Out of the fire
Toronto, September 1967
by Ken Klonsky
[Editor’s Note: This is an excerpt from Ken Klonsky’s memoir, Chapter 7 of Out of the Fire: A Life Seeking Justice]
*
I drove to Toronto in the five-year-old blue Plymouth I used at UVM, its body cancered by Vermont’s salted roads. While it was liberating to be leaving my riven country, I was plenty nervous about the unknowns that lay ahead.
My father had arranged for me to stay with the Kaplans, the family of one of his few Canadian accounts in the rag trade, until I found myself a place to live. Knowing that my Dad knew someone in Toronto, and that his GP had graduated from medical school at the U of T, provided some comfort. I was also touched by my father’s openness to my going to Canada after his initial resistance. To his credit he never stood in the way of any of my adventures and misadventures.
Crossing the Rainbow Bridge from Niagara Falls into Canada was no more difficult than a New Yorker crossing the George Washington Bridge into New Jersey. A look at my college admission letter and a friendly wave. I drove to Toronto on the Queen Elizabeth Way, not registering that I was now in Loyalist country, and passed by Hamilton where steel mills belched out a noxious brew of smoke and chemicals that made my eyes water and my chest seize up.
Luckily I found Murray Kaplan’s home before dusk. They lived in Forest Hill, a Jewish enclave, in a solid red brick house. Mrs. Kaplan was putting together Sabbath dinner. She and her daughter, Ronnie, gave me an effusive welcome. Murray shouted up the stairway; Shelley, his chunky son, came down and barely looked at me.
“Put Ken’s suitcase in the guestroom, Shelley.” Murray turned to me. “I love your father. I hope he comes up for a visit now that you’re here. I’ve invited him and he always gives me some excuse.”
“Don’t take it personally, Murray. He doesn’t like to travel anywhere but Florida.”
“Well, we’re happy to have you as his representative.”
The cordiality did not abate at the dinner table. The chicken was nicely browned, the kugel excellent, the red wine too sweet but plentiful. The discussion moved from my life growing up in America, my college years, the things I liked doing, what I was going to study, almost the whole conversation centring on me. Mother and daughter did most of the questioning and listened attentively. As to Shelley, had it been 2025, and not 1967, he would have been texting. He was in his final year at the University of Toronto, while Ronnie was in her first year of graduate school at York University.
My father had told me as an aside that Ronnie was “available,” but I failed to pick up the implication. Not until that moment. Since I was receiving their hospitality and my father was probably part of the matchmaking, the situation called for diplomatic avoidance. I just wasn’t ready for an attachment.
“St. James Town,” Shelley pointed out, turning around to address me while driving the car. “You wouldn’t want to live here.”
“Why not? It looks better than a lot of New York projects.”
“Bad stuff goes on at all times of day.”
“Let’s show him Yonge Street,” urged Ronnie. Yonge Street. Despite her enthusiasm, I saw only blocks of Times Square sleaze. And where were all the people?
Shelley and I took the Bathurst bus down to the university on Monday. He pointed me to another area of the campus before heading off to his class. Walking up King’s College Circle, I looked around and saw many old-style university buildings named after British schools. I now comprehended, as I had failed to do on the Queen Elizabeth Way, that Canada was a different country, a country without a revolution. So many of my young compatriots and I soon discovered our ignorance in this regard.
I made my way over to University College, a weird sounding word combination, where I needed to register for the coming semester. Miss Stevenson, a tiny silver-haired woman who was the head secretary and gatekeeper at the English graduate school, pulled out my transcript, welcomed me perfunctorily, and passed along two course catalogues. She held out the undergraduate one.
“The department recommends that you take two undergraduate courses along with two from the graduate catalogue.”
“Undergraduate courses?”
“It’s required.”
“Not exactly recommended, then. That’s what you’re telling me?”
“American students graduate from high school after grade twelve. In Canada, we have grade thirteen as a university preparatory.”
“Yes, but I graduated from university, Miss Stevenson.”
“Most of our out-of-country students have to take a full semester of undergraduate courses. Your honours BA entitles you to get by with only two. And I’m sure you’ll find the work sufficiently challenging.” I could see there was no point in arguing, but the extra time I’d have to spend in Toronto rankled.
My second stop was the university housing office that Shelley had, a bit too emphatically, recommended that I visit. The smallish room at Hart House was packed with students of varying ages, but I was able to wedge myself in front of a bulletin board. One of the postings had the address 179 College Street, the same street from which I had entered Kings College Circle. I wrote down the phone number and the name, Martin Frick, attached to the ad.
