A Memoir

Part 1. Clara

Mom was born in 1920 to Irish/scotch immigrants. She was a country girl growing up on a small dairy farm in Ontario. She married in 1939 and had three daughters and two sons in rapid succession. We were all born during World War 2, except for my younger brother, who was born in 1946.

Family history is sketchy but in my time my father was shunned by her parents. He was a cook in the army but didn't go overseas during the war. Perhaps his being 4 foot 11 meant he wasn't a big enough target. He was moved around to different bases in Ontario. My father had other things to do and was seldom home. He liked to hang with the boys or a girlfriend. It got out that he had one in Ottawa for years and had a son by her.

When I was born, my mother got very sick and was sent to a mental institution for a few months. The same thing happened when my brother was born a year and a half later. I suspect it was major post partum depression. Us kids were taken in by relatives. My mother got sick a lot. I had six pairs of guardians by the time I was nine when she died. Another six would follow.
When mom was discharged from hospital, she would stay with her parents until she felt strong enough to look after her children again. She managed to get enough money from my father to get by and I suspect she got some help from other sources. Keeping our health insurance premiums paid for was a top priority. It was very important to her to keep her family together but sometimes when she tried, her anger led to a lot of screaming, hitting and throwing whatever was handy.

Then there was the day that our next door neighbour stopped us as we approached our house for lunch. He told us that there had been a fire and our mother was in the hospital. Dazed, we followed him into his house.
My mother had been making us French fries when the oil caught on fire, the flames reaching to the ceiling. Panicking, she took the pot to throw it outside. As she stepped out the door, the wind blew at the flames, setting her clothes on fire. Her screams brought the neighbors running to her aid but they were thwarted by our dog, a Great Dane. He got very excited and tried to protect her from the strangers, making it difficult for them to get to her.

We stayed with the neighbour for a couple of hours until a relative came to take us to our grandparents in Morrisburg. Shirley, the oldest of us at thirteen, was the only one allowed to visit our mother in the hospital. She died two days later at thirty-three. She had a hard life ending in a terrible death.

I remember the scene vividly when I was given the news. Always will.

Part 2. The Grenade

In 1951 I was seven and living in Armed Forces Base Borden. My father was a cook in the army which made us kids “Army brats.” I remember us being driven to school in the back of a dark green, tarp-topped army truck and singing,

"They say that in the army
The girls are mighty fine
You ask for Betty Grable,
They give you Frankenstein.
Oh I, don't want no more of army life.
Oh ma I want to go,
Back to Ontario,
Oh ma I want to go home."

Two good memories of Borden were learning how to ride my first bike and the free Saturday matinees. That was when they started with black and white news reels and cartoons. I dreamed of being like Superman when I grew up. (An older guy in baggy tights, Superman then would get a laugh today.)

Another good memory was taking a hike with my sisters to pick loganberry, raspberry and blueberries. To get there we walked to the end of our street, over the railway tracks and tank road and past an army practice field.

I liked to go hiking and exploring by myself too and decided to give the practice field a closer look. One day I came upon what looked like a decomposed aerosol can. Closer inspection revealed a shiny, small ball bearing. Playing Allies was very popular with the boys at school and ball bearings were considered a super Ally, so for a couple of days I looked for more.

After much searching I found a small, rusted can. Although I suspected that it was a type of grenade, I thought it was a dud and proceeded to try breaking it open. Not to be completely foolish, I threw it at rocks and trees a distance away from me while I'd turn my head away. When it didn't break open, I went to the railway track. After a couple of hard throws, it exploded.

I was knocked out so fast I didn't even hear the bang. When I came to, there were little red fountains of blood rising from the fingers of my right hand and I could feel something on my eye.

People in nearby houses heard the explosion and came running. An ambulance was called and I was rushed, with my mother, to Sick Children's Hospital in Toronto. It took an hour to get there and I was told to hold my eye open so the piece of shrapnel wouldn't damage my eye. A doctor was able to pluck it off at the hospital with no damage done.

