From Dawn to Dusk to Daylight: A Journey Through Depression’S Solitude

By Sidney H Kennedy MD FRCPC and Bruce Ross

Bruce Ross knew something was wrong. He felt displaced and isolated from friends, family, and society. He had no one to turn to, and so he tried to cope with it himself. The fact that he had a disease called depression never entered his mind. He, like so many people, thought that only other people suffered from depression, not someone who appeared to be a well-adjusted, middle class person.

From Dawn to Dusk to Daylight chronicles Rosss journey and struggles with depression, from his high school years until middle age. During this time, his promising start in life transformed into a dusk, in which Ross lived twenty-four hours of each day in a gloomy and unsettled existence. With eloquence and charm, he recaptures the joys of his childhood in Dartmouth, growing up with his buddies. Gradually, those times faded, and he found himself in the middle of his teenage years and the beginnings of his depression.

Ross lived with the pain of depression and its twin sister, Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD), for more than thirty-five years before achieving a breakthrough thanks to the experimental procedure known as Deep Brain Stimulation (DBS). This exciting advancement in medical science shows great promise for depression sufferers in North America and around the world.

From Dawn to Dusk to Daylight is the candid and revealing story of the trials and tribulations of living with depression and the relief DBS finally brought.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475907469

Sidney H Kennedy MD FRCPC

Bruce Ross was born and educated in Nova Scotia, Canada; he has travelled to all ten provinces and forty-nine of the fifty United States. Bruce moved to Chatham, Ontario, in 1987, where he currently resides with his wife, Cheryl, and daughter, Hannah.

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Copyright © 2012 by Bruce Ross.

Foreword by Sidney H Kennedy MD, FRCPC Psychiatrist in Chief, University Health Nework Toronto, Ontario

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-0745-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-0747-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-0746-9 (ebk)

iUniverse rev. date: 05/24/2012

Contents

Diagnostic Criteria for Dysthymia

Diagnostic Criteria for Major Depression Episode

Diagnostic Criteria for Generalized Anxiety Disorder

Foreword

Introduction

Part 1 Dawn

Genesis

Dartmouth

Findlay

Hawthorne

Banook

Prince Arthur

Part 2 Dusk

Changin’

Prince Edward Island

Prom Night

Final Year

Flight

82nd Street

Homeward Bound

Welcome Home

DUI Deja Vu

Prospect-less

On the Road Again

Edmonton II

Saint Mary’s Redux

Lost

Not Dark, Yet . . .

Courage

Maslow

Roommates

Opportunity

No Return

Settling In

Assessment

Ultimate Solitude

Relationships

Cheryl

Defining Moments

Reflection

Permanency

Expanded Search

Excursions

Running

Revelation

Dr. John Button

Out of the Closet

Surprise

Tri-ing

Dysthymia

Cognitive Therapy

New Millennium

On the Sidelines

rTMS

Double Depression

Research

Alternative Measures

Perspective

Part 3 Daylight

Dr. Sidney Kennedy

Dr. Peter Giacobbe

ECT

Dr. Andres Lozano

The Wait

Ruminating

Preoperative

Deep Brain Stimulation

Double Blind

Today

Afterword

Factors

Recommendations

Professional Help Measures

Self-Help Measures

For Smitty, who has exemplified the true meaning of a friend; to Cheryl, who supported me when others may have given up; and to Hannah, who has made the quest for inner peace worth the effort.

Humble yourselves therefore under the mighty hand of God, that he may exalt you in due time:

Casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you.

1 Peter 5: 6-7

Diagnostic Criteria for Dysthymia

American Psychiatric Association

A) Depressed mood for at least two years

B) Presence while depressed of at least two of the following:

1. Poor appetite or overeating

2. Insomnia or hypersomnia

3. Low energy or fatigue

4. Low self-esteem

5. Poor concentration or difficulty in making decisions

6. Feelings of hopelessness

C) During the two-year period of disturbance, the patient is never without the symptoms for more than two months at a time

D) Not better accounted for by chronic depressive disorder of major depression in partial remission

E) Never manic or clearly hypomanic

F) Not due to chronic schizophrenia

G) Not due to direct physiologic effects of drugs (prescribed or abused) or general medical condition

H) The symptoms cause significant distress or impairment in important areas of functioning

Adapted from the American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, fourth edition.

