I am becoming Bionic Man. This has been an ongoing process for the past ten years. First, I had my gall bladder removed. Then, two years apart, I had cataract surgery on both eyes. Most recently, I had a hernia operation. I am now being held together by steel thread, sealing wax and dirt.
If these are the golden years, then please bring back the “lump of coal” years. Most of the young are naïve on the subject of physical discomfort.
This is a function of growing older. The hernia operation took place a month ago at the Shouldice Clinic in Toronto, which is world famous. It is housed in a mansion that used to be home to a long-ago Globe and Mail newspaper publisher and the surrounding grounds are incredibly lovely. About 30 operations are performed there every working day.
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Port Carling, Ontario is ground zero for money in Canada. It is dead centre in the heart of Muskoka, lying where the three lakes – Joseph, Muskoka and Rosseau – converge. The place reeks of privilege and entitlement.
There is a route that one can drive from Bala, through Port Carling, to the little village of Rosseau that is so beautiful, you can hardly believe it. The road turns into a roller coaster ride in some sections, but the views on either side are eye candy of the sweetest kind. Cars contend for road space with bicycle riders and joggers, since these are training grounds for Canada’s top triathlon contenders.
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During a recession, some companies buck the trend. For example, shoe repair stores and the makers of Spam have seen sales soar. Macdonalds and Wal-Mart are experiencing an influx of customers. All the trouble that people are having coping means the drug companies will probably do okay as well. In fact, more than just okay. They’ll likely add to their already large storehouses of wealth.
Are the drug companies regulated? Yes. For example, they have to issue disclaimers with some of their products. But I suspect that just means they have someone in the backroom of their advertising department who is having a blast writing the scariest copy he or she can come up with for use on television. The flow of helpful information is usually something like the following.
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Penelope Sue had been an incurable romantic almost her entire life. At least, ever since she discovered the word “elopes” hidden within her own name. She was the nicest girl. Everyone agreed on that count. But she had one fatal flaw when it came to men. She expected too much.
That’s why, at the age of 32, she was still alone and on the lookout, although her latest beau, Charlie, was showing some promise. Charlie was a computer programmer and Penelope Sue worked in a legal office. They met over the Internet playing word games.
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I have decided to write about the year I lived in residence in Massey College at the University of Toronto because I have a bad feeling about post-war “baby boomers”. Having had some experience with human nature, and aging parents, I know the boomer generation is likely to become quite nostalgic as the years plod on.
I would rather remember things with a clear eye. The old days were not always the best. Also, not everyone has the same impressions. A mystique can accumulate around a historical setting that needs more than one telling to sort out the underlying reality.
I often hear that so-and-so once attended some exclusive school in his or her teens or younger years, or went to some Ivy League college in the United States or overseas. That’s fine and it’s all very interesting, but in the academic year 1971-72, I attended what was probably the most exclusive school in Canada. Massey College, at the time, was reserved only for male doctoral students. You only got accepted on a scholarship.
Massey is a beautiful low-rise Ron Thom-designed building in downtown Toronto abutted by religious institutions and residences. Imagine Frank Lloyd Wright open spaces, combined with gothic interiors and you won’t be far off the mark. It was presided over by that great man of letters, the Master, Robertson Davies. More on his overriding presence later.
The college was established to replicate the experience of attending Oxford or Cambridge in England. The wearing of flowing black gowns, Hogwarts-style, was required during dinner and on special occasions. The living expenses of junior fellows were subsidized from an endowment fund set up by the Massey family, whose most famous members were Vincent, a former Governor General, and Raymond, the Canadian actor who played Young Abe Lincoln in the Hollywood film of the same name.
The personal valet of Vincent during the war was the porter at the front gate. He had an enormous waxed-and-polished handlebar mustache and he was a formidable presence guarding the castle. His chief role, as he interpreted it, was to keep women away from his wards. I was told he once prohibited female members of the National Ballet from entering the building when they came as part of a troupe to perform a dance for the alumni. By the way, women were allowed in as “fellows” the year after I left.
The intent behind the college was, and undoubtedly still is, that proximity of scholastic achievers would foster intellectual dialogue and other academic pursuits. What it overlooked was the awkwardness in most things social that was pervasive amongst the younger fellows, me included. The year I lived in Massey certainly did little to advance my understanding of the opposite sex. There were a couple of dances to which girls from elsewhere on U. of T.’s campus were invited and those were among the highlights of the year. I still remember a Christine and a Lola with abiding fondness.
For all its vaunted intellectualism, my impression was mainly one of unnaturalness. Because of the endowment money, meals in the Great Hall started the year with a flourish – cordon bleu chicken for dinner, for example. But fairly quickly into the year, dinners deteriorated into more standard-residence fare. I’d often go to Harvey’s up on Bloor Street and indulge in a couple of foot-long hot dogs smothered in condiments.
