My Old Journal Entry for April 4, 1979

I just published the following content in a post today at my older and private blog that no one reads but me.

Due to the labour that went into that post, I am going to reproduce it in full here in my newer and public blog.

Note that my private blog has been in existence since September 2008. If I am still alive in a decade or so, I may make the entire blog public ─ I only rendered it private early this year.

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Since beginning my journal sometime in 1973 when I was 23 years old and resident in a housekeeping room in New Westminster, the entry that follows was a big change.

Often my journal ran for months on end without a day being missed by my younger / former self; yet for a period around 1978 ─ and by then I had moved back out to Surrey after being in New Westminster for maybe eight years ─ I skipped approximately an entire year of journal-keeping.

I expect that a grew absolutely weary of maintaining my journal ─ especially since I seldom had anything I felt much like writing about. My life seemed barren.

Yet I do believe that I had an understanding that as the years might pass for me, one day what I wrote ─ even on my most tedious days ─ would seem new to this older me as time put distance between the writer and the reader.

This latest journal entry style involved irregular journal-keeping, but the entries every several days were extremely long.

What may have been taking place was resting from the drear challenge of creating daily journal entries; and then when such a day arrived that the muse was upon me, I then recorded with apparent gusto.

But I do not wish to spend overlong prefacing this lengthy entry. I will only add that I felt I had no future. I  only knew chronic unemployment, and I never had any job skills nor any prospects of worth; I didn't even drive, and was never in my life to get a driver's licence (let alone a car).

My life had been below the level of poverty for so many years in my young adulthood that I was never able to see myself as being able to afford to drive ─ ever.

I had always been a poor student, and failed to complete Grade Ⅻ ─ but I only dropped out then because I believed the 'big talk' of my friend Philip David Prince who had convinced me that the two of us would head for the southern tropical rain forests by however means possible after first somehow jumping the Canada / U.S. border. 

I did not formally quit school. I simply failed to attend until my mother Irene ─ who was the sole supporter of my younger brother Mark and I after splitting from our father Hector in 1964 ─ got contacted concerning my extended absence by my principal at Princess Margaret Senior Secondary late in 1966.

That put me into hiding. Yet even though I was by then 17 years old, truancy was something still serious, and my mother had the police searching for me

At this point I had learned from my cowardly friend David that he was no longer willing to go on our great life-changing adventure.

Concerning David, he was in and out of Essondale / Riverview so often over his teen years that his total time in the mental institution likely exceeded his time without.

I had thought that he would have been even more 'committed' to our running away than was I, but apparently his cowardice and softness were too great for him to overcome.

Yet the whole escapade had been his idea!

I managed to avoid a return to school long enough that even my mother accepted the finality of it, and this practically broke her hard-working heart.

I recall that the school principal wondered to her if he was responsible for my decision to quit, and he told her of how I had been summoned to his office and deeply chastised because the school janitor had found and turned in some extremely filthy pornographic magazines I had taken to school to pass along to another friend, Michael Longshaw.

Michael had gotten me to buy the darned things, promising to split the cost ─ he was too fearful to buy his own pornography.

So I had gotten brave and bought one or two of the magazines that were kept in plastic wrappers .

Well, the models were practically ugly, and the magazines full of sex acts. There was nothing exciting about any of the photos ─ they were repulsive.

So when I brought the magazine(s) to school in a manila envelope I had that was addressed to me, Michael turned them down after giving the grotesque filth a good going-over ─ and I found myself not only stuck with them, but out the half-reimbursement he was to have made to me.

I didn't want the gross material, so I just stuffed the envelope into a school trash can.

And of course, the janitor later came across the material and turned the whole mess in to the school principal.

It was humiliating, but it was not why I quit school.

I wonder if he was ever to feel that he had no responsibility for my choice to drop out at that late stage in my education? I told my mother that this was not the reason, but I don't know if she relayed that to him, or was sufficiently convincing.

Despite my poor scholastic showing during my school years, by the time I had dropped out I had become a wide-ranging reader, and maintained a passion for physical fitness that possessed me around the time I was in between the school terms for Grade's Ⅷ and Ⅸ when I determined that I was no longer going to be so pathetic in gym class performance.