Diagnostic Criteria for Major Depression Episode

American Psychiatric Association

A) Five or more of the following symptoms have been present during the same two-week period and represent a change from previous functioning; at least one symptom is either (1) depressed mood or (2) loss of interest:

1. Depressed mood most of the day, nearly every day

2. Markedly diminished interest or pleasure

3. Significant weight loss when not dieting or weight gain, or decrease or increase in appetite nearly every day

4. Insomnia or hypersomnia nearly every day

5. Psychomotor agitation or retardation nearly every day

6. Fatigue or loss of energy nearly every day

7. Feelings of worthlessness or excessive or inappropriate guilt nearly every day

8. Diminished ability to think or concentrate, or indecisiveness nearly every day

9. Recurrent thoughts of death

B) The symptoms do not meet the criteria for a mixed episode

C) The symptoms cause clinically significant distress or impairment in important areas of functioning

D) The symptoms are not due to direct physiological effects of drugs or general medical condition

E) The symptoms are not better accounted for by bereavement

Adapted from the American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, fourth edition.

Diagnostic Criteria for Generalized Anxiety Disorder

American Psychiatric Association

A) At least six months of excessive anxiety and worry about a variety of events and situations

B) Significant difficulty in controlling the anxiety and worry

C) The presence for most days over the previous six months of three or more of the following symptoms:

1. Feeling wound-up, tense, or restless

2. Easily becoming fatigued or worn-out

3. Concentration problems

4. Irritability

5. Significant tension in muscles

6. Difficulty with sleep

D) The symptoms are not part of another mental disorder

E) The symptoms cause clinically significant distress or problems functioning in daily life

F) The condition is not due to a substance or medical issue

Adapted from the American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, fourth edition.

Foreword

We all have a tendency to like what is familiar and avoid the unknown. While this may have evolutionary advantages, it also results in discomfort around things that cannot be seen, yet still exist. This may be why depression, or major depressive disorder, is so misunderstood. We cannot see the multitude of changes in brain structure and function that occur with each depressive episode, so there is a proclivity to minimize the significance of this disorder. In Journey through Depression’s Solitude, Bruce Ross has courageously portrayed his lifelong battle with depression and gives a voice to the 5% of the global population who are currently affected with his first-hand account of brain surgery to alleviate his symptoms. In my practice, patients have often described their experience with depression as being trapped inside their own body, as if there is a window to the outside world where the beauty of life can be seen, but it is out of reach. Bruce captures this experience of monochromatic life as he sits through Bill Clinton’s speaking engagement and Jay Leno’s comedy routine, appreciating the importance of these events with absolutely no emotional connection.

Major Depressive Disorder is diagnosed based on a personal account of persisting and disabling symptoms, including sadness, hopelessness, sleeplessness, sheer exhaustion and suicidal thoughts. The difficulty with this conceptualization is that it does not take into account the biological aspect of depression, where one’s genetics and brain networks hold a joyful present and future hostage. With the advent of more refined technologies, new research demonstrates altered patterns of emotional neurocircuitry, chemical transmitters or even the size and activity of specific brain areas are associated with depression. These disturbances are responsible for the complex disorder that is depression.

Treatments for depression affect neural networks to varying degrees, and for some these treatments are sufficient to reset the brain’s function, while for others, like Bruce, they are not. These individuals with treatment resistant depression face a particularly difficult battle. Bruce captures this struggle faced by many people as they navigate their way through what often feels like a disconnected and impersonal healthcare system—Like a tennis ball I was served back to Dr. C’s court. He displays enormous tenacity as he moves from one disappointing treatment to another, hoping each would be the key out of the body he finds himself locked in. He finds his way to the National Institute for Mental Health in the USA, tries electroconvulsive therapy (shock treatment) and multiple cocktails of antidepressant medications with no more than temporary relief. Family values and tremendous resilience kept Bruce fighting for his health, researching his next steps. This brought him to investigate his options with an experimental surgery, Deep Brain Stimulation, involving the implantation of electrodes to a specific brain area that are connected to a pacemaker in the chest. Professor Helen Mayberg’s seminal work showing changes in the subcallosal cingulate in response to sadness was the driving force of the exploration of Deep Brain Stimulation to this brain region for treatment resistant depression and researchers are in the process of evaluating its efficacy in clinical trials.

I commend Bruce on writing this highly personal account of his journey through depression’s solitude, and hope it will serve as an inspiration to those still living in darkness, and as an education to others, with the aim of fostering a greater understanding of this severely disabling disorder.