I don't remember anything about the two weeks in the hospital except that I was disappointed when it was time to leave.

The hospital left a couple of pieces of shrapnel in my hand, because, I believe, they were too deep. At home when they would fester and rise, my mother would dig them out with a darning needle. Jagged, they didn't come out easily. (Mega pain!)

A search of the practice fields found hundreds of dangerous leftovers. A high wire fence was installed. Others might not be as lucky as me.

Part 3. A Dangerous Dip

There were so many foolish, life threatening things I did as a boy that I think I was lucky to make it to adulthood. Rock throwing fights, running around a twelve inch ledge at the third floor of a building at night and jumping into the Thames River with my clothes on in the middle of winter.

Spring had arrived and my sisters and I were out for a walk taking it all in. I was eight or nine and we were living in London, Ontario. After a while we came upon a public, outdoor pool, so we stopped to check it out. We wouldn't have climbed a fence so it must have been accessible. The pool was empty except for the deep end where rain and melted snow had collected in the off season. It was almost up to the top of where the cement began to slope down to the deep end.

I climbed down into the shallow end to take a look around. The water was murky, making it hard to see how deep it was so I got closer. There was some green fungus growing along the edge and other gooey stuff. Just how I managed it, I don't know but I slipped on the slope. I tried to catch myself but it was like grease and I quickly slid to the bottom, far below the surface.
Fortunately I was able to take in a breath of air before I sank into the depths but I didn't know how to swim and my clothes were weighing me down. I stood up and looked around. Visibility was a couple of feet. I started walking, hoping I was in the direction of the ladder. I realized that if I panicked and didn't keep my wits about me that my chances would diminish.

My lungs were bursting and I was taking in some water when I saw the ladder and the wall. With my energy draining away, I got to it and climbed. My sister grabbed me at the top to help me as I collapsed to the ground. Shirley helped me get the water out of my lungs as I gasped for air.

We rested for a while, squeezed the water out of my clothes the best we could and let the sun and air dry them as we continued on our way.

Part 4 Moms' Parents Farm

The long, dirt driveway twisted and climbed to the old wooden farm house that stood on the crest of a hill. A barn with sheds nearby accompanied it. An outhouse stood beside the house where at times the Sears catalogue was all there was to finish the job.

Living happened in the kitchen where plumbing was a hand pump at the sink. The only warm room in the house was the kitchen where a big wood stove also cooked the meals. A pipe sent heat to the bedrooms upstairs which were off limits during the day.

The only time I was allowed in the living room was when my mother’s open casket stood there. There were two things I recall of the gathering: My father crying in a house where he was never welcome and when I stopped to look at my mother, an aunt, seeing me there, without asking, lifted me up and asked me if I wanted to kiss my mother “goodbye.” I didn't but felt compelled to do so anyway. The funeral had a surprisingly very long procession of cars to the grave site which was near Chesterville. After this time the smell of flowers has always been repugnant to me.

My sister Yvonne, my younger brother Ray and I spent the next six months or so at our grandparents' farm until it was decided where we'd live. I was okay with the break from school.

It was a small farm with a few milking cows, a bull, some chickens, a couple of pigs and two horses. Milking was done by hand. At times grandfather had to work for the railroad to make ends meet, while his wife and children would look after the farm. They couldn't afford the latest in farm equipment. An old, second hand tractor and the horses worked the land. There was some cash crop but most was just for the livestock. Milk was the main source of revenue.

I remember helping with the harvest. Sheathes were made of the oats and we'd walk the field stacking them in teepees of six or eight to dry them out. The hay was piled loose on a wagon and taken to the barn where a big hook and pulley hoisted it up and into the loft. Most farms were bailing at this time. Working in the hot sun all day was hard but I was young and healthy and needed something worthwhile to do.