I was a late bloomer where adolescence was concerned; and to my great shame, upon finding myself in junior secondary school following progression from elementary school, there was only one other student in my gym classes over the course of those first two junior secondary Grades whom I could outrun when everyone had to run laps around the school grounds.

In elementary school, I was considered a good runner ─ by my own estimation, and the estimation of others; but advancing into junior secondary school proved far otherwise.

So during the school term break when I advanced from the two junior secondary Grades into high school, I undertook over the Summer holidays to train myself.

In Grade Ⅹ I found that I had become approximately average at performing laps; and by Grade Ⅺ, there were only three other students in my gym class who could best me ─ and all three of them were on the school track team.

Alas, I did not take gym during what I put in of Grade Ⅻ, so I don't know how much further I had developed.

Nevertheless, during my latter teens, my reading and physical training were maintained. And an I.Q. test at the age of 20 revealed me to be well above average in intelligence.

And I had a physique to match.

Yet I had developed some acne upon entering puberty, and I was to suffer a poor complexion into my mid-age. Actually, I have never had a good complexion ─ I only look good when the Summer Sun has richly coloured my skin.

Since boyhood, I was never very self-confident, and that only seemed to worsen once I was on my own as a young adult.

I had days where I felt so unattractive that I was unable to leave home and walk anywhere. The night was the only time I had the courage to go outside.

When I composed this specific journal entry at the age of 29, I had been living for months as a charity case in the old house being rented in Surrey by my younger brother Mark and his girlfriend Jean Cooper.

That old house will not exist today, but back then its address was 8205 - 144th Street (Google map).

I was still unemployed and without any income, but I still read a lot, and also kept trying to improve my physical performance and appearance (muscularity).

I would sometimes go to the jogging track at Bear Creek Park ─ the track was maybe two miles distant. But I would only do my running in the dark because I shunned public notice and did not want to perform around others.

The same held true when I would use the park's outdoor fitness circuit that used to exist right at the park's corner nearest the intersection of 140th Street & 88th Avenue (Google map). I would use the chinning bars there to perform a whole series of sets of chin-ups and pull-ups using various arm-spacings and grips; and I would also do some sets of parallel-bar dips and push-ups on a pair of long low-lying parallel bars that were probably intended for users to sit on and maybe do sit-ups by hooking one's feet under one bar and leaning back while seated on the other bar.

I didn't need to waste my time doing sit-ups ─ I was doing leg-raises at home, and had been for years. I think I was performing 400 of them as a single set.

My mother Irene Dorosh lived four miles away in the Kennedy Heights area of Surrey with her husband Alex.

Their little home was my main mailing address, and I made a point of hiking there two or three times a week ─ but only during the week when Alex would be away to work. I felt inhibited when he was home; but when only my mother was there, it was like my second home.

Their little home was also demolished years later, but back then its address was 12106 - 90th Avenue (Google map).

I suspect that Mark was away at this time ─ he worked as a first-aid / timekeeper at what was possibly a remote logging camp where he usually had to spend 10 days before being flown out for a four-day break.

Thus, at the house it would just be Jean and I ─ with Daboda, Mark's German shepherd who was generally kept chained to a run cable in the backyard.

But enough prelude. 

This was my first journal entry since Sunday, March 25, 1979.

ADDENDUM #1 (to April 4, 1979)

It's a Wednesday, with an onding of mist-rain. Of late, I have been fair regular in early morning 10 mile hikes following a circuit marked by 144th and 120th Sts. on the one side, and 88th and 72nd Aves. on the other. I only set myself this task on those week days on which I do not visit my mother. For weekends, I have settled on a walk to and from, and a dozen fast laps of the track at, Bear Creek Park. Occasionally my attendance of this routine is impossible for one reason or another. But I must be experiencing an acceptable calorie burn, for my weigh-ins both last Friday and this past Tuesday at my mother's home pinned me with maximums below 190 lbs. A possible fly in the ointment is the box of mostly chocolate-type candies brought to me by Garry courtesy of Kathy, thanks to her job at Laura Secord in Guildford.

