Into every business a Cortina must fall © by adrian

I’ve owned studios and photo-finishing operations for almost forty-five years of my life’s career and as I look around in this maddening Covid world I can’t imagine for a moment how small businesses survive these days. Reminiscing about how I managed to stay afloat in a non-Covid world leads me to share this story.

I think people mostly feel that being good at what you do is what's needed to stay in business, but it’s much more than that. Anybody who’s ever worked for themselves quickly learns there are a myriad of factors and in my case having some extremely flexible landlords, bank managers and a Cortina are what kept me going.  We’ll get to each in due course, but just for the record I’m referring to the last car made in Brittan by the Ford Motor Company called the “Cortina”.

I realize that in my profession knowing how to focus a camera is vaguely important but great landlords are first on my list of assets. I've been blessed with some wonderful landlords who more or less understood that not bending to the seasonal sway of my economy wouldn't help their bottom line and they were mostly agreeable to a more flexible rental arrangement than they were used to. The last studio I had before retiring lasted over fifteen years thanks in no small part to the landlord I had who was a very patient saint indeed. Prior to him, serendipity gave me a good run thanks to many members of the black community in Toronto. Their patronage fed, clothed and housed me for many years (see my story "Accidentally black").

Next in line were bank managers who nowadays are a very different breed than they were 45 years ago. Back then "small business" meant just that. I worked mostly on my own but at times had a small staff of three or four people. The biggest financial shortage a bank needed to help cover for me was maybe $1,500 for a month every once in awhile, usually in hunks of 300 to 400 dollars at a time. The way it used to work was that if the manager was really mad at you he would send cheques back NSF but there was a mid point that if he (sorry, but it was always a he back then) wanted to just remind you who was in charge he would send it back "Not Arranged" which really meant I didn't have enough to cover it and had failed to go see him and arrange for him to cash it. A Not Arranged cheque could be presented again once I "arranged" for him to cash it. It was all very individual and machinery was not involved. Banks also used to rotate managers fairly often, I assumed so they wouldn't get too chummy with the clientele. That always meant setting up a meeting with the new manager and hoping you could convince him of your viability as a successful business investment. Like all things human, some managers were difficult and others more flexible. Unfortunately, it seemed to have little to do with your business but mostly depended on whether they liked you or not.

One of my earliest bank managers drove race cars as a hobby and for some unknown reason while I was young I thought I might try my hand at the wheel. That's funnier than it sounds because my knowledge of cars is mostly based on what colour they are. My bride's car is red, mine is blue and it's always been a mystery how they could both claim to be made by the same manufacturer seeing as they are different colours. Anyway, I would always sound enthused and animated about his hobby whenever I went to beg him for money. He loved my show and rarely turned me down.

My next bank manager lasted more than six wonderful years. He and my Cortina hit it off and although it was up on blocks and I couldn't drive it, they had an intimate relationship which kept me going for years. I owned about $15,000 worth of studio equipment, lights, large format cameras and professional darkroom equipment but I could never get a bank to touch it as collateral. None of them ever saw the possibility of being able to sell any of it if my business went south.

The Cortina, as mentioned, was made in Britain and one of the mysteries of British cars is that they were never able to start in damp weather. Odd really, considering how damp it is in Britain. It could be 100 degrees and sunny but if I got near that sucker with a glass of water, it simply wouldn't start. Earlier in my life I had an MGA which worked fine, but with that car you could always hop out and slip a crank in it and start it up that way. You did risk the chance of kickback and possibly breaking an arm, but you got to wave at everybody else who owned one (as long as your arm was intact). My first wife and I drove from Toronto to California in the MGA without a problem. However the Cortina turned out to be useless to drive but a real gift for my business.

The first time I needed more cash flow with this manager he wrote the car up as collateral and I was set. When I finally gave up on continuing to try to use the Cortina as a vehicle, I rented a garage for $8 a month and parked it. From then on anytime I needed a financial bump there would be a one minute conversation which consisted of the manager asking if I still had the Cortina and as soon as I said yes, no problem, money flowed my way. During that time, including the cost of the garage rental, it was probably worth $50 but somehow he consistently loaned me thousands of dollars on it.

One day he was gone and I had to start over. The new manager could not for the life of him understand how anyone could earn a living taking provocative pictures of strangers. Worse than that, I did photofinishing for other professional photographers and he refused to grasp why photographers would bring film to me when all they had to do was drop their rolls off at the local drugstore as far as he was concerned. For the first few months I had a rough time with him, but one magic day everything changed.

I don't know about your god, but mine has a fine sense of humour. She sometimes goes too far, as in " A pandemic, really? You think this is funny?" Generally speaking though, I have to say she's often good for a laugh. This time she gave me a very unexpected gift.

I was having dinner in a darkly lit off the beaten track restaurant with my girlfriend of the time and in walked my new and difficult bank manager closely followed by one of his female tellers. He didn't notice me and after being led to a table proceeded to gently caress her shoulders as he helped her out of her coat. Walking to the coat rack he almost passed out when he noticed me and we nodded to each other. Fortunately my companion and I had finished our dinner so we left, allowing him to go back to his rendezvous without us watching.

A few days later he gave me a call out of the blue and wanted to know if I would mind giving him some time so he could come over to check out my studio. I assumed he was actually hoping to check out whether I would be a problem to him or not. Well, having spent my life photographing people in compromising positions, discretion is hardly a stretch for me. As he toured my place and pretended to listen to my answers to pertinent financial business questions, I asked if he would like his portrait taken and wondered that if I got a good shot would he mind if I put it in my window as a sample. He agreed and I was sure I heard my god giggling in the sidelines. Of course I said nothing about seeing him and his employee the other night. It was a great coup to have a picture of the local bank manager in my studio window and for some strange reason he now understood I had a viable business and I always got whatever I asked for in the way of credit lines. Stranger still, he never thought to ask for any collateral.

If you're planning on opening a business soon, it would certainly be good if you have some close friends who can financially help you out on occasion. Forget about trying to find your bank manager in a compromising position, forget about spread sheets or financial business plans and get to a wreckers to find yourself a Cortina. You'll need to get it towed to your place because you won't be able to drive it, but you never could anyway. Let your bank know right away you have one. They are worth their weight in gold.

 

May I float this story past you?