Uncle Ray, our favorite uncle, still lived at the farm. When it wasn't busy, we played baseball in the front yard. Sometimes he would hook up the mare to the buggy and take us for a ride or he'd jump on her bareback for a run. I liked the smell of horses and remember the sound of the carriage’s big wheels on the gravel. It felt like I was in a time warp getting a final glimpse of an older time. In the evening we would listen to the radio, and play checkers or crocano. There was no TV.

Years later I was surprised to learn that the farm house was moved down the road. I didn't realize it was so well made.

We moved back to London to live with our new stepmother who was my father’s long time girlfriend.

Part 5. Marjorie

Six months after my mother died, our father decided to marry her and we were brought back to the army subdivision in London to reunite. Shirley, the oldest, stayed with relatives. The duplex was a couple of blocks away from where we lived before. Marjorie brought her son, our half brother, Lloyd. He was the same age as my nine year old brother and was a spoiled brat who could manipulate his mother since he was the only one she cared about. Marjorie couldn't see much and wore thick glasses. The chubby little woman was considered legally blind.

Our father wasn't around much but was industrious enough to build a bedroom in the basement which became Yvonne's. Ray and I had bunk beds. Marlene and Lloyd had their own rooms.

A neighbour saw Ray and me smoking in the park down the street from our house and reported us. Dad was home and came looking. I remember well us running home down the middle of the street with him running after us swinging his belt. The neighbours must have got a kick out of watching our four foot eleven fathers' little legs running after us.

At eleven years old, I started to learn how to cook. One meal I would make was called Hamburger Gravy. Hamburger was fried with onions and seasoning. When it was done, it was thickened with flour and water. This was poured on mashed potatoes.

Another job I did was washing the kitchen floor on my knees with a bucket, cloth and scrub brush. It's a good way make sure it's cleaned well and you can get into the corners a lot better than with a mop. Having pride in a job well done is a good way to learn the work ethic.

My real mother would take us to pretty well any Christian church that was nearby as long as it wasn't Catholic. (I think this was because she found out that Dad had changed to Catholic because that's what his girlfriend was.) When Marjorie came on the scene, she asked us if we wanted to become Catholics which felt like an offer we couldn't refuse. We started going to Blessed Sacrament Church and the separate school beside it. I got into fighting at school but stopped when I got the reputation of being a bully.

Yvonne was getting disciplined by Marjorie one day when she told her that she would be getting more from her father when he got home. Yvonne told her he wouldn't because he had been having sex with her and threatened to let people know. Marjorie took her shopping and tried to convince her to keep quiet because that would cause problems for the family. A few days later Yvonne told her teacher what was going on. She was taken away.

Our father was sent to prison for two years.

Marjorie was not pleased and called for reinforcements. Her mother, who hated my father, wasn't crazy about his kids either and just made the situation worse. She would do such things as falsely report to her daughter that we were misbehaving, adding to the turmoil. Marjorie would get so infuriated that she'd wear dad's thick and buckled army belt to threaten us. It scared the hell out of me. I remember walking home from school and stopping at the top of our street too afraid to go home. On the weekends, I would try to be out of the house as much as I could doing such things as hiking in a nearby woods. A couple of times, I'd want to come home. When it got late, she would call the police to bring me back. Then I got the belt.

Perhaps it wasn't a big deal but I remember taking a bobby pin and sticking it into a wall socket. I don't know if it was done in desperation as a cry for help or a death wish but all it did was burn my fingers.

Fortunately, not long after that, we were taken to Family Court because Marjorie said she couldn't take care of us anymore. Our relatives had enough of us too so we were made wards of the Catholic Children's Aid Society.

Oh happy day.

Part 6. Fontbonne Hall

At eleven years old, happiness was a finished family and being made wards of the London Catholic Children's Aid Society. Living with an abusive stepmother was not fun so the move was good news.

We were sent to Fontbonne Hall which was an orphanage run by the Sisters of St. Joseph. The Mother House was near the University of Western Ontario. My bed was in a large dorm on the third floor which had rows of around thirty single beds. There was a bedroom off the dorm for the nun in charge of boys. Clothes were communal and we got whatever was next and fitted us. The thought of wearing someone else's underwear is repulsive to me now, but I didn't think anything of it then. I liked the idea of always getting different and well laundered changes of clothes.