Sidney H Kennedy MD, FRCPC

Psychiatrist in Chief, University Health Network

Toronto, Ontario

Introduction

The number of depression-related books has escalated in the last several years. Three significant aspects separate From Dawn to Dusk to Daylight from the others.

1. Most autobiographies and biographies are written by or for celebrities or otherwise famous people. The reason is quite simple: familiarity sells. Kitty Kelly’s book The Royals, the sensationalist world of the Queen, Lady Diana, Prince Charles, and other royal family members, was a bestseller, but most people cannot relate to the challenges that the royal family faces.

In contrast, From Dawn to Dusk to Daylight is written for those who suffer from depression, or know someone close who does, and want in-depth insight about an illness to which they can relate.

2. Medical professionals, usually MDs or PhDs, write most depression books. Although they have vast knowledge of depression, they typically have never endured the pain themselves. They interpret what patients and education have taught them, speaking not from the heart, but from a textbook.

In contrast, I have lived the pain of depression for over 35 years. I understand the loneliness of the suffering. Therefore, this book takes a non-clinical approach of someone with firsthand knowledge of the disease. It does not preach, and there is no moral to the story; instead, I openly share intimate experiences and treatments, and dispersed amongst the pain are lighter moments that transpired along the depression journey.

3. Almost without exception, books emphasize major (unipolar) depression, bipolar (manic) depression, postpartum depression (PPD), and variations thereof such as seasonal affective disorder (SAD). Seldom is dysthymia (dysthymic disorder) even mentioned more than in passing, because it is considered to be a milder form of depression. Yet it is a chronic condition. The first diagnostic criteria of the American Psychiatric Association states that you must be in a depressed mood for more than two years. And most dysthymia patients also experience major depression (as I did). Dysthymia patients who do experience major depression do not recover as fully as patients who have major depression alone.

Despite its chronic nature and its propensity for patients with dysthymia to ultimately escalate to major depression, few outside of the medical community have ever heard of dysthymia, let alone know what it is.

This book delves into the effects of dysthymia as well as major depression.

Part 1

Dawn

Genesis

August 18, 1959. Bruce Roderick Ross. Kentville General Hospital, Kentville, Nova Scotia.

Kentville is a quiet and conservative (and relative to the rest of Atlantic Canada, wealthy) town of 5,000 in the beautiful Annapolis Valley, a locale where most indigenous people remain and which attracts outsiders, in part because of the more temperate climate than the rest of Nova Scotia. The Annapolis Valley is one of the few areas of the province suitable for farming; apples are a crop staple. Mom still reminds me that my parade picture from the Apple Blossom Festival made the front page of the Halifax Chronicle Herald when I was 4 years old.

Although Kentville is a farm and tourist centre, my parents lived there for neither reason. In the mid 1950s Dad landed a position with Doane Raymond Chartered Accountants, which had an office in Kentville. Mom and Dad rented a house on 90 Park Street, on the main street heading out of town and only a couple of blocks from the hospital. It was an attractive, white Cape Cod with green shutters, complete with a second story balcony. A brook trickled along the west side of the property.

In addition to me, my parents were blessed with my brother Greg, four years older than I was, and brother Dave, who was two and one half years older than I was. My brothers and I were not close while growing up, although I cannot recall any physical altercation. While it was not unusual for brothers to have distant relationships, many become closer or reconciled later in life. We became even more distant as the years passed.

My father, Kenneth Garfield Ross, was born in Scotch Village, Nova Scotia, a hamlet in the central part of the province. Hamlet is the appropriate term because Scotch Village is more of a benchmark for letters delivered via the post office. It is not even big enough to require a blinking amber light, let alone a set of stoplights. Dad’s life growing up was far from ideal. His biological mother, Helen, bore him at a tender age of 16. Helen subsequently married Dad’s father, Jack Ross, but the marriage was short-lived. Then Jack exited Dad’s life. Dad does not even know what day he was born—Helen swore March 29, the family Bible lists March 30, and his birth certificate states March 31.

As an indication of how disjointed Dad’s family was, Dad has a half-sister (Jack remarried) who lived within 20 miles from where Dad grew up. She did not even know Dad existed until she was in high school. A classmate told her that her brother was getting married.

I don’t have a brother, she responded.

You may not know it, but you do, her classmate assured her.