“Is that your new dock floating this way?” he asked. The question was so simply stated that I got up to look around before I even realized what I had been asked. My wife Linda and I own a cabin in Quebec and how that happened and how I even have a wife is beyond me. Now, I was unthinkingly responding to a question asked me by my stepson’s husband. Stepson’s husband, that’s a tongue twister all on its own, and anyway, why would I own a dock and why is it floating this way? Can anybody out there please help me?

My brain kicked in and I heard its whisper in my ear, “Yup old buddy, that could indeed be your dock floating this way.” Actually, it looked more like it was about to float right past our place, forever bobbing loosely about in Lac Saint Francois-Xavier. The area residents constantly pointing to it, saying “That belongs to those idiot Anglos who live on the point”.

I started to prepare the story I was going to tell the police when they arrived to investigate why my dock was free floating in their lake.

A week earlier my wife was out in her kayak and came across a sign on a property about a quarter mile up the lake from us which indicated, “Dock for sale”, actually it really read "Quai à vendre" but Linda knew right off what it meant. She came back all excited about what she had found and as for me, I wasn’t there so I took her word for it. You see, I don’t do water, never have since that first time I found out I couldn’t walk on it and as for French, I have enough on my plate with this English stuff, thank you, very much.

We have a great marriage and amazingly have few disagreements but somehow this spun me right out of orbit. We’ve spent the past few years discussing how we need to de-clutter and now she wanted to add a dock to our overflowing pantry. Where would I ever find the room or money for that posing couch I couldn’t live without if we bought this and how would we attach the dock to the shore? I want you to know I’m more than just a pretty face and fairly good at handyman things. Before this dock reared its ugly head I was in the middle of installing solar panels on the cabin’s roof, I’m a reasonably talented kiddie, but a dock? To begin with, most docks I’ve seen are on water which as already mentioned, I don’t go in. I also knew a dock could easily cost over a thousand dollars, but how much is a used dock worth anyway?

When I became human again we walked down the road to view it up close. No one was home but we let ourselves into their unlocked dock area for a closer inspection. It was a fine looking object, very newish looking and about eight by eight feet with a solidly built walkway, a true find. I’m just kidding; I wouldn’t know what a good dock looked like if I was standing on one, which I was. We wrote down the phone number which had a Montreal exchange and went back to our cabin.

A few days later when I finally summoned up the courage to start that sad “Do you speak English” conversation before I say anything else, I dialed up the number. Well, he didn’t speak English, didn’t know what I was talking about and hung up on me. God bless the Quebecois, I was free! Or so I thought. I soon decided that the phone call was so discordant that we must have written down the wrong number and yes, we had. Two days later I was willing to give it another go.

Stefan identified himself as an English speaker and was obviously excited that he had actually gotten a call about his dock. We both agreed neither of us had any idea what a used dock was worth so he said “how about 400 dollars?” I cleared my throat and he said “okay, 350 then.” I leaned forward and my chair creaked and he said “I see what you mean, how about 300?” I took in a deep breath, about to answer and he said “does 250 sound better?” A moment later when he hit 200 dollars I squealed “stop it Stefan, I’ll take it for 200, consider it sold.” He was on his way up from Montreal the following weekend so we agreed to meet then to finalize the sale.

On the weekend I went to meet Stefan and figure out what to do about getting the dock to us. Could Stefan attach it to his pontoon boat and simply tow it down or was this a job for FedEx, maybe UPS or was this finally the time to test Canada Post’s “We deliver anything, anywhere” boast? I offered to help with the disassembly but Stefan insisted not to worry, he would look after everything.

Now here I was, just hours later standing on the shore watching canoes and kayaks trying to avoid being rammed by this floating beast. Our floating beast! By now I assumed that as Stefan went to hook it on his tow boat it had gotten away from him and here it was, out in the middle of the lake, about to float past. As it got closer I realized that it wasn’t just the dock but I could now see the walkway still attached to it. An 8 by 8 foot slab of wood with an 8 foot walkway floating behind it. I didn’t know if I should feel panic or pride for being responsible for such a commotion. Oh lord, please don’t let this incident start that Quebec separating from Canada business again. Linda, her son, his husband and I all standing transfixed and helpless, mutely waiting to see what would happen next.

Just then I saw a head bobbing up from the very end of it all. Did I just hear the bobbing head call out to us or is this just another Acid Flashback? Is it time to cut back on my drug use or is my new dock talking to me? I knew I was definitely not the person to answer those questions.

It was him! Stefan was swimming in the water at the tail end of it all, pushing the whole thing down the lake to our place. Calling out to us to find out where we wanted him to beach it. At this point others in and near the water began to join in the festivity and suddenly we were running a concession at a carnival. It was obvious now, we were in a Fellini movie, but where are all the marching clowns, the drummer boy leading the parade? He called out again and one of us muttered, “Good grief, he’s swimming behind it and has floated it down here on his own.” My brain screaming, “Over here, over here” and then finally words tumble out, “Over here Stefan, I will toss you a rope.” I had a heavy rope ready and gave it a grand toss, he caught it and a loud cheer erupted from the nearby boats on the water. He tied the rope to a cleat and swam in closer as I slowly guided the dock from my end of the rope to shore. He hoisted himself onto the dock and removing his flippers he sauntered ashore. What a magnificent display, we all fell in love with him at the same time. He said that I should bring the money to his place whenever I could. Without pausing for drinks or any of the bodily favours we were all offering him he walked back into the lake and started his swim back to his place.

About an hour later I went up to his place to pay him for the dock. I said I needed to give him $250 for the purchase. He accepted only after I insisted that he had made the transaction so easy and that the theater and artistry of the whole experience was easily worth an extra fifty dollars. In return he insisted that when I came back to the cabin next year I had to promise I would get him to help me install it on our shoreline.

I quickly agreed and headed back to our cabin.

Photographic memory: Episode four © by Adrian

Gene Krupa.

This photo was taken on 4 x 5" sheet film with my trusty Crown Graphic camera. Billed as the first Canadian Jazz festival the show ran over a few days and was held at the CNE Grandstand in 1959 in Toronto, with a very young Adrian in attendance.

 

Photographic memory: Episode Three © by Adrian

Considering all the photos I’ve taken over the past 60 years I thought it might be fun to display a few from time to time. I will also include a few of myself and some of the studios I've owned along the way.