[I tended to consider my ideal weight to be in the lower half of the 180-pound range. Garry Porteous was my younger brother Mark's best friend back then since they had attended Dr. F.D. Sinclair Elementary School in Surrey together from perhaps Grades Ⅴ through Ⅶ. Kathy was Garry's girlfriend, and lived with him at the Porteous family home. She had a position at a Laura Secord outlet at Guildford Town Centre in Surrey. Note that this specific outlet was closed many years ago ─ I don't think there is an outlet now any more west in Canada than Manitoba.]

There is no great change in my lifestyle as yet, except that I am still reading a very great deal (including sessions spent at the library perusing current magazine issues which might hold articles of interest to me), and watching very little television. I seldom retire at nights later than 10:00 p.m., and so continue to arise uncommonly early (usually between 4:00 a.m. - 4:30 a.m.) which necessitates a midday nap. Alas, this  has meant missing How the West Was Won last Monday evening, the first episode I have missed since the excellent series began a few years ago.

I am reading a tedious but reinforcing book entitled The Chemical Feast, by a certain James S. Turner of the Ralph Nader group; though my diet has not changed at this time due to my dependence on other people for food as a result of having no income, I am determined that once this financial situation changes, my choice of food items will exclude everything possible that is processed or a product of processing concerns.

My protein intake has been extremely high since Mark and Jean got back from their trip to Mexico. Jean has been feeding me a goodly quantity of flesh. I appreciate this more than she likely knows. However, this selflessness on her part does not exclude her from derisive and critical thoughts spawned by her tantrum displays whenever her tolerance and patience are taxed. The most particular instance of this that I can cite occurred last Sunday morning. I had gotten up early again that morning, and performed my park track laps. At the finish, a couple lads with a pair of large, active, unsocial dogs intruded, and we three got to talking. It came around to their offering me a ride home if I acquiesced. I think the fellows' names were Greg and Dale, but I am not at all certain. Anyway, after getting home, it soon became obvious that the heater had burned up its oil. I endured till sometime past 9:00 a.m., then felt the need to seek a nap, feeling quite tired and disinclined at that time to bother with the task of siphoning oil from the spare barrel to add to that which feeds the heater. Ere I got any sleep, Jean arose. She called in to me in her helpless, childlike tone which denotes that she is in a good mood, "Garnet, why is it so cold?" I was just too tired to bother fussing with the refuelling process as yet, so I continued to seek sleep. But she wouldn't leave matters alone till then. She tried to perform the task herself. First I heard her come storming into the house with the slam of the door, stomping into the bathroom amid much blaspheming and cursing. Then back outside with the same effect. This may have occurred again. Even under normal circumstances she is noisy, so I realized sleep was not likely in spite of the care I take every morning so as not to disturb her rest. I arose, and set about pulling on my boots. Suddenly, in she came again with the slam of the door, bawling boisterously in her apparent frustration and ineptitude. I went out and began the slow chore (the barrel was near empty, so the fuel did not rapidly drain forth). Daboda was loose; Jean soon issued forth, loaded him into the truck, and drove off in a tearful rage without a word. She returned much more subdued a few hours later, but her mood was bleak the day through. If a situation is not ideal, she takes the opportunity to vent her dissatisfaction with cursing, and further checking the emotional calm of any around her who might be an object of annoyance to her with a crudely hostile statement or vocal expression. Supper that evening was an entire chicken for just the twain of us.

David Prince has been phoning me quite often, but for great lengths of time as well. I also had a phone call from Melody last Thursday. She apparently later that evening encountered Bill on a bus, and conspired to thrust herself upon me the following evening at Bill's place when she learned that I had plans to collect my belongings from his place then (for Bill and Anne were moving Saturday morning for Victoria). Fortunately, Jean offered to take me over for my possessions that Thursday evening, and I have yet to learn how everything went for Bill when and if Melody did show up Friday, or how his move was.