Helen’s mother, Nan, and Helen’s younger sister, Donalda (Donnie), raised Dad. Although both were excellent female role models, Dad did not have a father figure to learn from so he could pass on that knowledge to his three sons. The combination of no male role model, coupled with the psychological scars of no fatherly love, surely influenced him and his relationship with my brothers and me.

My Mom, Glenda Lorraine Geddes, had a more normal upbringing. Mom was born and raised in Old Barns, Nova Scotia, a hamlet about 30 miles from where Dad lived.

Mom had five brothers and one sister, making seven children for her mom and dad to raise in a typical Nova Scotia rural home, a modest two-story dwelling situated on a few acres of land that my grandfather farmed. Until my grandparents installed indoor plumbing, we used the outhouse that was attached to the tractor shed. I did not feel that awkward about the outdoor facilities, but what struck me odd was it was a two-holer. I could not imagine sitting on one hole while someone else squatted on the other. Yet why else would two holes exist? I never inquired.

Mom and Dad met in the early 1950s, shortly after they finished high school. They wed in the Old Barns United Church in 1954 and then moved to Kentville for Dad’s accounting career and to start our family.

To help me understand who I am today, sometimes I reflect on behaviours and experiences from my childhood. While we lived at Park Street, I endured the typical childhood insecurities caused by a vivid imagination. Our basement consisted of one bare light bulb for illumination, and a large hole had been roughly cut through the wall that led to an unlit and dirt-floored pantry. Visions of rats and mice larger than me skittered in my mind whenever I ventured down the stairs to the basement. When the neighbour caught a turtle in our brook, the fact that it was a snapping turtle conjured up frightening images. To add to the mix, our cat caught bats that flew around our balcony at night.

Once when Dad returned from Halifax, where he had been auditing that week, he brought a boomerang, for which Dave had asked. Dave’s comic book advertised a boomerang that would do a nifty, 360-degree return to the owner’s hand. In reality, once it left Dave’s fingers, it haphazardly fluttered around and then crashed to the pavement. My first exposure to false advertising. However, the fact that Dad demonstrated an interest in us was meaningful.

My first lesson in exploitation was the night my brothers and I spent what seemed liked countless hours collecting empty pop bottles at the ballpark across the street from where we lived. We intended to cash them in for the deposit value at the local corner store, but when we were ready to leave, the ballpark attendant arrived to thank us for collecting all the bottles for him. For compensation, he traded us one measly full bottle to share. What could we do? At ages 5, 7, and 9, either we did not recognize what had just happened, or we were not in position to do anything about it.

One day Dave and I became ticked at Mom. I do not recall the specific reason, but our solution was to run away. We grabbed a blanket and some cookies, and off we went. Not only did Mom not show concern, she just said, Okay when we told her what we intended to do, and she kept on baking. We entered the woods behind our house, and after hiking no further than a couple of hundred feet in, we came across a clearing and spread out our blanket.

Now what? we pondered.

After a few minutes of deliberation, we packed up and returned home. Running away was not the solution we thought it would be. I would learn that lesson several more times later in life.

Kentville’s elementary school was only a couple of blocks from home. On the first day, Dave and Greg walked with me, and then I was on my own. After our teacher settled us in and went through the usual first day routine—blunt-nose scissors only, no talking during class, et cetera—the bell rang. I assumed it was lunchtime and scooted home. I left the school alone, wondering why the other kids remained on the school playground. The reason was simple: it was recess, not lunch. When I reached our house, Mom turned me around and sent me back. I recall the insecurity of wondering why I was the only pupil that did not understand the concept of recess.

One morning I walked to and reached the school ground alone. As I passed by a couple of older kids who were playing on the jungle gym, one of them blurted at me as she swung from the bars, You’re late, you’re late, it’s quarter past eight!

Although I was too young to comprehend the complex concept of time, I did recognize I was not late, but that was not the point. For some reason, she singled me out. I felt naked, exposed, and alone. I took her biting comment personally. Forty-plus years later, I could return and point out exactly where this otherwise insignificant encounter took place.

It is funny how early life insecurities continue as you get older, only in different forms. I would experience insecurities many times later in my life, and I believe that is one reason I have taken extraordinary steps to minimize the discomfort of such as an adult.

We only lived in Kentville until I was 5 years old, when Dad obtained his chartered accountant (CA) designation.