As for any technical details, they've all been shot on what was called film using anything from 5 x 7 view cameras on up to those cute little thingys we use nowadays. Almost all the processing was done by me in what we used to call darkrooms.

I thought I would start with the first picture I ever had published and was paid for. I took it at a wresting match in Maple Leaf Gardens in Toronto in 1959 with a 4 x 5 press camera.

A wrestler named Gorgeous George, who as part of his shtick, wore outrageous costumes and had an enormous coifed golden head of hair was wrestling a fan favourite named Whipper Billy Watson. The wager and publicity stunt was that if Watson lost he would retire from wrestling and if Gorgeous lost they could cut off his magnificent hair. Well, lost he did.

In those days, when a freelancer took any pictures to the paper of their choice, (in this case the Telegram) you were expected to just find their darkroom and develop the film yourself. You'd make a few prints from what you shot and leave them on the picture editor’s desk. Their regular photographer was at the event that night but they also chose one of mine to add to the story which ran the next day. I wasn't given a credit line in the story but I did get an apology from the paper for the oversight and a check for a whopping $ 5.00 for using my picture.

At the time it was obvious to me that if I was able to get to see a show for free (carrying a press camera got you in anywhere, no questions asked) and it was that easy and fun to make 5 bucks then I had found the mother lode, my future was secured!

So, no fame but definitely a fortune...

First, we take Bartlett Lake © by adrian

Everybody has been telling us we must visit Bartlett Lake, so, off we go.

We luck into a perfect weather day, cool enough to keep Linda from passing out from the heat yet warm enough that I am not freezing my pretty ass off.

At the edge of Tonto National Forest we decide to pull into the ranger station and get maps or at least more information about where we are visiting.

An impeccably dressed and razor sharply creased Clint Eastwood lookalike, complete with requisite drawl (I swear, I'm not making this up) leans over the counter and says to Linda, "Can I help you, little lady?" Linda is in love... might be lust actually; I notice a little pool of spittle forming in the corner of her mouth and she's starting to quiver a bit. The perfect ranger chats Linda up as I move away and feign interest in some brochures nearby, I don't want to interrupt her excitement or (at this moment, anyway) get splashed.

It starts to become obvious I'm probably going to need to drag Linda off old Clint or we will never be able to leave. I notice she's starting to look around for some blankets or shredding so she and Clint might be able to continue their conversation snuggled up in the corner of the shack somewhere.

So, I ask if we get a discount with our National Park pass. He and Linda are really surprised to see there is someone else in the room with them.

I bought one of those National Park passes before leaving Toronto so we could have unlimited entry to all US National Parks and Monuments. $80 plus $10 shipping seemed like a sensible deal (some parks charge up to $35 for entry) although there seems to be a bit of ambiguity as to what you can and can't get into for free. It certainly isn't that important, but I sure want to get my monies worth, so I'm constantly asking if we get a discount or free entry with the pass.

Old Clint says he doesn't know and the "little lady" he's talking to doesn't care about the lake anymore, anyway. She is never going to leave this place. I wonder to myself if I should just go on my way and let her know I will come back to get her in a few days if she wants.

Eventually, Linda begins to realize that if she gets any closer the main thing on ranger Clint's mind will probably be whether he will lose the perfect crease in his pants or worse, that Linda may want him to remove his stunning Ranger hat, although I doubt she will. I can see a Ranger hat in my future, for sure. Fifteen years of a successful marriage finally carries some weight and she confesses later the idea of teaching Clint some of the tricks of mine she really enjoys might not be worth the effort, so she allows me to haul her off him. We get out to the car and she just sits there humming to herself for awhile. I offer her a paper towel and after a moment or two start the car and carry on to our destination. Perfect Clint imitation, we both love you...

Tonto National Forest, like many of the other sights here is overwhelming. We drive through miles and miles of rock and mountain passing a multitude of various Cacti. Some small with beautiful flowers shooting out from random tips and others, barren shadows of the life they once lived. Some so huge they dominate your vision. Field after field, hundreds or even thousands of them, perhaps like snowflakes, no two are alike. It's an inspiring sight for those of us who live in a climate where the most cacti we ever get to see are generally in greenhouses.

Linda decides she has to go for a swim so she hops into a washroom and slips on her bathing suit. I wonder if I should break some local law so old Clint could ride down (Jeep? Horse? Skidoo?) to save the little lady from the frigid waters. Linda loves water and cold so, it's her party. My job is to laugh and point. We're alone on the beach except for a young couple. A lovely friendly and zaftig lady with her biker looking rather large fellow who is covered in tattoos. He says something to us in a thick Spanish accent which I don't understand but thinking I get the gist of what he said I answer, "Were good, thanks." He's flying a kite and I quickly deduce I should definitely make sure I don't do any laughing and pointing in his direction. I definitely don't want to make him nervous.

I'm also struck by the contrast of the size of him running along the beach with his little kite... What a sight! I desperately want to take a picture of him but decide his lack of English and my lack of Spanish might produce a terribly mangled translation as I ask him to go fly his kite. I'm pretty sure I couldn't count on Clint for help with this one, this fellow would surely wreck old Clint's perfect crease in a second. I end up thinking its best if I just uncharacteristically keep my yap shut and go back to watching Linda as she bravely swims out into the water.

As usual, the day was filled with overwhelming sights. The landscape here can easily be described as extremely dramatic which is why I felt my infrared cameras might do it some justice.

Later that night I was relaxing alone on our second floor balcony and one of the other condo residents was walking below carrying one of those poor poodle dogs who don't seem able to walk, as she is carried everywhere. There are so many dogs down here which seem to be afflicted with the can't walk disease in this area, it's so sad. Anyway, he called out to me with "Hey, how are you doing?" I replied that I was doing really well but Linda was having a lot of trouble with the unbelievable heat (it went up to 101 Fahrenheit yesterday). Without missing a beat he called back, "Well, I'm pretty sure you will see a big change in her now that I've shaved almost all her hair off"...

Definitely not the last hoorah! © by adrian

Anyone who has followed this blog knows I've been very slack in adding any new entries in the past few years. Photographic activity still dominates most of my life and really, taking pictures of naked people is a lot more fun for me than writing.

A few months ago I realized that seeing as time was moving on (you know, that place where most obituaries list people five and ten years younger than yourself) it was time to invent an adventure to help keep the old loosening body parts from falling off.

