Two weeks late on E.A. Monroe's request to have one's high school senior picture put up, just so we could compare high school pictures on our webs, I have finally dug one up, but it's my graduation picture from Ryerson University--which people called "Rye High" anyway because that excellent school took forever to get proper university accreditation. Once Ryerson became "legit", switcing from a school of technology to a full blown university, I had to take four courses at the University of Toronto to finally get my sheepskin. I was a bit older than the regular students. But Johhnny-come lately was so glad to finally make Varsity anyway. I immediately undertook to work on my Master's degree, as I had somehow stumbled on an untenured professorship at Seneca College. Seneca saw my name chuck-chuck-chucking in print so much that they figured I could teach creative writing, PhD or no.
Odd things happen when you get your degree. One became a bit pompous. When we'd have oysters for dinner, I became professorial, waxed copiously on the fact that oysters have eyes, a complete digestive system and a foot. It would drive my poor wife crazy, but the children would look up with some interest, here and there.
I was probably aping my father-in-law, a very successful businessman and published book writer.
I didn't go as far as to insist my plates were heated for my meals (the old Scots way)--but I was given to lecturing the family at mealtime. Just like old Stewart.
"You've become a pompous f**cker," my wife would keen.
So eventually she went out and got a degree of her own, and good on her.
And the competitive instinct takes many forms.
I had completed a novel, parts of which were a bit graphic, and my daughter caught old ma writing a book, parts of which were pornographic. "Mother!" my daugher gasped.
Ah, two "PhDs" in the same family.
I think my old mentor, E.S. had a breakdown over it. "You'll probably end up divorced," he told me across the squash court. "Set yourself up so you can write."
Oh how many times I have had to set myself up so I could write!
Eight permanent relationships---Psych prof friend said 'you're right off the norm'--and I am no closer to piety nor enlightenment...Of all the great gay ancient Greeks, I only trust Aristotle, since he was married twice!
I came across a ninth girlfriend, an English lady.
I made the standard mistake of telling about past relationships.
"Have you tried darts?" The strawberry blonde with the glowing complexion had quipped.
Reson for my entering university rather late was a five-year stretich in the Air Force.
They used to have a song in basic training:
"They're not making the girls the same this year (think I'll turn queer).
Ah, perhaps small farm animals.
SHEEP GOES BERSERK. SLAYS EIGHT