John Carter's Diary, Summer of 1965 -- the first three days.

About a month ago, on one of those -32c mornings that are exhilarating to those who love The Valley and perhaps too effing cold for those who don’t, I asked my 6 year old grandson Max if he thought that Spring would ever arrive.  His response was terribly cogent in today’s crisis and uttered in a sweetly derisive tone of voice that small children reserve for their obviously daft grandparents.

“Of course, Spring always comes after Winter.”  The words “you idiot” were clearly implied but left unspoken.

And, of course, as Max predicted Spring is following winter and has arrived. The snow in The Valley is running away surely. The 10 feet piles of snow along the roadsides have melted away and the flocks of redwing blackbirds and grackles have returned to Dead Horse Pond across the street. The ice-huts have been pulled in off the lake – more than a week early. Spring is springing – although we’re a long way from seeing any tulips at least the snow is off my two newly planted beds. Figurative spring for the rest of us will arrive as well – Covid-19 will fade away into something normal we live with and the economy will return to it’s normal cycles. Spring always follows winter; Dawn the moonless morning hours of night.  

I’ve been a funk of sorts since the fall.  The death of a parent will do that to you – even a stepparent.  I finished my writing course in November and haven’t been able to write a useful word since.  I did intend to write the blog again on a weekly basis – I promised my stepsister Jill that I would but just haven’t had the wherewithal to come up with narrative worth reading. The couple of dull, maudlin, and useless journal entries I came up to summarize where I have been since the last entries in the Search for Spring will remain buried in my notes.

Instead, I started on a project of transcribing the notes of John Carter’s trip to Europe in the summer of 1965. He was just two weeks past his 23rd Birthday and a recent graduate of the HBA program at the University of Western Ontario. In the fall he would take a job at a Wall Street Brokerage firm. The future lay before him like the Autobahn -- no speed limits. Canada in 1965 was a positive place, especially for a skilled white male of above average familial wealth with good connections and all the skills necessary to make the most of them.

The Diary, I suspect, is a little tidied as it is the journalistic account of the trip sent in a letter to his mother Aity Carter in Aurora, Ontario.  For Carter it is quite "family" rated – if he licked a cartgirl’s arm on the trip he doesn’t tell the tale.  I suspect he learned those bad habits later as the journal, or letter, reads the story of a very young man hanging in that gap between school and adulthood. He seems innocent still and for those of us who knew JC as the centre of the party it is a charming look at the boy who will later make the man.  His gracious courtesy, his insatiable desire to meet new people, his charm and warmth are all there. We see his taste for the good life coming along – but I should let you read this for yourself.  I think most important to me is that the text is in his voice, the pages in his hand. I'll share a few more as we go along. 

I present the letter as it was written, on 128 pages of cursive writing on pages torn from a lined and centre-ruled green steno notebook; The pages were mailed together and then later retained by John after Aity's death. He felt this was important enough to keep and I think the family, who have heard many elements of this story over the years, will want to see it in its entirety.  I presume that is why he saved this – although the photos he took are nowhere to be found and he didn’t think to share this while he was still alive.  As executors though, Jill and I think this is worth conserving and sharing with the family ( although Jill has yet to read this, I know she is keen to do so.)

Where JC made grammatical mistakes that are not easily repaired by me without changing the original sentence structures I mark as "sic" in brackets. I have fixed minor spelling and grammar as John would wish as I go. Any other errors not so marked you may assume are mine from transcription. There are quite a few pages exposed to water over the years and I have both used judgement to fill in the blanks where I can and have left blanks in the narrative where I cannot.

John's handwriting is fortunately very tidy and easy to decipher. I would not call it an accomplished script, but it is very functional and certainly typical cursive of the age. As you'd expect in 1965 after four long years of University in the days when almost all assignments were hand-written or maybe occasionally typed the script is good twentieth century cursive. I include a scan of the first page for reference. Do the younger generations even understand cursive writing anymore?

I may from time to time put in some clarifying or contextual information. If I felt the need to go to Wikipedia or see what the weather was like in Spain that summer I will put in the relevant information in Quotes. Sadly, there are no extant photographs that I have found that summer. If as you read this, you wish to provide corrections or further detail then do feel free to share those with me.

Note that $1 Canadian in 1965 had about the same purchasing price as $8 does today -- that 55 cent G&T he has on the plane seems like a real bargain though;

I will not post this all at once. I wish I could claim the foresight to have saved this for one of the Decameron’s many tales to be shared as we all wait for the plague to pass. Alas, I was mostly in a funk and too busy taking care of grandbabies when I wasn’t to pull this together and publish it.

Without further ado, here is JC's letter to his mother. The action starts in far suburban Aurora – in 1965 Toronto and the airport were a good ways off.

I'll try to keep publishing these for every day now. 