My bride Linda and I had an opportunity to rent a friend's condo near Phoenix, Arizona for a month so we took it. The adventure part grew when I asked Bill, my lifelong friend (and sometimes co-worker), if he would like to drive down with me. I have a large Fuji 617 roll film panoramic camera as well as a few new digital infrared cameras so I felt seeing as we would literally be on the ground we could make the trip a photographic odyssey of sorts. Linda would leave after us and fly down and we would meet up with her a week later. Bill and I have known each other and worked for each other at various time in our fifty year friendship. We've never travelled together but felt any obstacles we might encounter could be easily dealt with. We've shared many experiences and people so we thought it was unlikely we would run out of things to talk about on an eight day drive. I was also curious what my cameras would have to say about places like the Petrified Forest and the Grand Canyon, among others. Bill decided he would jump in, stay with us for a week and then fly back, so it was agreed.

In my usual style, never being happy with simply large, I decided I might just as well make my part of the journey larger after Linda flies back to Toronto by visiting my last surviving family member, a sister who lives near San Francisco. After I get to California the drive back to Toronto across the country will only add an extra day's travel, so why not?

So, here's the punch line...

Bill has been writing a blog story (complete with pictures and witty prose) of our trip. If you'd like to follow along, click the link below and perhaps start your read at the first entry, which will be at the bottom of the blog posts.

http://route66bill-adrian.blogspot.ca/

Bill is returning to Toronto next week. Linda will be returning to Toronto after the first week of May and then I'm on to California and the drive back across the country on my own. After Bill's part of the blog about our journey finishes, I hope to continue here whenever I get a chance to fill you in on the remainder of my trip back home. I have a sad prehistoric (pre Colombian period) portable but I will post as often as I can and hope to get a few pictures up as well. The Panoramic film will not be developed until after I return, so I'm afraid you will need to wait for any of those.

Thumbs up! © by adrian

I've just finished eating the most scrumptious meal of my young life with my father and one of my sisters. We're in the parking lot of the exclusive Old Mill Restaurant in Toronto and my sister Marta is crying as she hugs me and says "Goodbye". I get in my father's car and she drives off in hers. He and I head over to the main highway on the western edge of town.

We drive in silence for twenty minutes and finally come to a cut off on the highway where my dad pulls over and stops the car. We both get out and he goes around the back and takes my knapsack out of the trunk. As he hands it to me he shakes my hand and says "Good luck." Without hesitation he quickly gets back in the car and driving off, leaves me at the side of the road. No embrace or show of emotion from him, no dramatic look back, he just gets in the car and leaves. I am now more alone than I had ever been in my life.

My father always felt that any sign of emotion was weak and unthinkable so I guess he thought there was hardly any point to change his stance now. Actually, I should amend this part of my little tale. He was deeply connected to one emotion that was never far from his side and that was rage. He lived his life constantly at war with himself, his family and everything else in the Universe. He spent all his days tilting at windmills until he died at ninety-six, forever ready to do battle with real or imagined ferocious beasts.

He was extremely confrontational and never capable of conversation in a normal tone of voice. Every sentence he spoke seemed to be expressed as though the person he was talking to had already contradicted him. As far as he was concerned, all mankind and every piece of machinery ever invented were in a personal collective conspiracy against him. He constantly went out of his way to make life choices that would help support this theory. Even at my young age it was obvious to everybody that I was temperamentally and emotionally vastly different than him. I had little doubt that I was, and would forever be, a thorn in my father's side. I just assumed he felt that getting rid of me would mean one less battle to deal with.

As for my mother, I had sat on the edge of her hospital bed just a few days earlier saying my final goodbye to her, as she was dying. Oh please, relax already! I had said my final goodbye to her because of her impending death probably a dozen times by then, so it was pretty old hat, even for a seventeen year old. My mother was a martyr and among her other quirks she was repeatedly at death's door. Seeing as her god kept refusing to take her she eventually became a nun so she could live her life of martyrdom in a convent. See my story; My Mother, the Sister © by adrian. That didn't work as planned though and she eventually left the convent and went on to marry a defrocked Jesuit Priest... I swear, I'm not making any of this up.

I was desperate to flee my dysfunctional family but for the past few weeks and certainly today I had hoped someone would stop me. All I wanted was one simple "Don't go". At this point even a casually mumbled or accidental "Are you sure you want to do this?" would have been enough to save me. But no, it was not to be. Not one of my three sisters, father or mother said a word. At that moment I hated every one of them for not trying to stop me. I was seventeen years old and had never travelled anywhere outside Toronto in my life. I had forty-three dollars in my pocket and was alone and utterly terrified.

It was by my own hand I had arrived at this place and I knew my own hand was the only thing that would free me from standing still. I rested my knapsack on the ground and as cars roared past me, put my thumb up and began my journey into the unknown.

During the next three years I was totally dependent on my own wits and the kindness of strangers. I also spent a lot of my journey learning how to avoid the malevolence of others.

As I stood on the side of the road hoping for a car to stop and pick me up, I let my mind wander over my reasons for being there.

From my earliest days I had constantly been in search of every possible answer to the meaning of life. In that respect I guess my dad's complete lack of ability to navigate the world with any comfort helped make me determined to learn how to survive on my own terms. When I was young I was also convinced I had been dropped on the wrong planet and was sure that if I could find out why I would be able to make my escape back to wherever I rightly belonged (I still believe I was dropped on the wrong planet, but no longer have the desire to escape).

One night I struck up a friendship with a fellow my age named Keith Irving who was at an introductory seminar I was attending about a new (at the time) philosophy called Concept-Therapy. It's one of those power of positive thinking things that purportedly also helps teach a person how to adapt themselves constructively to the environment in which they work and live.

It was founded in San Antonio by a fellow named Dr. Thurman Fleet and at that time his course was only available to be taken in the States.

Keith and I became instant friends and walked around all night talking about the possibilities of this new philosophy. Two days later Keith announced he and a friend were hitch-hiking out west at the end of the week and that he planned on going to Texas on his own to take the course. He said they were planning on roughing it by sleeping out on the side of the highway because they didn't have much money. I got the address of the Vancouver rooming house where they planned to stay and it was agreed I would meet him there and he and I would hitch-hike to Texas together to take the course. How we could afford to do this was not considered. In what a lot of us oldsters now refer to as "The good old days" finding work and getting a job was never an issue. You went anywhere and said you were available and as long as you could walk and chew gum at the same time, you'd get a job.