It was time to move on.

Dartmouth

In the summer of 1965, we moved to Dartmouth, Nova Scotia, a bedroom community of 60,000 people, across the harbour from Halifax. Halifax is the largest city in Nova Scotia at over 300,000, and the provincial capital. Dartmouth has always resided in Halifax’s shadow. I have met many Canadians who have never heard of Dartmouth, let alone were able to place it on a map.

Our first of two Dartmouth abodes was a modest, two-bedroom apartment on Maple Drive. Although the building was nothing to write home about—a three-story, yellowish brick structure—it was attractively situated on a hill that overlooked Mic Mac Lake, one of the largest of the 23 lakes in Dartmouth; for obvious reasons, Dartmouth’s slogan is City of Lakes.

We lived on Maple Drive for less than one uneventful year. I do not recall even making any cursory friends, let alone any who instilled a lasting impression. For the most part I kept to myself, which upon reflection may have been the prelude of my later life. I attended Mary Lawson Elementary School for grade 1. It was nondescript wooden structure about 25 years old and located less than a 10-minute walk from where we lived. My memories of Mary Lawson feel even more distant than the actual years that have passed.

From Maple Drive we moved to Fairfield Avenue, in the heart of Dartmouth. Mom and Dad live there to this day.

Two Fairfield Avenue was a significant step up from our Maple Drive apartment; it was a middle-class, three-bedroom bungalow located in the new Wyndholme subdivision. As an added bonus, the subdivision was situated on a plateau that overlooked Lake Banook.

Our neighbourhood was a jewel for sure. It had new homes, and unlike most subdivisions today—which all have the same style houses if not clones of one another—each house was uniquely designed. Most were wood-shingled, had shuttered windows, sat on large lots, and had no isolating fences between neighbours. To top it all off, Wyndholme was located next to Oat Hill Lake, which was about one-third mile long and several hundred feet wide. Oat Hill’s outlet brook ran by our house, flowed down the hill, and emptied into Lake Banook.

Banook is more than half a mile long by about a quarter mile wide and was the focal point of paddling, rowing, and swimming activities in the summer, as well as skating and pond hockey games in the winter. In fact, the 2002 book Hockey’s Home by local author (and my ex-schoolmate) Martin Jones provides compelling evidence that ice hockey originated on Lake Banook.

Despite the Oat Hill-Banook brook connection, the lakes were dissimilar. Banook had four sandy beaches and buzzed with swimmers, paddlers, rowers, and other boaters in the summer. In contrast, Oat Hill was secluded with woods encompassing two sides, had no sandy beaches and only granite rocks, and had lily pads lining its shores. Bass, perch, and a few eels inhabited the lake; a muskrat even made Oat Hill its home. It was more of a Canadian Shield lake than a summer vacation lake. However, like most things in life, it did not last. A few years later houses stood instead of the trees, the city installed a culvert where our brook trickled, and the perch (and muskrat) disappeared.

That summer I acclimatized to my new environment. I was only 6 years old when we moved in, 7 by the end of the summer. Like most kids of that age, I made friends quickly and superficially. There was no judgement process that adults went through. Because advanced concepts like prejudice, religion, politics, and other perception-shaping perspectives had not yet been ingrained in me, I accepted other kids as instant pals.

I met Hugh Marshall and Ken Russell, two kids the same age as me, that summer, and they would remain lifelong friends. Hugh and Ken already knew each other, having lived in the subdivision longer than I had. Mom still recalls answering the doorbell shortly after we moved in, and there stood Ken and Hugh, canvassing for charity.

Ken lived on 52 Tremont Street, which ran parallel to Fairfield Avenue and, like our street, ran off and was perpendicular to Lorne Avenue. As the case in our household, Ken’s was male dominated, four boys and no girls. Mr. Russell worked at the Air Canada office in downtown Halifax, and Mrs. Russell was a stay-at-home mom.

Hugh lived on 14 Benview Drive, one street over from Ken and two streets over from me. Mr. and Mrs. Marshall proudly displayed their Scottish heritage with a Union Jack that fluttered on a flagpole planted in their front yard. Moreover, occasionally Mr. Marshall (appropriately named Scotty) has been known to wear a kilt. His career was with Maritime Tel & Tel, now part of Bell Telephone. Each day he walked the 30 minutes to the ferry terminal and, like hundreds of other Dartmouthians, crossed the Halifax Harbour to work in downtown Halifax. Hugh’s mom was a nurse by training but spent most of her life volunteering and raising seven kids.