As soon as I arrived the very big, grumpy old nun in charge of boys got into whacking me across the head. I took it a few times and then, clenching my fists, I screamed at her to never hit me again. She must have taken my fearful outburst for violent, uncontrolled rage because neither she nor any of the other nuns ever touched me again.

There was a chapel where there was mass every morning and Rosary was said in the afternoon after school. I was encouraged but not required to attend, except for Sunday Mass. Smaller dorms and rooms for the nuns were on the second floor along with the kitchen, offices and the priest's apartment. Separate day rooms for boys and girls were in the basement.

At times one of us boys was asked to go to the Mother House to serve as altar boys. I only got to go once. This was when mass was said in Latin and I never forgot the prayers I had to say. (Mindless repetition.) The Mother House looked like a castle with a long driveway, landscaped grounds with a forest backdrop and rolling lawns. The chapel was immense and the choir inspiringly beautiful as the many voices echoed throughout the chamber. It was the first time I had my own bedroom. The food was great and a novice brought a snack to my room in the evening. It was a little scary staying in a room in a far corner of the building. I would have liked the novice to stay and keep me company for a while and I'm sure she would have but I was to shy to ask. I stayed over because mass was early in the morning.

We were only at Fontbonne Hall for a little while and then my brother and I were sent to a foster home on a farm. The C.A.S. wanted to keep us together. We didn't like each other. Mom always liked him best.

Part 7. Farm Foster Home

After a few weeks at Fontbonne Hall, my brother and I went to a foster home on a farm in rural Delaware, not far from London. They were Polish immigrants who didn't speak much English and had a sixteen year old son. We slept with a hired hand. He had a bad case of ringworm on his arm but was an easy going guy. I stayed clear of him. I'm sure our foster parents just wanted us for the money and the free labour because there wasn't any affection. They even begrudged us the $2.00 a month allowance designated for us from the Children's Aid Society.

My head was pretty screwed up by the time I came to this foster home. I didn't like my brother, foster brother or foster parents. Ray and I fought so much that our social worker bought us a pair of boxing gloves. We never used them. Our fighting was verbal, not physical.

Our days started at 5:00 A.M. which is normal for a dairy farm because the cows have to be milked twice a day at twelve hour intervals. School was a two kilometre walk down a gravel country road to S.S. #3 Delaware, a one room school house for eight grades. At lunch hour, us boys would do such things as look for snakes to put in the teacher' desk, blow up frogs, raid orchards in the summer and bee hives in the winter.

I looked forward to when lunch was over and our soft spoken teacher would read us Ann of Green Gables. She was a light in the gloom. Unfortunately, she was soon replaced.

During the year and a half at the foster home, I never left the farm except to go to school, not even church although everyone was Catholic and I belonged to the Catholic Children's Aid Society.

The only exception was an amazing school trip the C.A.S. paid for to Detroit City. In the morning we took a cruise to Boblow Island Amusement Park. (The boat even had a live band with dancing.) We saw the Detroit Pistons and the Boston Celtics play basketball in the afternoon and I had my first meal in a restaurant. (The teacher had to help me order deep fried prawns with fries and coleslaw.) After dinner we saw the Detroit Red Wings and the Toronto Maple Leafs play hockey. The cruise, NBA basketball game, eating at a restaurant and the NHL hockey game were all firsts for me. It was an unforgettable day.

Back at the farm, I was thirteen and puberty was setting in to add raging hormones to the emotionally unstable mix. I wasn't interested in my foster brothers' advances but he had better luck with my eleven year old brother.

With much pleading, I was finally able to convince the C.A.S. to take me off the farm and I went back to the orphanage. My brother stayed for a while and then joined me. The C.A.S. wanted to keep us together.