It didn't take long for the first of what would turn out to be hundreds of cars over a three year odyssey to stop and I was offered a ride. Fortunately it also didn't take long to learn the science of hitch-hiking. Where to stand on the road so cars could easily stop... At night when sleeping, to always fold my pants under my knapsack so in the morning they would have a nice sharp crease so I would look (by those days standards) presentable. To always carry a pack of cigarettes and offer one to the driver as soon as I got in the car. From that point on they would insist I smoke theirs for the rest of the trip. If we stopped at a truck stop for food I always said I wasn't hungry and just wanted coffee. Sooner, rather than later, the driver would quickly say they realized I was probably broke and insisting I had to eat, they would buy me a meal. In those day as well, most of the people who stopped were truckers or travelling salesmen who wanted someone to talk to so they could stay awake on their long drives.

I don't want to harp on it, but those truly were different times. Cars with families and full of kids would stop and from inside someone would ask if I was a criminal or had a gun and as soon as I answered I was unarmed and not a criminal the door would fly open and I would be invited in. Sometimes I would also end up being invited into their home to eat and/or sleep over. I quickly became an amateur psychologist and reasonably adept at listening to people's life stories and then offering my seventeen years old view on what they should do. Even as a child, I was received as an Elder and now as an Elder I'm comfortable being received as a child.

I eventually arrived in Vancouver to discover that Keith and his friend had left Toronto with hundreds of dollars between them and although they'd hitch-hiked, they slept in motels every night rather than outdoors beside the highway as I mostly did. They had rented a room in a large rooming house with thirty or so other tenants and every night around midnight I would climb in the window they left open for me and sleep in their closet. In the morning I would shuffle downstairs with the rest of the throng and have breakfast, just like I belonged there. Only twice in the three weeks I stayed  was I challenged by one of the owners at breakfast about whether I lived there or not but they couldn't keep track of who was in each room so they accepted that if I was in the building it must be okay.

Keith and I never did make it to Texas. We got as far as California but had to turn back after finding that hitch-hiking as a pair was a lot harder than going solo. Keith went back to Toronto by train and I was now consumed by wanderlust. I spent the next six months hitch-hiking around British Columbia, the Northwest Territories, the Yukon and then up to Alaska. I slept in various missions or on the roadside. Occasionally people would let me stay at their house for a day or two. Back then you could also walk into any police station and they would put you up for the night and give you food chits you could spend at the local diner. If they didn't have a setup for that they would inevitably take up a collection amongst themselves and give me a few dollars for food. Restaurants would also always feed you if you washed dishes or helped out somehow. Long distance hitch-hikers were usually respected, regarded as adventurers and generally treated well.

By the time I got back to Toronto the Concept-Therapy course was being held here, so I took it. I suppose a normal person would have felt "mission accomplished" at that point, but normal never did do much for me.

Now that I was a convert I wanted to meet the man who started it all, so I went to the closest highway and started hitch-hiking to San Antonio to meet Dr. Thurman Fleet. I had no idea where he lived but I had a San Antonio postal box number. What more could I possibly need? I had the world by the tail so I took the scenic route and went by way of Florida. A few weeks later I arrived at the San Antonio Post office but they couldn't (or wouldn't) give me the home address of the box office holder. Eventually they did tell me someone came to pick up the mail around two o'clock most days. Next day I slid in beside the post box and started my vigil. On the second day around two I watched as someone finally slid a key into the box. I announced my presence and said I had come from Canada to meet Dr. Fleet. He was surprised, but after thinking about it for a moment he said "Sure, why not?" I got in his car and he drove me over to the house. It's hard not to consider how any of that would be handled in today's neurotic world. I suppose I would be arrested for stalking or something. Hanging around a post office for hours would be utterly impossible, but in 1957 nobody gave stuff like that a thought and anyway, I was just a harmless kid.

I was invited in and Thurman and I chatted for over an hour. I have no idea what we talked about, but knowing what I was like at eighteen, I guess I was there to let him know I felt he was definitely on the right track and he should keep up the good work. Eventually Dr. Fleet wrapped it up and I left. As I walked down the driveway his assistant ran after me and told me Thurman wanted me to have the crisp twenty dollar bill he was waving at me. He had spent over an hour with some kid that showed up out of thin air and he had just slipped me a hundred dollars, by today's standards. A rich man now, I aimed for the highway.

During the next two years I continued to travel non stop back and forth across the States and finally settled in Toronto again. Those three years of travel gave me more schooling and wisdom than I had in all my prior years.

Naturally, there are untold miles of individual stories about my travels which I will explore at other times. For now though, I'm sure you and I have had enough.

Stop! You're under arrest! © by adrian

"Stop!" I commanded. Quickly reaching inside my suit jacket pocket I pulled out an official looking wallet. I flipped it opened and flashed the enclosed card at him. Across the top of the card in bold letters was the word PRESS. I was holding in my hands the fake Press Pass I had printed just a few weeks earlier.

"You're under arrest." I said. He dropped some tool he held in his hands and as he rose to his feet from a crouching position between two cars he put his hands in the air and quietly surrendered.

It was just about now that I realized I hadn't really thought past this point when I earlier played this little drama over in my mind. I didn't have the foggiest clue what I should do next. It was now very obvious to me that I should have prepared a tiny, tiny bit more. I hadn't understood how easy it was going to be to arrest someone with a Press Pass and I guess I thought he would just get scared and run away and that would be the end of it. Well, apparently not, and I was now the proud holder of the prisoner I had just arrested. I had made my first "collar" as is said in police circles.

It was eleven o'clock on a summer's night and the events that led to why I had just arrested my first criminal with a fake press pass and why I was now desperately trying to decide what to do next began a few weeks earlier.

Let me explain.

A few of my friends and I often parked our cars in the corner of a service station's parking lot near my apartment. We had permission from the owner to do so, but lately somebody had started taking the air out of our tires or opening the car hood and disconnecting the distributor cap wires whenever we parked there, making the cars temporarily inoperable (this was back in the 60's, long before they had locks on car hoods).

I felt this required an intervention I was easily capable of handling. I would park my car in its usual spot so I could see it from my balcony and sit there for however long it took and wait. As soon as the culprit appeared, I would then run downstairs and make a citizen's arrest. What could be simpler? Well, who knew? Apparently nothing could be simpler, but as I said, now what?