When Martin answered the phone, there was a gap in time before he spoke.
“… Yes, hello.”
“Are you Martin Frick?” No answer came. “You have an apartment to rent?”
Once again, there was the odd pause. “… Yes, share.”
“How much is the rent?”
“Seventy … seventy dollars. It’s … it’s two floors.” I understood, by this point, that Martin stammered.
“Seventy dollars a week?”
“A … a month.”
“Can I come over to see it?”
“… Yes.”
Given the price, I was not expecting much by way of comfort, but, seeing as the location was across the street from the university, it was worth a look.
The number 179 was affixed to a restaurant called Grad’s. Inside, both at tables and a lunch counter, young people were eating eggs, bacon, and French fries; the place smelled of old cooking oil and burnt coffee. So much noise! I thought the kitchen workers must be trying to smash the dishes. The cashier, after hearing me yell that I was answering an apartment ad, pointed to an open door at the rear of the restaurant. Seventy dollars a month. I thought I was starting to understand.
Out back, a pugnacious little man with a grease-stained apron, was hefting a bag full of garbage into a large metal bin. I asked him about the apartment and he stared with incomprehension. Then, as if a light bulb went on, he pointed to a whitewashed stairway at the side of the building. I climbed up, knocked and was greeted by a very wide and engaging smile, a smile without a body like the Cheshire Cat. When the door fully opened, I could see that Martin was an unusual looking man, tall and thin with raw looking facial skin.
“Hi … you must be Ken. I … I’m Martin. Come in and take a look.”
The apartment had two floors, four bedrooms in all. A faint odour from the restaurant squeezed through the floorboards. Everything I could see was spare and neat, befitting, as I was to learn, the spartan existence that Martin had adopted during his training as a religious novitiate. But what a space, and right across the street from the school!
“Can I take it?”
“Yes. It’s…it’s still available.” He laughed.
“How is it living above a restaurant?”
“At … at least the cockroaches … uh … uh … get enough to eat down there.”
Now I started laughing, already enjoying his company. After I told him that I came from New York, Martin told me that he was from Chicago, a professional mime and a part-time chorus master at a private school. He handed me a key to the apartment and volunteered to take me on a walking tour of the area.
What I saw was a lifeless provincial city, full of white people. A wave of Americans descending on Toronto in the late 1960s saw it the same way. We became a Canadian social experiment, believing ourselves to be the ultimate standard and, like other immigrants, ignoring or degrading the local culture.
Some discoveries in my first month were jaw dropping. Most restaurants and all businesses were closed on Sundays. And buying liquor? You had to fill out a slip of paper at a dingy government liquor store. Sorry, Canada, this had to change.
Martin pointed out a government office on College Street. “You get your OHIP card there.”
“My what?”
“OHIP. Medical insurance. In case you need to see a doctor or go to the hospital.” I stared with incomprehension. “I know … I couldn’t believe it either. You don’t have to pay for that in Canada.” The next to nothing cost of education, the free health care, and right across the American border! So what if it was a little dull.
After picking up a bottle of wine and some chocolate as a thank you to the Kaplans, I left Martin and returned to Forest Hill for one last evening. Mrs. Kaplan cooked another nice dinner and made me promise to return Friday night, a promise that would go unfulfilled. I never saw the Kaplans again, not even Shelley, although we were on the same campus.
Early next morning I drove down to 179 College Street to begin my new life. I let myself into the apartment and unpacked in one of the empty bedrooms upstairs. The kitchen cabinets were smudged with fingerprints, the ancient linoleum was sticky and the refrigerator was almost empty. In my first tour, I’d failed to register the spaciousness of the living room. Perfect for parties.
Martin had left a note on the kitchen table. You can park out back. I had parked at a meter on Henry Street, hoping that my New York plates would protect me from meter maids. I parked on that street without paying for the next two years and never got a ticket. Needing to get oriented and to select my courses, I went across the street to the university. What I did that day is a blank, aside from meeting a frightened and unhappy American couple, the husband a draft dodger. The downbeat conversation gave me my first moment of doubt. They’d only been in Toronto since May but they were homesick; he even spoke about doing jail time.
That evening, Martin took me to a Swiss restaurant on Bloor Street. Murals of the Alps lined the walls. A low sound track cranked out accordion music. As I sat down, I had a strange feeling inside; my appetite disappeared.
“I’ve been here before, Martin.” Although my rational mind told me otherwise, I was nevertheless certain.