Part 8. Back to the Orphanage

The Sisters of St. Joesph probably weren't too happy to see my return to Fontbonne Hall from the foster home on the farm. Along with depression, anger, anxiety and a variety of other mental/emotional flaws, I was now a teenager with raging hormones to add to the mix.

A couple of times, late at night, I would sneak down to one of the girls' dorms to do a little exploring. This led to me meeting up with Gloria one day and going all the way. The next time we met, in the laundry room, when nobody else was around, she surprised me by bringing a friend. The friend was one of the two girls I had met at night and Gloria told me that she was here to try it too. I was flabbergasted but the problem was solved when we heard a nun calling from down the hall for Gloria. They left in a hurry and I waited till the coast was clear. The next time I met Gloria, she told me that the nuns had told her not to have sex anymore. Nothing was said to me. I decided to behave myself even though the girls were my age group. There were others that I saw getting it on too. The nuns did get after some boys when they found out they were involved in circle jerks.

This was the fifties when rock and roll was in full swing and I got very caught up in it. I knew the words to a lot of songs by Elvis, the Everly Brothers, Roy Orbinson, and many others. At night I'd go to bed and dream of becoming a rock and roll star.

At fourteen I wasn't dating yet but I went to dances. I'd get so crazed with the music that I'd dance by myself. Once at a Knights of Columbus dance, before anyone started dancing, I got up and quickly danced all around the floor a couple of times. People must have thought I was kind of strange. I was.
The nuns tried to keep us occupied when we weren't in school. I had a newspaper route for a while; went swimming; 25 cent matinees; an evening woodworking shop; Boy Scouts; and a stint as an altar boy. I also went to a Y.M.C.A. summer camp for a couple of weeks. Somehow I got nominated to tell a night time story to a bunch of restless, younger boys. They enjoyed my version of Jack and the Beanstalk, wanting more. It made me feel like a real winner.

The next day a bunch of us went for a long hike. After a couple of kilometres, we stopped for lunch and a camp fire. I was given an axe to cut some wood. Not knowing much about cutting wood, I started hacking away at a sapling. It kept flopping all over the place so I put my foot on it to steady it. The axe hit my foot. Being a macho little man, I ignored the pain till it subsided and I carried on. After a couple of minutes, my foot felt soggy and wet. When I looked down at it, I saw that my running shoe had changed from white to mostly red. A make shift stretcher was constructed and they took turns carrying me back to camp. I think they liked the idea of using their first aid expertise. The hospital sewed me up and sent me back to camp.

The most memorable thing that happened at this time was when I made the front page of the London Free Press with a big picture of me running after and grabbing a pig at the local fairs' Greased Pig Contest. My moment of fame!
Finding a foster home for a couple of teenage boys was not easy but after a year or so one was found in the town of Parkhill. Away we go again!

Part 9. My buddy Randy

The idea of “friends” never worked very well for me. It made me too uncomfortable. My social skills were limited. You get the picture. An exception was a guy I hung with when I was thirteen and living at an orphanage. He was such a friendly, outgoing guy that he could have all the friends he wanted.

We didn't want to go to school one day and decided to run away. Neither of us had any particular place we wanted to go until I thought of my big sister Shirley who I hadn't seen for a few years. She lived about 300 miles away which sounded like a pretty good go, so we headed for the main highway and thumbed a ride as far as the outskirts of Guelph. I don't think the 401 existed then, so it must have been the old #2. This was 1957.

One thing you are not supposed to do is hitchhike at the bottom of a hill which makes sense because that's when people want to accelerate not slow down. A cop told us that when he stopped to check us out. Randy got so nervous that the cop got suspicious and started asking questions. “C” as in Charles, “O” as in ocean, “U” as in Union, “G” as in George, “H” as in Henry, “L” as in Lincoln, “E” as in Edward, and “R”as in Robert, was one of those things that just stuck in my mind forever. That's what the cop used when he called dispatch and gave them my name. We had another ride….to the local police station.

