Destiny

In the 70s, typifying our fashion statement of the vaunted era, on one hand we wore faded jeans and t-shirts, and on the other “leisure suits” with wide lapels, and bell bottom pants, in corduroy too.  But we also watched (and heard) very loud concerts from Rush, April Wine and Triumph in the local arenas to Teenaged Head, The Demics and Battered Wives in many smoky bars, while growing up listening to album rock radio stations, driving in our cars – on the new FM dial, from so-called supergroups like Fleetwood Mac, Boston and The Eagles, and now-classic one hit wonders, including many from the brilliant genres of reggae, punk and ska ... which ushered in a New Wave eventually … but to offset all that commercial success, there were also books like Chariots of the Gods published and movies produced about The Bermuda Triangle, to augment Rollerball, Towering Inferno and, of course, Planet of the Apes. 

In Grade 11, in 1976, we actually took a school-organized field trip into the big city of Toronto to see Rocky!  We later went by ourselves to see Apocalypse Now and then Star Wars one day.  It was a 45-minute drive downtown for us from Whitby.
 
I was 13 in 1973 and thus 17 in '77.  Yes, I completely experienced my teenaged years in the 70s, and what a truly schizophrenic era it was.  This was a decade of fatwheel and yellow plastic skateboards, popularized by Leif Garrett, not Tony Hawk, of blockbuster tv shows like Happy Days and The Bionic Man, and groundbreaking MASH, All In The Family and Soap.  Well, that's what they tell me; it gets a little fuzzy toward the end of the decade and beyond.  
 
It's all about choices.
 
When we were in high school, we all had trouble writing.  Of course, we were only asked to write essays, short essays, considering even a few pages was "long".  Nevertheless, the words wouldn’t flow very easily.  We had trouble with introductions and conclusions in particular.  We were influenced by what other people said, by other opinions.  We really needed to learn in order to teach.  Even though teaching was by far the furthest thing from our minds in those days.  We listened to the stories being told by the people we worked with and for.  We listened to our teachers, but they really didn’t have any stories.
 
I wrote about things that interested me, as I’m sure other kids did too, and likely still do.  Ultimately, they and we wrote what they and we were told to write.  I wrote about history, the glorified history of conflict in particular.  Wars and battles, and mainly those fought on European soil.  In university, I wrote about individual struggles too; human struggles and civil disobedience; mainly I learned about leadership and inspiration.  On one level I was connecting the dots.

Later, years after graduating, when I was depressed in fact, I read novels written by Vietnam veterans.  I read many actually.  They helped me understand real human misery and sowed the seeds in my mind as to what made people tick.  After the accident, I was given a book called The Meaning Of Life.  It taught me three things, to make your life complete, you must: plant a tree, write a book and have a baby.  This is my book.
 
Decisions.  Given our choices, we all have to make decisions.  I always thought, and argued, that I was a fatalist.  We were following pre-ordained paths.  It took me a while to get a grasp on the concept that life is indeed a series of obstacles, merely to be hurdled, and we learn.  We learn there is a bigger picture.
 
When I met my wife, I really began to connect the dots across my lifetime and realized that if certain events hadn’t taken place, that in fact we never would have met.  I got married when I was forty in May 2001; I turned 41 the next month.  And I’ve got a lot of stories to tell.  They’re all connected.  All young people need to understand that no matter how hard it gets - never give up.  There’s always light, as they say, at the end of the tunnel.  In those twenty years since graduation and the few since marriage, I’ve seen a lot and done a lot.  I’ve met a lot of people, some of them I’d even call “great”; some I’d call my friends and some were rude; most were forgettable, but some were not and certainly made a lasting impression.
 
As I said, I was 17 in ’77.  We had only moved to Whitby four years earlier.  Whitby was a small town east of Toronto and I went to Henry Street High School.  In a nutshell, it was boring, generally, and passing was easy.  Except for Grade 12 math class.  I failed that course miserably in 1977.  I couldn’t deal with the teacher, Mrs Keenan – wife of famous hockey coach Mike Keenan, who at the time was coaching the Peterborough Petes to a national Junior ‘A’ hockey championship, unbeknownst to us however.  I really hated her class and her, in particular.  She tried; I didn’t.  I’ve thought about it many times since, but don’t really know why.  It might have had something to do with “Never Mind The Bullocks”.  
 
Anyway, when I had to retake the course the following term, my math mark was a whopping 97%.  For whatever reason, I just didn’t like math … and the Guidance Counselors were absolutely no help either.  They were attempting to channel students into a college or university based purely on scholastic aptitude.  I took one of their tests and I was supposed to be an airline pilot.  Maybe so.  Apparently, my Destiny Number, according to Numerologists is 7, and I am thus spiritual, eccentric, and a bit of a loner.  Following my heart, I applied to college to become a Chef.  I really liked Keith.  I was a dishwasher at the time and he was the Chef.  I admired him.  Following whatever reason though, I applied to university to become … educated….
 