“Maybe … maybe in another life …” He laughed.
A waiter came over. I ordered wiener schnitzel; in that era, almost every restaurant on Bloor Street from Bathurst to Spadina served wiener schnitzel, what my Hungarian Jewish mother called veal cutlets and which, as usual, she made very well. In that area of Bloor Street, I later learned, lived a community of former Hungarian collaborators. Even though this place was supposedly Swiss, I needed to rid myself of a creeping dread.
I returned to this restaurant on two more occasions, each time experiencing the same feelings and the same déjà vu, after which I refused to go there anymore. My experience in the restaurant bore a resemblance, in one fundamental aspect, to that day at the beach club as a security guard: the feeling of separation between my rational mind and some other state that I still could not recognize.
My first night on College Street I was awakened at midnight by the unbearable noise of jackhammers. Closing the window did little good. I stayed up trying to read; the work finally ceased at six.
Coming downstairs, I found Martin in the kitchen making Red River hot cereal, a food I have detested since being plied with it by my mother throughout my childhood. I can’t escape you! He had heard the noise, of course, and told me that the streetcar tracks were being fixed.
“There’s nothing we can do about it?”
“You … you can’t fight city hall.”
“Where is city hall?”
“Down University Avenue be … between Dundas and Queen. The building looks like a … like a telescope.”
“I’m going to find out … if I can fight city hall.”
“Good … good luck.”
What I did that morning was quixotic, but I needed sleep as much as food. As I walked on College toward University, road equipment blocked the parking spaces. The red streetcars rumbled slowly past.
When I reached Nathan Phillips Square and glanced with admiration at the telescopic city hall, I noticed a man in workman’s clothes crumple up and fall down in front of me. I bent down and turned him over. His face was purple. I screamed for someone to get help while, summoning up what little I knew about CPR, gave him chest compressions. After what felt like an eternity, the ambulance attendants arrived and took over from me, placing a rubber breathing apparatus on his mouth.
I was shaking as I spoke to one of them. “I couldn’t do mouth to mouth. I’m sorry.” My queasiness felt shameful. “Is the guy gonna live?”
“His eyes are coming around,” the attendant said. Was that meant to comfort me? Had I really kept this man alive? “Give yourself a break, buddy. You did the right thing.”
I sat down on a bench, feeling enervated. I needed to find equilibrium after this sudden disorienting incident. I then forgot, for five minutes, why I was at the city hall. Then I remembered. The night noise. I walked inside the telescope.
“Can I speak to someone in public works?” I asked the receptionist, a casually dressed and friendly seeming young woman. When asked for my address, I could barely remember.
“Are you okay?”
“Some guy almost died out there. I had to help him.”
“That explains the ambulance.” I saw that she had a full view of the square.
After explaining to her about the streetcar tracks, she told me to speak to the alderman who was responsible for my ward. Alderman? Ward? Toronto was feeling surreal.
“I can tell by your accent that you’re not from here,” she said. “An alderman is a local representative; your ward is the area that the alderman represents.” She phoned the alderman’s office and asked him if he had time to see a constituent. He did have the time; she gave me the office number and directed me to the elevator.
The alderman was a tall, pale drink of water. He wore a white, darkly patterned dashiki; I remember the “Little Red Book” sitting prominently on his desk. I told him about the noise. “I can’t take it,” I told him, “If I have to listen to that every night, I might go out and kill someone.” Maybe my lack of sleep and the falling man caused me to say something so unguarded. “I didn’t really mean that.”
“Calm down.” He was not fazed. “I’ll see what can be done.”
“Yeah? Really?”
“I can’t promise anything, but I’ll look into it.”
The work ceased that night. When I looked out the window the next morning, the road crew was setting up; the traffic along College Street had been diverted as it continued to be for an entire month. This insignificant event began my long love affair with the city. I was not even a citizen; I lived in an area that was almost uninhabited at night, and yet the waves had parted. Martin, who had lived there for five years and had laughed at me when I set out on my journey that morning, conceded that maybe you could fight city hall, in Toronto at least.
On the Friday afternoon of that first week, the graduate school hosted what they called a “wine and cheese” at the main student centre in Hart House. It was a way for everyone, staff included, to assess the coming year’s sexual possibilities. The cheese was served in little cubes lanced by toothpicks; triangular egg salad, tuna, and ham sandwiches, sans crust, were fanned out like decks of cards on serving trays; the red and white Ontario wines sat waiting in plastic cups. I was late, so I noticed several of the cups, more than half full, sitting on ledges and tables. The profs were 95 per cent male and stodgy, wearing musty tweed sport jackets and ties, unlike the less formal staff at the University of Vermont. I saw Miss Stevenson gabbing with a pair of faculty members and wondered if they might be McLuhan and Frye.