He stood there staring at me with his hands in the air and I couldn't believe how stupid the situation I had so carefully plotted was becoming. I do remember a slight moment of relief as I realized he wasn't much bigger than me. I don't know why that struck me as important, I was hardly going to do physical battle with him, but up to that moment I had no idea who or what would emerge from between the cars. I was glad to see I hadn't "arrested" King Kong. The local police station was four blocks away and I remember muttering something to him like, "The boys with the cruiser are out on another call right now so we will have to walk over to the station ourselves." I should add that because I rarely seem to miss any opportunity in life to turn stupid situations into really stupider ones, I then found myself adding, "You can lower your hands now and if you promise not to run, I will give you a break and not handcuff you." My prisoner then promised not to run as he lowered his hands. Sigh...

So, start walking we did, on our way to the police station. I wasn't sure, but I thought I could feel a song coming on. Where was my top hat and cane? Surely I had somehow trapped myself in a piece of musical theater and now was the time for my dance routine. Why had I forgotten to wear my spats? As we walked along together I tried my best to sound official and authoritative. At twenty five years of age it wasn't an easy task as mostly all I could think of at the time was what a complete idiot I was. As we started to get closer to the police station, I suddenly remembered one other small detail I seemed to have forgotten till now. I wasn't a policeman at all. I also realized I didn't know how I was going to handle that bit of sticky news once we got to the station. Maybe I could just march the culprit into an open cell and call out to the staff sergeant to "book him" as I'd seen done in so many movies and then I could be on my way before anybody noticed I didn't belong there.

To all appearances we were just a couple of guys out for an evenings stroll. Nothing particularly unusual except for the fact that one of us was assumed to be a cop and the other thought he was under arrest by the aforementioned pretender. In case you've never considered it, I can also tell you right now that it's really difficult to make small talk when you have just arrested someone. As we walked along I casually explained to him that many people had made complaints to the station about his actions and none of us could imagine why he would do such a thing. Surely he understood that disabling cars the way he did was completely illegal and caused many innocent people great difficulty. He said that he hadn't really thought about it much and as far as he was concerned, people were parking in what he regarded as "his parking spot" and he felt if he damaged their cars everybody would stop doing it and find someplace else to park and he could have his parking space back. I continued to lecture him and explained that all the boys at the station and I thought he was very misguided.

Five minutes later and there we were at the steps of the local police station. I guess if I was capable of panic, this would have been the perfect time for me to explore that side of my personality to the fullest. In that moment I felt at the very least I should have had enough sense to flee. Even back in my younger days though, I mostly always wanted to hang around when I was being a fool so I could get to watch how I would handle my predicament and what I was going to do next.

Anyway, up the steps we went and walked right in. I went directly over to the desk sergeant as though I had done this a thousand times before. He casually looked up from his typewriter and asked, "What can I do for you fellows tonight?"

I knew right off that there was no turning back now so I calmly explained that I had just made a citizen's arrest of this chap and wanted him booked and locked up for malicious damage to my and other peoples cars. Not surprisingly, the sergeant thought that was pretty funny and I understood by his chuckle that he knew right off this was turning out to be a much better night than he originally thought was in store for him.

It was just about now my prisoner realized that I wasn't a cop at all and he became extremely agitated about that detail. He started sputtering that he wanted the desk sergeant to arrest me for impersonating a police officer and false imprisonment. I explained that I never at any time said I was a policeman and hadn't imprisoned him as he had been able to leave any time he wanted. I even pointed out that in fact I had simply invited him to walk to the station with me and he had joined me of his own free will. He then insisted I had falsely shown him a police identification card otherwise he never would have complied. The staff sergeant looked from one to the other of us with amusement as he waited to hear what either of us would say next. I pulled out my press pass and showed it to the sergeant and explained that was what I had shown my prisoner and if he decided it said Police that was his problem.

Various verbal exchanges went back and forth for a bit longer and then the sergeant explained to the other fellow that I hadn't broken any law so there was nothing he could do. He then told me that what I could do if I wanted was go to small claims court and go after him for damages but he pretty well thought that was a lost cause and he wasn't going to lock him up either. He then suggested that at this point the offender had probably learned his lesson and we should both see to it that none of this went any further and he sent us on our way.

I can't remember what we talked about as we went back to the scene of the crime, but we stayed walking together all the way back to the cars. He never did anything to any of our cars again and every time we saw each other on the street we forced ourselves to wave friendly greeting to each other.

I continued to use my fake press pass to get into events I wanted to photograph but I never again tried to arrest anybody.

Little Red is in love with me © by adrian

The squirrel whisperer, Episode #5

I should probably say she might be in love, I just can't be sure. Honestly though, maybe it's just a crush. I hope that's all it is, but I assure you, infatuation can be just as demanding as love. She's definitely in love with my nuts (lord knows, been there, done that!). I know it's entirely my fault, but I swear I had no idea things would get so far out of hand and turn out like this.

Let me explain how she and I got into this dreadful cross species predicament.

My bride bought a cottage in the Laurentians with her step-sister a few years ago (see my story, Little Adri’s big adventure) and during the summer we now spend some of our dotage there.

There, by the way, is full of hills and trees and water and oh yeah, adorable tiny red squirrels (or irritating, depending on your viewpoint). Previous readers of my ramblings know that I spend some of my time communicating with squirrels (or thinking I do). I love the constant state of perceived Italian excitement they seem to be in and I like talking to them. Even when they lie out with me on the back porch at home, I just know their minds are constantly busy thinking about when or from where their next adventure will appear.

Grey and Black squirrels definitely have an identifiable form of communication and I'm sure most readers have heard them squawking and yelling at each other or at us two legs. There is also much that can be stated or implied by flicking one's tail, as any woman would know. Some of the sounds they make are very bird like, so they often go unnoticed but they always definitely have seemingly important things to say to us and each other. Red squirrels on the other hand, apparently don't have the need to deal with us two legs much and mostly flee whenever they see us coming. They seem to be constantly in motion and the only sounds I had ever heard them make were a loud almost barking sound that I just assumed was their way of squawking at us. I'd never bothered trying to communicate with them because among other things, I presumed that squirrels of the Laurentians would use some local French dialect I wouldn't understand anyway.