The Children's Aid Society in London was called. Since it was approaching evening and too late for them to come and get us, arrangements were made for us to stay at the nearby Guelph Reformatory for the night. It used to be a concentration camp during World War 2. When we went in I recall seeing a very long line of kids coming down a staircase wearing white towels and going into the washroom for showers. Another line was forming for those who had finished. It looked like there was still an armed forces influence.

We were taken to quarters that were called, “Solitary Confinement,” or “The Hole,” and “The Dungeon.” Separated, they put us in cells that had no light fixture, a urine-stained mattress, and a bucket for a toilet. It was a long time before I fell asleep. Breakfast was dry toast and tea. The C.A.S. came and got us in the late morning.

A few years later, I went back to London for a visit and read in the paper that Randy was in the local lockup charged with armed robbery of a jewelry store. He was arrested with a woman at a local hotel. (The beauty was in the bed and the booty was under it.)

I went to visit him. Too much time and change had come between us so the visit was short. I never saw him again but he is not forgotten.

Part 10. To Carol

Parkhill was a sulphur town which made the air smell like rotten eggs and the water taste like,“Yuk!” Finding a foster home for two teenage brothers wasn't easy and I suspect that the people who took us in needed the money. It wasn't a lot but enough to make it worth their while. They weren't very fond of us but I take my hat off to them anyway. It took a year and a half to find someone. If I had a say in the matter, I would have stayed at the orphanage. Actually, it was called a receiving home. A holding place till something else was found.

The foster father was an alcoholic who had two thirds of his stomach removed because of some kind of poisoning while working as a mechanic. Makes me wonder how there was room for enough booze to get the desired effect. He retched a lot. They were middle aged and he had taken early retirement. The foster mother worked at the local high school cafeteria. She brought us home leftovers which I think was better than it ending up in the garbage. My brother and I had big appetites and we weren't fussy about what we ate.

I would describe the way they were with us as “barely tolerant.” I thought it was comical when during an altercation she went after me with a broom like she was trying to sweep me out the door. I went for a long walk to give her time to chill. They weren't so bad and were just trying to get by. I was just your basic troubled teen and didn't want to give them a hard time but we had an occasional disagreement.

He always watched “Hockey Night in Canada.” That was when it was the original six teams. This was the late fifties and we watched shows like Don Messer's Jubilee and the Ed Sullivan Show. Two things we did together were eating and watching TV.

Although I rarely went to church, I was still an altar boy. The priest had such a hard time getting boys that he paid kids to do it and I needed the money even if it was just a couple of dollars.

Some little old ladies looked a little put off at me when I won the church euchre tournament. I'm a card player from way back….so far back I can't remember when I got into it. First prize was a pen and pencil set.

Two girls from my school asked me to meet them at a park near my place. Carol was a beautiful red head who was a cheerleader. I made a big play for her and we ended up going steady. Later she told me that the plan in the park was for me to go for the other girl. We had an on and off relationship that was very exciting because she was my first girlfriend. In retrospect I think she wanted to break it off permanently but I was very persistent that we stay together. One winter during a big snow storm I found out that she was with some friends out in the country. Crazy to see her, I tried to bike to her along a highway and a country road. When I was too exhausted to go any farther, someone stopped and gave me a ride.

There was a pool hall that I hung at quite a lot and there was a restaurant that was a meeting place for teens. It had machines at each booth that you put money in to hear songs from the jukebox.

When I was about sixteen, I was surprised when my sister Shirley who hadn't been in touch much, arranged for us to stay with her. We moved to Cornwall but when the Catholic Children's Aid Society found out that she wasn't Catholic, we were sent to a foster home near by. It didn't work out so we were allowed to go back to my sister. We had been separated for seven years.

Part 11. INTO THE WORK FORCE

The year was 1961 and I was seventeen going to high school in Cornwall. It took me two years to complete grade nine and I had just failed ten. I was too unstable to apply myself to the scholastical, so it was decided that I would try to learn a trade in butchering. A six month course was being offered in Windsor and I had a couple of months to kill before it started in the fall.

I found a job on a tobacco farm, near Delhi.