A group of four hearty young people, three guys, one exceptionally tall, and a girl with red hair, interrupted a conversation I was having with a swarthy bearded Brooklynite and began talking to me. They were dressed in jeans and t-shirts; at least I’d worn a sport jacket over my t-shirt. The Brooklynite retreated.
“How do you like Canada?” asked the tall guy, smiling as if he’d just won a lottery. I remember the faculty he had written on his name tag, Criminology, although not his name. I wondered if I had chosen the right course of study since criminology sounded pretty cool. The other two males were Biology.
“Canadians are generous people. I mean it’s been great so far. How did you know I’m American?”
All four smiled broadly. The red-haired girl, pale faced and tough looking, asked me, “Are you dodging?” Her name tag indicated she was studying Anthropology. I was cornered by all this ruggedness.
“No. I came here because of the school.”
“Right,” she said, sizing me up. “Look, you don’t need to worry, we’re not FBI.”
“You have a car?” the big guy asked. I hesitated, thinking the question a little odd. But then I nodded. “How would you like to go to Algonquin Park?” His stare was piercing, eyes inquisitive and seductive.
“We could show you around, eh,” said the raunchy girl. I found her attractive, in the literal sense of a magnet.
“Algonquin Park? Where is that?” I asked, getting drawn in against my will.
“A little up north and someways east. The fall colours are amazing.” The four of them were set to devour me.
“It’s only the beginning of September.”
“It’s fall up there. And we could pay for gas,” said Big Smiley. The other three nodded like dogs on their hind legs, waiting for a biscuit.
Looking at leaves had never been my idea of fun, but these people seemed so friendly and optimistic, and I was in a new place. I wanted to please them, to repay them for the happiness, the sense of freedom, I was feeling. And I needed the adventure. That’s what I told myself, but I suspect now that the force of their wills overwhelmed my natural caution.
“Okay. When do you guys want to go?”
“Now, before the traffic gets bad.”
“Now? You mean just leave the party here and drive away?”
“Call this a party?” one of them asked.
“We got enough food,” said the tough girl, as she wrapped a pile of the uneaten sandwiches into four napkins, which she called serviettes. One of the guys pulled the toothpicks out of the cheese and stuffed the cubes into another couple of napkins, all of which she dropped into her cavernous pocketbook, her purse as she called it. Maybe “overnight bag” would have been a better term.
“We’ll wait out here for you, Ken.”
Fearful, but with a tingling anticipation, I walked back to 179 College, took out a sweater, and said goodbye to Martin who was baffled about my agreeing to go to Algonquin Park.
“I’ll be back later.”
“It’s … it’s a long way.”
“That’s all right; I’m used to distances.” I was thinking of how I would drive to ski areas in Vermont from UVM or to the Catskills from New York City on a whim.
“Take a warm coat with you.” I was surprised at this advice but decided, luckily, to heed it.
I picked them up at Hart House as promised. They were lugging heavy canvas knapsacks — I wondered where they had stored them during the wine and cheese — that thudded into the trunk. All I had were the clothes on my back, the sweater and the ski jacket. Big Smiley got in the front seat to accommodate his legs, the other three squeezed into the back.
“My first Canadian expedition,” I said, jokingly. After getting no response, I asked them where they’d gone to school.
“Me?” asked Big Smiley.
“We all went to Jarvis Collegiate,” said the tough girl. I don’t remember if the other two said anything; in fact I remember little about them except that they started laughing. Were they stoned?
“Where is Jarvis Collegiate?”
“On Jarvis Street.” The chortling continued. “It’s a high school for kids going to university.”
“So where did you go to college is what I meant.”
Big Smiley looked at me as if I had just said the dumbest possible thing. He patiently explained that they were gate crashers at the wine and cheese, that they came there for the free food and the drinks. Maybe, I thought, they came to find suckers like me.
I drove up the Don Valley Parkway and continued driving up another highway, the 400, for a long time. It felt like I was going due north, but Ontario is so large that the park is said to be in southeastern Ontario. Martin was right; the park was far away, a good deal further than from Long Island to the Catskills. The trip must have taken three or four hours. The conversation in the car was awkward because, as was said in those days, I was not on their wavelength. They made jokes about the towns we were passing, the cows in the fields, the sheep in the meadows. In hindsight, they weren’t stoned at all; what they were showing me was a brand of Canadian humour.