A couple of years ago, we encountered a red whose name was Big Red and he was under the impression that the cottage belonged to him. He was obviously quite angry that we were squatting in his home.


Every time we would go inside the house he would jump to a ledge in the porch and yell at us as though we were the intruders. He would stand up and defiantly bark at us without moving an inch until we were able to finally shoo him out the door. I would bark back at him and explain that he was mistaken and wild animals were required to live outdoors, whether they liked it or not. He didn't agree with us and would be casually resting on the sofa every time we got home.

One day when we came down the hill to go inside the house he decided to confront us outside. He was twenty feet up a tree and started yelling at us to stay away. So I started yelling back. My form of rodent speak is really just to mimic as best I can the sounds they make, so we had a yelling contest.

All of a sudden he went very quiet and then after a few moments of silence he began to make the most unbelievable throaty cooing noise and then began a high pitched trilling sound while constantly running up and down the tree in obvious excitement. I had never heard anything like it in my life. He would coo and trill at almost the same time and was obviously beside himself with excitement. He then came down the tree to within a foot of my face and just stayed there staring at me while constantly cooing. I swear he looked at me adoringly. I had no idea what I had said, but he immediately decided that whatever I wanted, he would do. Now I need to quickly add that I don't think in that little bit of time I learned to speak French Canadian red squirrel. I honestly think the language breakthrough is really more about effort than actual squirrel speak. I believe the little dears at some point simply decide that if a two legs is going to make that much effort to talk to them, they should be allowed into the circle. From that moment on, Big Red never bothered us in the house again and would trill and coo at me whenever I showed up.

Later on, we met Little Scruffy.

Generally speaking, reds are very fastidious and tidy looking. Always immaculately groomed and clean. Little Scruffy was the exception and was the messiest unkempt back alley looking rodent we'd ever seen. He was full of swagger and obviously tough, a true street urchin. You just knew by looking at him that he was a mischievous terror. Whenever he showed up Big Red and all the other squirrels immediately fled.

One day I was conscripted to take down a large backyard galvanized metal shed so I got my sledge hammer and started demolishing it. Little Scruffy got into a tree above me and started watching. To pass the time I started to talk to him and made my usual goofy sounds in order to pretend I knew the secret language. Well, it didn't take long before he started to run up and down the tree, trilling and cooing like crazy. He got an immediate crush on me and wouldn't leave the area all day even though I was making a tremendous racket smashing at the shed. Every time I would stop to relax he would come down the tree and lie on the ground nearby staring at me affectionately, continuing to coo all the while. I saw him on a few other days after that and every time he saw me he would run over to me like a puppy and start cooing.

Now Little Red, well, she is something else again.

She lives in an old wooden shed near the house and has been in crush with me since we first met a few years ago. A few days after I first arrive every spring she always realizes I'm on site and starts calling to me. It must be love because she bats her eyes at me now and has on occasion brought pine cones from her secret stash over to me and drops them at my feet when I go outside.

If I don't see her nearby I call to her and she will be on the roof of the shed in no time at all cooing and making her trilling call. Some mornings she will sit outside and call to me and won't stop until I go out and give her a peanut. My bride Linda is amazed that Little Red has trained me so well in such a short time. She has asked Little Red to give her some pointers, but so far to no avail. When other people stay at the cottage they say they see her maybe once or twice but I see her almost every day and we always have time for a little chat together.

I've set aside an area of the shed that we've marked as hers and she's filled it up with shreddings, leaves and pine cones so I know she's looking forward to a comfortable winter. She has asked me to stay the winter but runs off in a pique screaming at me when I ask her if she has any ideas on where I could find a large fur coat so I could be comfortable living in the shed with her.

I will be going back to close up the cottage in a few weeks and have one more chance to spend a bit of time with her before winter sets in. Then it's back to waiting for the spring so we can get together again and share stories of what we did in the long dark months of winter.

Little Red doesn't seem to care too much that I'm married and I have to confess, when I look at how beautiful she is and listen to the alluring things she says to me, I don't care much either.

Long distance love affairs are always fraught with difficulties but when you add this cross species business to the mix it's almost downright impossible. I think next year I will try to set her up with a computer so we can email each other during our absence. She has such exquisitely long paws so I'm sure she would master typing in no time at all.

Road Rage! © by adrian

As I reluctantly come to a stop, a passenger from the huge black Cadillac beside me jumps out and pulls open my car door. Startled, I look over to him and notice a rather large hammer rapidly descending toward my head. I have a brief moment to feel really disappointed about the way this evening is turning out before realizing I better do something quickly or I may never have the opportunity to feel really disappointed again. Everything is happening, as us old photographers say, in a flash.

Let me back up a few minutes...

It's just past midnight on a warm summer's night and I'm casually driving along Bloor Street. I'm thirty-three years old and feeling just fine in my little 1968 Cortina, thank you very much.

The Cadillac, before becoming interested in me, was originally going in the opposite direction of my travel. There were a few girls on my side of the street (the recurring story of my life, it seems) and the fellows in the Cadillac made a u-turn directly in front of me so they could converse with said ladies. Because of that, I needed to swerve and quickly stop in order to avoid a collision. I voiced my displeasure by blasting my horn and then continued on my way. The chaps in the Caddy were immediately rejected by the girls they sought (probably a recurring story of their life) and so they were now mad at me because, as far as they were concerned, by being in their way I had destroyed any chance of a blissful night for them. So they decided to pursue me. After all, boys will be boys.

They kept trying to maneuver ahead of me as they chased me and my car along Bloor Street, but the little Mario Andretti I keep bottled up inside me reared his ugly head and refused to let them pass. Up the road a bit I could see a car double parked ahead of me and with a sinking feeling I knew that no matter what I did, I was about to be boxed in by the Cadillac cruising to my left. I have to admit that just before I came to a full stop, I had no idea I was on the cusp of a new fad called road rage. I mean, after all, this was the friendly 70's. We didn't even bother locking our car doors in those days. Even if I had known, I really had no time to appreciate that once again in my life, I was a trend setter.

As I was saying, the door flew open and there it was, plain as day, no mistake about it. A full sized hammer was being swung toward the non-existent nail in my head. The holder of said hammer was definitely determined to cause me serious injury. Sigh…

I kicked both my legs out the open door as I twisted my body sideways. I thought I might have time to push him and his hammer away from me and my head. In the same moment I summoned an enormously loud scream from the depths of my being. I hit a high C that would have made Pavarotti, had he been nearby, weep with envy and bow to the power of my lungs. Loud as my scream was, it wasn’t quite loud enough to diminish or drown out the crack of breaking bone I heard as the hammer connected with and shattered my left kneecap.