When I started, the tobacco plants were just a few inches tall and needed to be weeded. So many long rows in the hot summer sun and with a hoe, day after day, for a month or so, I'd cut out the weeds being careful not to lop off the plant in the process. The hardest part of the job was keeping motivated in spite of the monotony. A couple of people worked with me but it wasn't until the plants were much bigger that the harvest crew came in. Most of them were students like me.

When the harvest started, I was one of the primers, (tobacco pickers.) Now the plants were six or seven feet tall and spread out so much that the light didn't reach the ground. You had to wear rain gear in the morning because of the heavy dew and you started with the sand leaves, (the ones at the bottom.) You would bend down to the ground, pull off the bottom leaves and put them under your other arm. If you weren't a smoker, you became one because the plants gave off heavy fumes. There are many whose backs can't take all that bending and whose lungs can't take the smell. I quickly found out that I was one of those people. I pushed myself for a while with hopes of getting used to it, but I got so sick I couldn't continue.

I don't know what I did for the rest of the day because all the other jobs were taken. Some of it was probably just recuperating under the nearest tree.

When the day was done, there were those who said that this was a common occurrence and I should give it another try tomorrow. There was even a girl who had taken a shine to me who gave me a back massage and told me she hoped that I'd be able to stay. This was my first real job and I didn't want to fail and I don't usually have sweet young women pursuing me but I knew there was no way I could do the work. I was very disappointed the next morning when I packed my suitcase, said quick goodbyes and headed for the highway.

I got a job at a drive-in restaurant on the outskirts of London slinging burgers. This was my introduction to short-order cooking and I did it for a couple of weeks until it was time for my course to start.

Part 12. The Butcher

Riverside Drive with a view of the Detroit skyline was where I found a little bachelor apartment. It was walking distance to Essex Packers Meat Packing Plant. My butchering course was at a slaughterhouse. The introductory tour showed us a gruesome work place. I quickly found out that we provided free labour throughout the plant. This was much different than learning to be a retail butcher. Working at night in the boning room took some getting used and I also worked in the box room, sausage room and grading hides on the kill floor.

I started on the kill floor using an electric prod to move the pigs along a chute that led to the trap door and the killer. They knew what was happening and didn't like it. The kill floor got exciting when a pig or steer got loose. The gun had to be placed at a particular spot on the forehead and fired a contained rod which was then pulled out. Unconscious, the animal’s throat was then slit and the carcass dumped on a conveyor belt which took it up to a large vat of hot water. It bothered me when the killer would get sadistic. I should have reported it to the inspector but that was problematic. Hopefully, seeing that I didn't approve kept it to a minimum. The whole kill floor experience gave me nightmares.

While taking the course, I also had a part time job at a butcher shop in a nearby, indoor farmers' market on Saturdays. One evening, after hours, I was asked to help cut up a cow that was brought in through the back way. Something had killed it and they wanted to sneak it by the inspectors. The flesh was dark because it hadn't been bled properly. The meat would be ground up and put into hamburger or sausages. This was done in an adjoining indoor parking lot where the lighting was poor and I was so nervous that I cut myself.

When I was halfway through the course, it was closed down. Local newspapers ran stories on the front page that the plant was infiltrated by organized crime. The course was government funded so I suppose they wanted to distance themselves.

It wasn't worth a lot, but I was given a certificate of passing the course even though I only completed half the six months required. I was offered a job grading hides on the kill floor but declined. The whole experience was so depressing and anxiety- provoking that it led me to being in hospital for a couple of months.

Years later when I decided to give butchering another try, the experience of the course helped to get me in the door. For about ten years, I made a pretty good living doing piece work deboning beef.

I like change and variety in my life and have learned to make my living in different ways. I worked at cooking, baking, butchering, cake decorating, hairdressing, dairy man, and cab-driving.