I tried talking politics, but they had contempt for their own country’s leaders. “Lester Pearson,” the girl said, “is not worth the prize in a box of Cracker Jacks. Hell, he’s not worth the empty box.” That was shocking to hear, since I knew that he had won the Nobel Peace Prize. I tried war, the War in Vietnam. Nothing much there either.
“Where’d you go to school?” someone mercifully asked from the back.
“Vermont.”
“Good hockey school,” one of them said.
Of course! Hockey was the subject we could talk about. “Yeah, we had a strong team. Of course we were down the road from the very best: The Canadiens, right?”
“Leafs won the Stanley Cup, eh,” came from the back. That was to be a historic statement, or prehistoric.
“Hey, what are you?” Big Smiley asked.
“What am I? What do you mean?”
“Your family, you know?”
“Oh, I’m American. From New York.”
“We know that. But who are you really?”
“I just told you.” I was already regretting this trip.
“That’s not what he means, eh,” said the tough girl. “He wants to know what you are.” Tell him who you are.
“Hey, are you Jewish?” Big Smiley clarified.
Whoa! I was out on a road I’d never travelled, being asked about my religious background by big young strangers. After a horribly paranoid moment of Holocaust visions — The Painted Bird came to mind — I chose to tell the truth. I mean they must have known on some level if they asked the question, and the question seemed to come from all four of them. “Are you Jewish?” was less threatening than “Are you a Jew?”
“Yes. My father’s family was from Russia and my mother’s from Hungary.” I sensed that the country-of-origin was a detail that didn’t interest them. Nor, to my relief, did they pursue the line of questioning any further.
As we drove on, I noticed that many of the trees were already red, some even with a touch of yellow. “You were right. It’s like Vermont. Fall comes early here.”
“Just wait’ll we get to the Park, man. You’ll be amazed.”
The back seat three began singing in harmony like a choir.
Four strong winds that blow lonely, seven seas that run high
All those things that don’t change come what may …
We arrived late in the afternoon; the angle of the sun and the deep blue sky made the park look idyllic. They roughhoused after being cooped up in the car, the girl pinning one of the guys to the ground. All laughter, breath, and body. We set out hiking, for which, given the muddy footing, I was wearing the wrong shoes. I remember a big clear still body of water and the riot of colour everywhere. They were happy to see me taking it in. Then, simultaneously, they threw off their clothes and went skinny dipping, the girl included.
“Come on in!” yelled Big Smiley. I dipped my hand into the water; it felt about three degrees above the temperature of an ice cube.
“Forget about it, I’ll freeze to death.”
“Don’t be such a pussy!”
When we got back to the car it was getting dark. The girl pulled out the sandwiches and the cheese along with some water; one of the others produced a bottle of Canadian Club, which they proceeded to drink liberally, and a Baby Duck that had been swiped off the table after I left the wine and cheese. Their happiness was tempered when I begged off the booze; nor would I sample the Baby Duck, remembering all the abandoned cups at the wine and cheese. The food tasted a lot better than I could have imagined from the way it looked on the tablecloth at Hart House. After several more swigs from the CC bottle, Big Smiley pulled out a joint and lit up. Now that I was willing to partake in.
“You’re a nice guy, Ken. We like Yanks. Don’t we?”
“I never met too many Canadians until now. In fact, I never met a single one,” I babbled nervously, already forgetting about the Kaplans.
“Not a big deal, eh. We have a game we play with Americans. Right, guys?” They laughed. I did not like his tone. I braced myself. “We ask you questions about Canada and give you a cheer if you get it right —” They let out an overly big cheer. “And the buzzer if you get it wrong.” They all blew out air that vibrated through their closed lips.
The girl added, “It’s called ‘Stump the Yankee.’”
“First you get the easy question, eh.”
“Who is Sergeant Preston?” Peals of laughter.
“Ha ha. All right, he’s a TV Mountie who says ‘mush’ every time he wants the huskies to move.” Mock cheers.
“Who’s Lester B. Pearson?”
“Your president.” Lips buzzed.
They patiently explained the difference between a prime minister and a president. “And we got the Queen. That’s why we have a prime minister.”
“Get that straight, Ken. If you want to be a Canuck, eh.”
“What does the Queen have to do with anything?”
“She’s on the money. Haven’t you seen her?”
“Next question, Ken,” said the girl. “What are the prairie provinces?”