Then they were everywhere.

Five, ten, a dozen perhaps, young, strong and swarthy men appeared from nowhere and dragged him off me. He was on his knees now, in the middle of the road and a few of them held him as others kept hitting and yelling at him to drop the hammer. I have to confess that as I watched him being pummeled, I wasn’t able to muster the slightest bit of compassion towards him. To be really honest, I kind of hoped he wouldn’t drop the hammer, now that the tables had turned. While all this was going on, two police cruisers, with sirens blaring came roaring to a stop nearby.

"Whoopee!" I thought, "We're going to have a party."

Police jumped out of both cars with guns drawn screaming at everybody to stay where they were. Sitting in the car with blood gushing from my newly broken kneecap, I found it surprisingly easy to accommodate their demand. The crowd parted as the police charged into the middle of the melee, but the fellow with the hammer still kept his grip on it. I suspected by now it had become his Linus blanket and he was determined not to part with it. A loud "drop your weapon!" order from a policeman with his gun drawn seemed to bring the fellow to his senses. As he let the hammer fall, he was quickly handcuffed and pulled to his feet.

"All right, who's going to explain to us what the hell is going on here." one of the policemen shouted. The gathered crowd all turned in one silent motion and looked towards my Cortina and me, as none of them knew the answer to that question. They had apparently been summoned by god to save me, but didn't have the faintest idea why. In fact, all of them had been minding their own business hanging out in the all night pizza joint I ended up stopped in front of. The double parked car belonged to another who had simply run in to pick up his pizza. My cry for help had produced the testosterone spike needed to have their collective adrenalin drive them all outside ready to do battle.

As the assailant was led away and placed in the back seat of one of the patrol cars, the other policemen came over to me to find out my version of what happened. At the same time, everybody became aware of the Cadillac's driver hanging about and he was also taken to a police car.

As the policeman started taking notes, we both quickly became distracted by the blood seeping through my pants. I wasn't in any pain yet and had briefly forgotten why we were gathered there myself. On his insistence, I pulled up my pant leg in order to see what I had won. Well, my kneecap was a mess. It didn't look anything at all what I remembered it had looked like earlier in the evening. Bits of bone sticking out, torn, loosely flapping flesh and lots of blood, I obviously needed some serious medical attention. The policeman went back to his car and brought back a large roll of gauze that he helped me wrap around my knee.

As I said, I was not in any pain yet and so we decided that seeing as my right leg was fine I could drive to the hospital myself rather than wait for an ambulance. He also decided that he would lead the way and finish taking his notes when we got to the hospital. The assailant and his driver were both secured and being interviewed by the other policeman. The gathered crowd was in such high spirits chatting amongst themselves about what a great time everybody was having, it seemed a shame to leave them, but I obviously needed to get my kneecap glued back together (or whatever it is they do in such circumstances) so, off we went. Because I arrived at the hospital with my very own police escort, I was immediately whisked away to a private area and didn't have to wait in any line... Believe me, if you have to go to a hospital emergency clinic, take the police with you, I guarantee you will get quick and attentive treatment.

X-rays were taken and as a doctor tucked everything back inside my knee and started stitching it all together again, the policeman continued to interview me and take notes. I was given a tetanus shot, sleeping pills and some pain killers. I was told to stay off my leg as much as possible and come back in three or four days so they could see how successful the sewing had been. After instructing me not to leave town because I was now a material witness in any potential criminal proceedings, the policeman wished me well and I was sent on my way.

It was about four o'clock in the morning by the time I got my weary body home and into bed. As the medication helped me drift off to sleep I remembered I needed to get up early so that I would have time to ready myself for a first date with a lady I met just a few weeks earlier. I didn't even know if I would be able to walk the next day and my last thought before sleep won over was, "Boy, I bet that should work out really well."

As it turned out, my date did indeed work out really well. This was, as I mentioned, the early 70's and she was part of the first wave of women who a few years earlier had decided to return to university to explore their options and become more independent.

She lived in the suburbs with her husband, two cars, two teenage children and a house complete with a swimming pool in the backyard. I originally met her at a job I was shooting pictures at and suggested we get together for a harmless cup of coffee on the university campus some time. Of course she said no. After three weeks of phoning her every day to chat about how her life no longer looked the same as it used to before she went back to university, she said yes.

Now, the reason I mention all this is because in some small bizarre way, my newly acquired broken kneecap helped contribute to the theatrics of our first date. Dating, after all, is foremost about presentation, you know.

I drove into the university grounds and saw her sitting on a small hill under a tree. It was a beautiful sunny day and she had arranged herself so the backlighting sun cast a shimmering halo around her body. After parking and struggling out of the car I reached inside to pick up an old gnarled cane I had brought along as a necessary prop. As I limped up the hill towards her I swear I could hear angels singing. Certainly at the very least, some hokey, mushy sound track from any romantic movie you could think of. I was ten years younger than her and had very long hair, but the cane and the limp gave me a certain maturity and serenity I could never have pulled off on my own. Both of us succumbed to the intoxication of that first meeting. Six weeks later, after many more daytime rendezvous, she left her previous life and moved in with me and we set out on a very happy next ten years chapter of our lives.

Anyway, back to my damaged knee. I did need to return to the hospital again to get some more stitches and a few times after that for more examinations but after a month or so it finally started to slowly heal. Walking up and down stairs sometimes is a challenge and it never was quite the same old knee it used to be, but I'm sure if he had connected with my head my knee would have been the least of my worries. I also had to attend a preliminary hearing so the police could determine what to charge the perpetrator with. As it turned out, a few months after that he was charged with assault with a deadly weapon and I received a summons to go to court to testify against him. The driver was not charged with anything, as he claimed he had absolutely no idea his passenger would do such a thing.

Facing him in court was certainly a very frightening and surreal experience, but having guards everywhere gave me the illusion of security. He had been out on bail since the incident and his trial ended up taking far less time than the assault itself. He was convicted and sentenced to six month in jail and then immediately removed from the courtroom in handcuffs. After all, if he had hit me on the head as he originally intended, he could very well have killed me and I would never have been able to tell you my story.