CHAPTER 1
“Where to, kid?”
“… a coffee table, after all, is just a flat-topped desk with short legs.”
November 1961. Behind the wheel of a cab in front of the downtown Toronto hotel sat a thickset, balding middle-aged man of below-average height. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and vest despite the weather, and his face was, for the most part, hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses, a sinister-looking mustache and the biggest cigar I'd ever seen. The small-town boy in me was immediately wary and began glancing about for – for what I wasn't sure.
DeVry Technical Institute had recommended I spend my first night in Toronto at the old Ford Hotel, which I did. Now, the following morning, armed with a list of addresses of private homes offering rooms to out-of-town DeVry students, I wrestled my two huge soft-sided suitcases through the lobby and exited the hotel in search of a taxi.
"Throw your bags in the back. Let's go.” It sounded more like a command than an offer of service. I did as ordered; it was my first time as a paying passenger in a taxi.
"Where to, kid?"
Part way through my explanation as to why I required his services, he interrupted me. "What's the first address, kid?"
The kid read it out.
"What's your name, kid?"
We exchanged first names. Thus, I met Al Dacks, ‘The Governor,’ one of the most memorable characters I have ever known.
Al peppered me with questions directed at the rear-view mirror as we drove. He seemed fascinated by the notion that a just-turned 18-year-old from a small town goodness-knows-where out west would venture thousands of miles to come to a mega-city, knowing no one, to go to school.
We checked out three homes, none of which appealed to me. As it was almost lunchtime, Al suggested we stop by his apartment for a bite and meet his wife.
Joan was 20 years younger, a 29-year-old Australian psychiatric nurse, shorter in stature than Al but greater in girth. She, I quickly discovered, was also a character.
Following a hastily prepared lunch and visit over sandwiches, Al and Joan disappeared into their bedroom, emerging moments later with an invitation to me to board with them. Their place was small, just a one-bedroom apartment, so my bed would be the pull-out sofa in the living room. Not the best of arrangements.
Just feet from the couch was a rather large television, which probably received more than one channel; perhaps staying here would work.
But where would I study? On the tiny coffee table? It wasn’t going to work.
They appeared to like me; even their miniature poodle took a shine to me. Maybe this was the place for me.
Sharing the single bathroom, not being family, bothered me.
Undecided, I politely suggested that since there were still two more DeVry recommended addresses to check out, I’d best do that; then I would be in a better position to decide.
As we departed Al stopped by their car, ostensibly to retrieve something from the glove compartment. Their car? Only a brand-new – they'd had it less than three weeks – 1962 Chevrolet Impala convertible, red with white top and red leather bucket seats. What a car! Boy, I'd love to slip behind the wheel of this baby. As stated on my driver's licence, I'd even wear corrective lenses if that's what it took.
"Do you have a licence, Terry?"
"Huh?"
"Do you drive?"
Snapping from my dream, I responded, "Yes, I have my driver’s licence."
Al lamented that spending as many hours as he did driving a taxi left little time for him and Joan to enjoy their new purchase. Still, it was Joan he really felt sorry for since she didn't drive and seldom got out other than to work.
"If you decide to stay with us, maybe we could shave a few dollars off your board if you drove Joan to work; that way, I could get a little sleep. I'd still pick her up in the morning."
Joan worked four nights a week at the Ontario Mental Hospital, 11 p.m. to 7 a.m.
As I fantasized about driving the Chevy, even late at night, my indecision about which boarding option was best for me seemed to resolve itself. I'd never slept on a pull-out sofa bed before; the Dacks were generously offering me the opportunity for an exciting new sleep experience. I bet the couch would be comfy – like bucket seats.
And a television beside me. Heck, I could turn on ‘Tonight Starring Jack Paar’ or switch channels without getting out of bed.
And a coffee table, after all, is just a flat-topped desk with short legs. I could balance it on my knees, making it even more like a desk. That would work.
As for sharing the bathroom, one body's bodily functions are pretty much like the next. What's the big deal?
Lugging my two suitcases, one at a time, up the long flight of stairs, I marveled at my great good fortune; these accommodations were tailor-made for me. Heck, I could even use my jumbo soft-sided suitcases as matching chests-of-drawers.
And so I settled into my new digs. Could hardly wait to tell Mom!
Joan was a huge wrestling fan. Almost from the time I moved in, she and I attended Monday Night Wrestling at Maple Leaf Gardens because Al was always working. Al produced complimentary tickets each week, and we were off, getting there, of course, in that brand-new 1962 Chevy Impala convertible with me behind the wheel.
Pro wrestling was incredibly popular in Toronto in the early 1960s, with several thousand rabid, worked-up fans in attendance. It was hard to concentrate on the happenings in the ring with all the yelling and screaming from the agitated audience; Joan was clearly in her element.
I sat in amazement and amusement as this raucous example of human evolution unfolded every Monday night. Is this for real? The folks back home would never believe me – I struggled to believe it myself.
Home. I’d been gone from Lillooet for what – six weeks? Gone from a small community of maybe 1,200, where almost everyone knew everyone, to a mega-city 2,000 miles east.
Gone from a town without a single traffic light on Main Street to bumper-filled streets pulsing red, green and amber. Gone from one television channel to an endless selection. Gone from walking a few blocks to school to commuting to class via subway, streetcar and bus. Evan Kemp and the Trail Riders were a big draw when they made their annual trek to Lillooet. After six weeks in Toronto, I’d already watched the Canadiens thump the Leafs. I’d seen ‘Bulldog Brower’ wrestle four times, whacking almost anyone within reach including the referee, and attended a Chubby Checker concert – all in Maple Leaf Gardens.
Home. What’s that saying? “You can take the boy out of Lillooet, but you can’t take the Lillooet out of the boy.”
I didn’t start life as a Lillooet boy…