Sunday June 6/65

At last, the big day, Mother, Lee and I drove to the airport in Alex's car with air-conditioning (thank goodness). [ The temperature that day was only 27C or as they would have said at the time or 80F as they would have said at the time. Air conditioning in cars was still relatively rare in those days. KM] At 5:30 pm I set off in a DC 8 on Air Canada's Europe 870. We landed in Montreal at 6:30 and had a lay over of one hour. From Montreal the plane would be about 20% filled, if that, (111 seats in economy.) I have a whole row to myself so will, I am sure, be quite comfortable going over. It is now 8:30 pm and I'm enjoying a pre-dinner gin and tonic (55c) - a carton of cigs is $3.00 so that isn't much of a saving. We're passing over the St. Lawrence and it is getting dark out. There is some jiggling and it is for sure that you couldn't balance a quarter on the edge as the advertisements say. I have been planning this trip for several years and the realization of its fulfillment is just becoming evident as I wing my way across the Atlantic to the romantic city of Paris, etc. Signing off for dinner, some reading and a snooze.

Monday June 7/65

Food!! A sandwich and dessert from Toronto to Montreal; a large dinner after leaving Montreal; a continental breakfast before arriving in Paris; and a lunch on the way to Amsterdam. I've never had so many meals in one day. Really, it is one day for me as I had only a catnap on the way to Paris. After landing at Orly, the Air Canada people told me to take a taxi to Le Bourget. The 3/4 hour ride was paid for by KLM and the driver and I struck up a rather halting conversation. It is my observation, after having gone through two sets of French customs officials that they portray a very superior attitude (of course that was early in the morning). [I've taken the trip from Orly to Le Bourget -- it doesn't take 3/4 of an hour today -- closer to two with normal traffic and no airline is paying for the transfer and French Customs officers remain vaguely superior. KM]

It was, ( I must say) a very odd feeling to look out the window and see a sunrise when my watch ( Toronto time) said midnight. I arrived in Amsterdam at 10:00 am and Robin met me. After taking a bus to the KLM terminal, we got a hotel for 11.50 guilders, had a shower and slept until 6:00 pm. Then unpacked and showered and had a dinner of ham and eggs. We took a walk through the old section and were told by a Dutchman that girls were on a street a few blocks away. Proceeding to the Acktenburgwal St. we found out it is the infamous "Canal Street". I had read of and seen pictures of the girls in the windows but it was a thrill to be there in person. Many couples and small groups were walking up and down the street peering at the merchandise and watching as someone would go up to discuss price. One I talked to was available for 10 guilders ( about 3.00 ) - a most charming young lady - but (to put your mind at rest) her services were denied. The evening meal, by the way, was taken in a typical Dutch restaurant called Eddy's Drug Store and the usual 15% was not added. We bought a small bottle of "Genever" Dutch gin, which is the national drink of Holland. I guess it requires an acquired taste as it is not to my taste.

Tuesday June 8/65 We started off our second day here by taking a tour of Heineken Brewery, the largest in Holland. About 75,000 an hour are bottled at this plant which seems quite mechanized. Later we went to the tap room and had free beer, cheese and hot mustard ( really quite a good combination). Around noon we went to the Rijksmuseum, the national one, and saw many Rembrandts, tapestries, etc. The famous "Nightwatch" is shown here.

Then we went to look for a V.W. bus at Autopon, the largest car dealership I have seen, bar none. They have a monopoly on V.W.s and several places around town. WE were driven to a second hand lot across town by one of the fastest drivers - practically skidding around corners and hitting speeds of 50 - 60 mph ( 80 - 100 km/h). We found one for 1700f (about $485) and are taking it. It is quite an experience buying a car from someone who can't speak your language. For dinner we went to the Kong Hing, an Indonesian place, and had "Ritzstaf" (or something) [ Rijstafel was the word he wanted. KM] which is rice with 15 different dishes of meat, vegetable, & eggs which you mix together to form a heaping pile in a large dish. This you wash down with beer. A not so good looking but tasty dish ( eggs, peanuts, beef, meatballs, coconuts, cabbage, port, soya material, etc).

Wednesday June 9/65 After a large breakfast ( egg, meat, cheese, breads and coffee) we went to the A Van Mopp [sic, He means Van Moppes still extant today] diamond cutting establishment. It was a very rush tour but enlightening. You can purchase diamonds there for about 35% less than at home. Heading off from there we went into the flea market quite by accident. [pg 8] Everything from soap to candy, cloth to foam rubber is sold there. It stretches for about 5 blocks on both sides. The street stalls seem to be be extensions of the proper stores off the street. From there we went to take a ride through the canals. I'm waiting for Robin now & having a coffee & writing this. The trip through the canals was very interesting but we couldn't get a lot that was said because a group behind us would start talking when the English came on. They had a guide with them and were probably Scandinavian. Then there were final papers with the bus which we paid for and I drove through the city to our hotel. That, I may say, was one of the most exasperating drives I have taken as we didn't know the way and the streets are completely different, traffic moves so fast and the car was strange. The room we had (same hotel but we had checked out that morning in expectation of staying in the bus that night). was much larger but the shower on the floor didn't work. Only cold water came out so we had to go to the second floor for a shower. We spent a quiet evening, read and went to bed early. [end page 9]