[Philip David Prince was an old friend whom I first became aware of when we both ended up at Newton Junior High School during the 1962 / 1963 school term after passing into Grade Ⅷ after we each had finished with our respective elementary schools. Melody St. Jean was a brief girlfriend I had a few years back when I still lived in New Westminster ─ I had lived there from at least as far back as 1969 until sometime in (I think) 1977. She was several years younger than I was, and had been the pursuer. But in short order she began stepping out with Chris, a young co-worker of my brother Mark. Chris had a well-paying job and drove a fancy pickup, and even had a CB in his vehicle. I had virtually nothing at the time, and lived in a cheap housekeeping unit. Her involvement with me came just when I became unemployed ─ a condition I was still reluctantly embracing. Melody had since been trying to get something happening with us again, but I was mostly over her; besides, I had absolutely nothing to offer, and I already knew what that netted me with her previously. Heck, I couldn't even afford to  have a beer with her somewhere ─ this was another reason I was avoiding her. Besides, she was naught but a party girl. My old friend William Alan Gill and his mother Anne Gregory were renting part of a house in Maillardville, but they were about to move to her senile brother Robert's country home ─ I believe that it was more likely near Duncan than Victoria, or somewhere in betwixt.]

Garry took Monday off work due to illness, and spent much of the day here (he even fed me an unexpected 4 pieces of battered chicken from a shop in Newton that was every bit as good as the Kentucky type, Brownies, or Albert's; the place is called Barney's). Al and Wendy had been by earlier when I was alone, so I hid from them; but they returned when Garry was here, and stayed about 3 hours. Al suggested a hiking expedition in the near future. I learned Jock is again unemployed, having quit as a landscaper.

[In those years, Newton was considered to be the reasonable vicinity neighbouring the intersection of the King George Highway and 72nd Avenue or Newton Road (Google map), but its geographic reach has vastly expanded since then. Al Stewart was married to my younger maternal niece Wendy (née Halverson). Jock (John) Halverson was one of her brothers. Colleen (mentioned just below) was a sister of Wendy and Jock. Their mother was Nell Halverson. I was not normally very social, and that was why I played absent when Al and Wendy first tried to visit. I had my own routine and disliked its disruption.]

I've also had contact with Colleen. She and Nell came by my mother's place last Friday, and Colleen picked me up yesterday just this side of 132nd St. as I was early headed home from mom's. Colleen is taking Biology 11, I was surprised to learn; she is half way through the course, rather enjoys it, and is doing well. She may take Chemistry and Biology 12 if she stays with the program, hoping to take up nursing. Anyway, I lent her a biology text, and have promised her Robert Ardrey's African Genesis in the possibility it may assist her on an assignment.

I tried to visit dad a week ago, but got no response at 7:40 a.m. He coincidentally phoned me the following day, drunk in a hotel or some similar place. He was still drunk when he called me at just past 6:00 a.m. Saturday morning. I've heard nothing since, though I Friday mailed him a letter asking him to contact me so that we could arrange my visit when he is more disposed. He has evidently joined the Legion, so perhaps he will be able to obtain one of their Surrey residences soon.  

[My father Hector was an alcoholic who would go on extended drunken benders that could last for several days anytime he had any money. At that time, I believe that he was still living in the Mount Pleasant area of Vancouver. That would have been an annoying round trip hike and bus ride for me if I went into town for nothing a week earlier.]

A few final mentions. In 9 days is Good Friday, and Alex may just be taking a 2 week trip to Winnipeg. I hope to dwell at mom's in his absence. I'd also like to mention the first big drunk I've had since the Christmas season. It occurred the Sunday after Mark and Jean returned from Mexico; i.e., the very day following their return. Garry and Kathy were here, so Mark broke out a bottle of tequila and we got smashed with a taste of salt, a shot of booze, and a good squirt of lemon juice. We drank much more (Mexican whiskey, our own beer, and a bit of wine). I consumed a long cactus worm, getting photographed in the process. Monday was the only day thus far this year that I undertook no exercise beyond walking. 

Gosh, I wish I had that old photo!