“Don’t know that. Oh wait, Alberta.”
“‘Guess I’ll go out to Alberta,’” they sang loudly, half drunk.
“Tell us one Atlantic province, eh.”
“Nova Scotia. Lox and lobster.” Cheers.
“What’s the capital of Canada and what province is it in?”
“Ottawa. It’s in a province?” Lips buzzed.
“What province is furthest west?”
“Vancouver?” Lips buzzed.
“You’re blowing it, Ken. This one is closer to home,” said Big Smiley. “What province is Montreal in?”
“Kweebeck.” Lips buzzed.
“Now I know you guys are putting me on. I lived in Vermont for four years.”
“And you never learned how to pronounce Quebec.”
I shifted them away from the game. “Do any of you have something to do besides having fun?”
“No, we’re on the pogey.” They said it meant unemployment insurance, although I never found out what employment they had to begin with.
“You want to drive to Expo?” Big Smiley asked.
The girl clarified, unnecessarily: “Expo 67 in Montreal. We could go next weekend.”
“No, I went last spring. It was great! You guys really ought to go.”
“You couldn’t have seen all of it.”
“No, but I’ll just be through a week of grad school and have a lot of work to do.”
“Come on, eh,” nagged one of the back seaters. “Who fucking cares about school?”
The strangest thing about them was that they did everything at the same time, like the murmuration of starlings, on an unseen prompt. One of them was the leader, but it was hard to tell which one. At some point, they pulled out blankets and threw them on the ground beneath a nearby tree. I took one from them, realizing that we couldn’t possibly drive back home that night. They laid down on the ground and wrapped themselves in the blankets like enchiladas. Not even a bedroll! I tried doing the same until I felt the tree roots on my back. They were asleep instantaneously. I took the blanket into the car and curled up on the back seat. I couldn’t sleep, afraid there might be wolves or bears around.
The park looked different in the dawn but no less enchanting. When I stepped outside the car, the Canadians were still asleep. Not having gloves or a hat, I jumped back inside and started the engine. It took a while for the heater to get going but, eventually, the windows fogged and I was able to thaw.
Sometime later, they arose together. They had plans to show me a bunch of sites in the park, but I wanted to go back. “Guys, I start school on Monday.”
“We’ll get going first thing tomorrow morning,” said Big Smiley, reassuringly. He added, yet again, “Don’t be a pussy,” this time as if I was a little baby.
Another night in the car. No. “I’m headed out now. Maybe I can drop you somewhere?” Sullen silence. I felt terrible. “Thank you guys for showing me how beautiful this country is. I’ll never forget this trip.” I couldn’t believe that they were going to stay there without a ride home in sight, but stay there they did.
“How … How, how did it go?” asked Martin, when I arrived home that afternoon.
“You were right, it’s a long way. Have you ever been up there?”
“No, maybe sometime … but not right away.”
“Tell me something, Martin. How long can you stay on the pogey?”
He flashed that wraparound smile. “As long … as long as you worked, I think. Up to a year, maybe. You go … you go and stand in line for your cheque.”
“I don’t understand. Those guys didn’t seem ashamed of it at all.”
“Wel … Welcome to Canada, Ken.”
I had passed through a time tunnel; my previous life seemed like a mirage.
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Ken Klonsky has written (for This Magazine, The Globe and Mail, Education Forum, Descant, and The Sun magazine) numerous articles centered on education combined with social justice issues and short stories that, in turn, became the foundation for Songs of Aging Children (Arsenal Pulp Press, 1992), a suite of stories that entered into the lives of emotionally disturbed children. Of his numerous writing credits, he penned Freeing David McCallum: The Last Miracle of Rubin “Hurricane” Carter; (Chicago Review Press, 2018), for which he received the 2018 Liberty Award for Excellence in the Arts from the British Columbia Civil Liberties Association (BCCLA). Out of the Fire will be his first (and last) memoir.
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The British Columbia Review
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Publisher: Richard Mackie
Formerly The Ormsby Review, The British Columbia Review is an on-line book review and journal service for BC writers and readers. The Advisory Board now consists of Jean Barman, Wade Davis, Robin Fisher, Barry Gough, Hugh Johnston, Kathy Mezei, Patricia Roy, and Graeme Wynn. Provincial Government Patron (since September 2018): Creative BC. Honorary Patron: Yosef Wosk. Scholarly Patron: SFU Graduate Liberal Studies. The British Columbia Review was founded in 2016 by Richard Mackie and Alan Twigg.
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