Remembrance of Times Past

On the Easter weekend of 1967 five members of the third floor, 32 Admiral Rd house group took a quickie get-away break to Chicago. Mike M, Don D, Joe B, Allison P, and I left early on Friday morning in Joe’s enormous GM car. Those of you who were around in those days will know of whom I speak. It was several months before the purchase of a farm north of Mono Mills which would come to be called Therafields, shortly to extend its name to the whole of the Lea Hindley-Smith’s burgeoning therapy practice. It was spring. We were keen for an adventure, albeit a modest one. I was very excited to be accompanying this crowd, all of whom were senior to me in age as well as in therapeutic experience: only Joe and I were not in one of Lea’s learning groups. Looking back on the journey I feel such fond amusement toward all of us.

We drove to Detroit on the first day. I had never been west of Toronto and other than Niagara Falls, NY as a kid, had little experience of the USA. I was shocked to see the area of Detroit that we found ourselves in as we searched out Mike M’s apartment to spend the night. Mike taught at a school in Detroit but commuted to Toronto on weekends to have sessions with Lea and to stay with our group as what was then termed an “outrider.” He had offered to put us up on our way through. We arrived at dusk; the streets seemed dark and dingy, scarcely peopled, and dotted by bars and other significantly down-at-the-heels establishments. The contrast with Toronto was striking. We stopped briefly at a downtown department store in what seemed to be a predominantly black neighbourhood. As we left I headed down its broad staircase. Coming toward me up the stairs was a middle-aged black man who looked intently at me with what I would have to term true hatred. With complete naivety we, at least I, had stumbled into one of the truly hot spots in what was to become a summer of riots.

At Mike’s apartment, finally located, we were welcomed generously. Allison and I were given his bed. The four men arranged themselves in some fashion to sleep in the living room. Before we settled for the night, however, Mike told us about a woman he had been seeing in Detroit. He spoke about how very good she was to him. To make his point he led everyone into his kitchen to display her Christmas gift. Reaching into an upper cupboard, he took down an unopened bottle of Scotch. His features were aglow as he displayed the trophy. My gentlemen companions, all of whom enjoyed a tipple, contemplated the bottle with happiness as their day had not yet led to that particular oasis. Still smiling in his remembrance of the lady’s fond gift to him, Mike turned, replaced the bottle, and closed the cupboard. Not a word was spoken. He clearly had no conception of the hope that he had awakened and then crushed in the bosoms of his houseguests and they, for their part would never have considered telling him. We went to bed.

The next day it was all I-94, Chicago-bound, in Joe’s car that seemed to keep pace with our eagerness to move along. It easily took 80 mph and even 90 mph without shudder or recrimination. We took turns driving. I adored it: the open road, the power of the car, and Chicago coming up – a city that had fascinated me since my grade 11 reading of Ginsberg’s fabulous poem. Reaching there we sought a place to stay – one night only. Our budget was miniscule and our tactics for saving worthy of Depression days. Allison and I engaged a motel room that boasted two queen-sized beds. Later in the evening when we were ready to retire the three fellows climbed the back stairs of the establishment to join us in our room. Allison and I slept modestly in one bed; Mike and Joe in the second; and, Don, with his head wrapped in a scarf, as I recall to ward off the effects of the air conditioning, slept on the floor.

For much of Saturday we wandered about Chicago’s inner-city squares and its waterfront. It was big, expansive, and quite beautiful. I liked it very much. But the whole point of my pondering and writing about this little episode that occurred these 47 (imagine!) years ago has to do with a brief conversation that I had with Don while enjoying the sun during one of our rambles. He had been struggling with depression through much of the winter – though I don’t think we expressly would have labelled it as such. At any rate he had been unhappy and oppressed in some fashion that he had been unable to shake. He confided to me that he had had the idea that by getting away on this little holiday that he would be able to leave that painful feeling behind and was finding this not to be the case. I said to him, “But, Don, you can’t take a holiday from yourself.” He looked at me as if I had spoken the wisdom of the ages, acknowledging the truth that I had spoken. I was rather surprised myself – that I had come forth with this statement and that he was so moved by it.

And now I find myself living with this same reality. I am here and now in a true paradise and still continue to live with the whole of who I am, my own propensities, my foibles, my connections with Toronto and its people who are important to me, with the difficulties of making decisions that will have ramifications not just for me but for others for whom I care. Life in its many dimensions impacting at all moments, all of the time. And that’s just how it is.

I feel so much affection for all of us funny people who took that trip so long ago. We are scattered across the map of Canada now: Mike in BC, Allison in Nova Scotia, Don at last hearing in Alberta, Joe, I would suspect no longer with us as he was in his early 50s in 1967, and me, still in Toronto, now Puerto Vallarta, and for the future, other ports still undefined.