There was a lovely little library on site. That’s where I first developed my interest in science fiction. I read all the books of John Wyndham. Some interesting guests were brought in to meet the student body. Lester Pearson spent an evening with us and we chatted with him while sharing coffee in the lounge. The lounge was also where most of us gathered to watch that greatest of all sporting events, the Canada-Russia hockey series. I’ll never forget the shock we all felt when our side lost the first game.
A favourite activity was the ongoing croquet tournament held every night in the outdoor courtyard. That grassed and flower-bordered area flowed upward on a slight rise from the goldfish pond at its base. There was another fellow in my year who thought he was the best croquet player around. One night I accepted his challenge to a mano-a-mano contest for the ultimate championship and I took him down in a way that left little doubt as to who was number one. It was both humiliating (for him) and exhilarating (for me).
But the painful moments were too plentiful. There was one to-my-way-of-thinking abomination known as Gaudy Night. It was held on a monthly basis with a rotating cast of characters. It required a limited number of junior fellows to attend a dinner hosted by Robertson Davies along with guests invited from the faculty on campus and some special personages from outside university life. Cigars were passed around with dessert and there were rumours that one could partake of snuff if one so desired, but I saw no evidence of that.
The seating order was by alternate level of experience and worldly achievement, with lowly plebes shoe-horned in between the wise and the witty. What I remember is that, after cursory greetings were exchanged, the learned gentleman on my left and the learned gentleman on my right talked through me for the rest of the evening, which stretched on to eternity. It was agony of the most self-conscious and full-of-self-doubt variety.
Spending time with the Master himself was quite the experience. He would pontificate on subject matter in a ponderous and plodding manner that made it clear somebody should be writing it all down. As a matter of fact, there always seemed to be somebody – an acolyte from a tutorial perhaps – standing just behind him or to his side prepared to take on that assignment, at least mentally if not in literal stenographic form.
It was tradition that once a year, the Master would compose a ghost story and read it before an assembly of all the fellows. These annual renderings were subsequently compiled into a book. The year that I was there, the story was instantly forgettable and the rest of the evening was given over to a performance of madrigals by a choral society that really should have developed other interests. It was a precious and special moment.
All of this is not to say there weren’t some outstanding memories from that year. While living in such cloistered surroundings, I went to see the original Godfather movie with four or five other Massey fellows. Afterwards, there was some argument about why the film was so appealing. I knew instinctively that Michael Corleone was not a poor victim who was dragged down by his family into a life of crime. He wanted the power.
By control of nervous system, excess of intelligence, birthright and timing, he was presented with an opportunity and he took it. Yes, he also desired Kay and a family, but most of the social niceties be damned. Money and control could be used to acquire respectability. That’s why this movie has always resonated so strongly with testosterone-overbalanced males. I had trouble convincing some of my friends of this truth.
Towards the end of the year, I was sitting in the dining hall with some people I knew only casually. Somewhere in mid-conversation, it was decided we should introduce ourselves. One colleague said, “Hi, I’m John” and another, “I’m Rashid.” When it came to my turn, the surprising words that popped out of my mouth were, “Hi, I’m pissed off.” It wasn’t long afterwards I firmed up a full-time job and arranged for my departure.
I don’t go to reunions. I feel no need to relive glory days, nor do I want to dredge up less joyous times. I don’t take any pleasure in watching the rate at which my contemporaries, and by extension myself, are deteriorating. Keep in touch with the handful you want to and move on, is my motto. But my days at Massey College were an almost-unique experience. As a moment in time, and from one person’s perspective, they are worthy of preserving.
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Another of my quixotic journeys through life is amusingly portrayed in Will That Be Chicken or Beef?
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For my first book, “Two Scoops” Is Just Right, please click here for the paperback version and here for the Kindle e-book version.
For the sequel, “Three Scoops” Is A Blast! (with the award-winning “Size of the Skip”) click here for paperback and here for Kindle.
For “Four Scoops” Is Over The Top (containing Hemingway short-listed “Caboose Follies”) click here for paperback and here for Kindle.
And finally, for my latest book, “Five Scoops” Is An Addiction!, please click here for the paperback and here for the Kindle digital version.
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If there really are space aliens living among us, they should be fairly easy to identify.
The following are some of the tell-tale signs.
Once you know them, they seem obvious. Just the same, it’s advisable to have them here for reference.
(1) They know a lot more about astronomy than seems good for anybody.
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Once upon a time, there was a young Canadian boy name Richard, living in a small Prairie town, who played a major role in world events. Up until the age of 18, he did very little to distinguish himself or to set himself apart from the rest of the population. In fact, he’d shown such a lack of initiative, that many of the local residents, who were his friends and neighbours, thought of him as a “do nothing.”
But on one fateful summer day in 1943, everything changed for our young hero. That was the day he saved the planet.
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