It was that summer on my return from Switzerland, that I contacted Don Murray who was living in Dorval, which just happened to be where my airplane landed from Europe. I was infatuated with his dimples and I knew I had his attention if I were to believe the letters he sent me over the years. He would later explain that he wrote them after he’d had a few drams. I didn’t know what to think of that. You mean I look better through the bottom of a rum bottle? Thanks! I like to think it just gave him the courage to be honest about how he felt.
So I had no qualms about calling him when I arrived in Montreal. As luck would have it, he wasn’t in. Since I had no particular destination, I continued on to Ottawa to see my Aunt and Uncle, Pat and Shaun.
It was from this base that I dated Don that summer. He lived in a little house in Dorval on Prince Charles Street, with his friend and fellow Quebecair pilot, Don Farion and his girlfriend, Jackie.
I started staying in Montreal instead of going back to Ottawa. The stays got longer and eventually I was living there, in a room in the house. I got a job teaching French at Windermere Public School in Pointe Claire.
My first car
I knew nothing about cars except they had wheels and could get you from A to B. The fellow I bought the ‘Vega’ from was selling it for a friend. He could see me coming a mile away; he was like the Cheshire cat that was about to swallow the canary. The car was green, (like me). It started. It ran. It had nice white interior. Sold. How was I supposed to know that this was the worst rust bucket ever made? I got the last laugh, however, because the engine was replaced on a recall and gave a much longer life to the car than the boys expected. It served me well in the end, except when all the rivets would vibrate out of their casings when I drove over the rocky road to the cottage, causing the plastic panels to fall off.
