ottawa. I was even invited to return on one occasion to judge their final debate of the year. At that time, they also presented me with a gavel “To Mr. Speaker” in recognition of my contribution to the House in this regard.
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