Throughout high school, as opposed to machine shop, electronics or drafting, I took language courses: French and German.  I wanted to travel – that I was sure of.  But I really didn’t like the French teacher, even though she was one of the first people who we had met and who had entertained us upon arriving in Whitby.  In fact, I probably hated her too; her method was all about rote memorization and repetition.  My two German teachers were excellent teachers.  They took the time to explain “why”.

I had several jobs, back in the day, from delivering papers before the sun came up to selling Good Humour ice cream on a tricycle for $6 a day.  Until one day a friend in art class offered to help me get a job that paid an hourly wage working in a restaurant.  I was hired at The Hatch House, an expensive French-service restaurant, as a dishwasher shortly thereafter and was paid $1.85 an hour; then I was promoted … to Head Dishwasher and received $1.95 an hour.  I worked whenever I was asked and did whatever I was asked.  Unlike the obvious division in school between those who liked Disco music and those who liked Rock, there was a subtle division; a rivalry between (clean) floor staff and (sweaty) kitchen staff, and my time was spent in the kitchen, with Keith mainly, until banished to the lower kitchen, which is where the busboys – all local, however – would empty their trays of dishes and cutlery as the night progressed.  
 
Throughout the shift, and very regularly, we’d also have to run up the stairs to collect the various used pots and pans from the cooks, and help Keith, in any way we could.  One day, Keith, who was a very animated and great talker, was telling me about life, which usually concerned his apparently fat wife, while introducing me to the evils of liquor.  He himself had quit drinking years ago but occasionally the waiters – all from Greece – would deliver a hearty rum and coke which he prompted to me to drink as quickly as possible, so as to not get caught, he said.  In reality, he enjoyed watching me mop the kitchens’ floors after my shift while giggling helplessly to myself.
 
The busboys were a year or two older and seemingly much wiser in important cultural matters, such as rock and roll, and smoking.  I was taught Manfred Mann’s “Blinded By The Light”, for instance, was not half as good as Bruce Springsteen’s original version.
 
From time to time – in that era of disco – we used to drive downtown to watch those great young bands play in small clubs.  It was an exciting time.  Toronto had a great scene, rivalling those in New York and London.  But at the same time that FM radio was blossoming and playing a whack of so-called “album rock”, the occasional station would also play “alternative” music.  In the later seventies, all these bands played to huge crowds in not only arenas but also stadiums.  We were among the crowd who saw The Who play in front of 72,000 people at the CNE, and we went to see one of Supertramp’s three sold-out shows, but (funnily enough) could only stand outside the gates for Bruce Springsteen, too lazy to buy tickets.  Those years  - my transition from high school grad to university grad - were indeed a lot of fun.  
 
Other than Music and Fashion, in March of ’77, in fact, a high school trip was offered to the Canary Islands (I was 16 at the time and in Grade 12) – a place on the earth we had never heard of, except for the geography students.  Luckily I was working as a dishwasher at the Hatch House, which although included my first experiences with (a) getting promoted and (b) getting fired, it paid for the weeklong trip.  

We were scheduled to depart from Niagara Falls in New York.  Unfortunately, and rather incredibly, the pilot drove our 747 off the runway and was seen by us being helped into the airport, quite intoxicated apparently, by ground staff.  We snuck into a nearby bar called Roosters and drank pitchers of draft beer until we were bussed off to Buffalo in the early hours of the next day.  We showered, had breakfast and went straight back to the airport for our flight to Tenerife.  It was my first experience with (a) topless women, (b) mopeds, drinking and driving and (c) air disasters.
 
Upon arriving and spending approximately one hour poolside, one of the first things we did after scouring the local bazaar, and buying a cheap switchblade, was to rent mopeds for the week.  The hotel was not very memorable; except for the fact their lobby bar had a band that played Abba songs all night long.  We went elsewhere for fun, except for one night in particular.  Ironically, during that same week girls from a high school in Minesing, a small town outside of Barrie, which is a small town north of Toronto, had also descended on Tenerife.  One night we were partying in our rooms.  Terry Lynn and I were getting along quite well.

She sent me down to the bar for a couple of Harvey Wallbangers.  Oddly, in my haste, I paid $30 for each drink – not understanding the Spanish currency conversions.  In all my years of drinking since, I have never paid so much for so little.  Well, there was this one night in London, while waiting in a line-up outside a very popular nightclub … but that’s another story … albeit related ... errr, connected.

The following March we passed on accompanying the other students to wherever they went and instead me and my best friend went to Jamaica for two weeks.  One week is not enough.  They spoke English, although there was trouble brewing at the time, and it was my first introduction to shanties and real political strife in my young adult life … other than living through the FLQ crisis in Quebec as a pre-teen immediately before moving to Whitby.