Part 13. Hopelessness

The depression got so bad that I couldn't go to work. I'd been making a good living driving a taxi in Toronto for ten years. The last couple of years had been all day, prescheduled Wheel Trans runs which were great. Maybe I just needed to take a little holiday. After a few days in my dark and dreary room in a basement, things didn't improve. I was into calligraphy and started writing beautiful suicide letters on my easel.

The only other person living in the house was the landlady upstairs so I waited until she was not home. Then, around 2:00 A.M., I took my cassette player, a bottle of whiskey and the hose to my vacuum cleaner out to the car. I hooked up the hose to the exhaust and started the car feeling good that this miserable existence was going to end.

After twenty minutes or so I was getting a little pissed off that it was taking so long. Then I saw a young guy walking towards me on the sidewalk in front of the driveway where I was parked. I tried to slowly drop down but he saw me with the car running and the big hose going into the back window. He came up to the car and asked if I was all right. I turned off the car, grabbed my stuff and told him I was okay as I walked back and into the house.
A few minutes later, there was a knock at my door and as I expected, it was a couple of cops. They said that a neighbour had called them. When I told them I was okay now they asked to come in. They took a look at my calligraphy and told me they wanted to take me to the hospital to be checked out.

I was surprised at how fast they drove. The E.R. detected high levels of carbon monoxide in my blood, so I was given oxygen. Then I was put in a see- through room where a security guard kept watch all night.

In the morning I was admitted to the psych ward where I stayed for two weeks.

When I went home, I started seeing a therapist a couple of times a week who put me on antidepressants. This helped but I still couldn't face the rat race of the work place. The landlady raised my rent and I couldn't find anything that I could afford on what Welfare gave me.

I told my therapist of my situation and how I had got rid of all my worldly possessions including my front of the driveway where I was parked. I tried to slowly drop down but he saw me with the car running and the big hose going into the back window. He came up to the car and asked if I was all right. I turned off the car, grabbed my stuff and told him I was okay as I walked back and into the house.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at my door and as I expected, it was a couple of cops. They said that a neighbour had called them. When I told them I was okay now they asked to come in. They took a look at my calligraphy and told me they wanted to take me to the hospital to be checked out.

I was surprised at how fast they drove. The E.R. detected high levels of carbon monoxide in my blood, so I was given oxygen. Then I was put in a see- through room where a security guard kept watch all night.

In the morning I was admitted to the psych ward where I stayed for two weeks.
When I went home, I started seeing a therapist a couple of times a week who put me on antidepressants. This helped but I still couldn't face the rat race of the work place. The landlady raised my rent and I couldn't find anything that I could afford on what Welfare gave me.

I told my therapist of my situation and how I had got rid of all my worldly possessions including my front of the driveway where I was parked. I tried to slowly drop down but he saw me with the car running and the big hose going into the back window. He came up to the car and asked if I was all right. I turned off the car, grabbed my stuff and told him I was okay as I walked back and into the house.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at my door and as I expected, it was a couple of cops. They said that a neighbour had called them. When I told them I was okay now they asked to come in. They took a look at my calligraphy and told me they wanted to take me to the hospital to be checked out.

I was surprised at how fast they drove. The E.R. detected high levels of carbon monoxide in my blood, so I was given oxygen. Then I was put in a see- through room where a security guard kept watch all night.

In the morning I was admitted to the psych ward where I stayed for two weeks.
When I went home, I started seeing a therapist a couple of times a week who put me on antidepressants. This helped but I still couldn't face the rat race of the work place. The landlady raised my rent and I couldn't find anything that I could afford on what Welfare gave me.

I told my therapist of my situation and how I had got rid of all my worldly possessions including my car, (which I got $100.00 for), and was moving to the streets. I'd been keeping a journal and planned to write all about it. She got me an appointment with Houselink Community Homes, an organization that provides supportive housing for people with mental illness. After seeing them, they got back to me saying that I'd been put on a list. My therapist called Houselink and spoke to them of my dire straits. I was offered a room just before I had to move out of my place. Although shared accommodation was something that I'd never have considered before, I was happy and grateful to take it. I'm still there and doing well. Houselink proved a godsend.