While growing up I was always nervous around Mr. and Mrs. Marshall. They were intimidating, no-nonsense Brits through and through. When I visited them after their kids had grown up and Mr. Marshall had retired, it appeared as if a gentle transformation had taken place. I am sure after having endured the challenges of raising seven kids, it truly did.

Findlay

Findlay Elementary was my new school and was located less than a mile from where we lived. By today’s standards, that would be a long way, and many parents would drive their kids. I can’t remember Mom or Dad ever driving me, but I did not expect them to; walking to and from school was the norm for most kids.

Grade 2 was a watershed year for me. This was where I met and got to know many of the friends I still keep in touch with and consider as friends. Hugh and Ken had attended Findlay since primary, and we solidified our friendship.

Greg Murphy (Murph), a new friend, lived on Tremont Street, a little further away than Ken, Hugh, and me but still less than a five-minute walk from our house.

Greg Smith (Smitty) was another grade 2 classmate. Although I did not know it then, Smitty would become my best and most important friend years later. Smitty had boyish looks, which sounds strange to say because one would expect boyish looks in all 7-year-olds, but Smitty’s was more accentuated than the other kids’, and this trait would remain until high school. The boyish face coupled with a less than average height and a lack of athletic prowess would contribute to some tough early years for him. Smitty lived on Joffre Street, around the corner from Murph. Smitty’s dad was an engineer with the Canadian Navy, although he didn’t spend time at sea and was not transferred around the country like many personnel. His mom worked at a downtown health clinic.

Kirk Poulos was another Findlay classmate and someone whom I would see little later in life; he remained a friend. Kirk’s father, Dr. Harry Poulos, was the head of psychiatry at the Nova Scotia Hospital, a mental health institution located on the south side of Dartmouth. When we became teenagers, I wondered if Dr. Poulos could detect when Kirk strung him a line about where he had been or what he had been doing.

Also in grade 2 was David Hemming, who was not part of the eventual Ken, Hugh, Smitty, Murph, and me group. However, because he and I continued in some of the same classes when we attended bigger schools later on, we remained in touch. Although I was only at his house once and he at mine once, I felt a connection to him; he was sincere and down to earth, and I found comfort in that.

The class also had cute girls, notably Dena Venoit. She was petite, was gracious for a 7-year-old, had shoulder-length blonde hair, and had a quiet demeanour.

Miss Brumwell was our grade 2 teacher. Now, it is difficult to imagine, but even at age 7, we boys thought she was hot. At that time, she was probably in her early 20s and was fresh out of teacher’s college. When I look at our class picture today, I can indeed see that she was attractive in a wholesome way. Perhaps that was why we liked her: she was attractive yet imparted the aura of motherly love, which a 7-year-old needs but is unlikely to admit. More than 45 years later, Hugh, Ken, Smitty, Murph, and I still talk about Miss Brumwell on occasion, when we get together to share old stories. It’s funny how some people stick with us for life. I can’t even remember our grade three teacher’s name, let alone what she looked like.

I give Miss Brumwell credit for handling so many kids—our class had 39 students. However, unlike today where so many students stem from broken households and lug their social baggage to the classroom, in the Findlay era most of the students came from (outwardly) stable and supportive households. In addition, kids were more respectful and afraid of teachers (and parents) than they are today.

My time at Findlay seemed like another era compared to today, and of course it really was because it was in the late 1960s. On the way to and from school, we would drop into Coates corner store where we could buy a Fudgsicle for five cents and a Popsicle for six cents, and penny candy was true to its name. One cent would even get you two MoJos. I remember my grandfather telling me stories about prices during his childhood; it sounded as if he had lived when dinosaurs ruled the earth. Now, when I reflect on penny-costing items, I think we must not have been too far behind the dinosaurs. Mr. Coates has long passed from this earth, and so has his store. Like the Joni Mitchell song, they tore it down and put up a parking lot.

Like clockwork, Oat Hill Lake always froze by Christmas holidays, and we played pond hockey there every day over Christmas break while growing up. At the start of our pond hockey season my first year, I owned no skates and therefore was relegated to playing goal, wearing my boots. Dad told me that he would buy me skates, but it seemed to take forever. I resorted to leaving reminder notes around the house. Although I erroneously spelled the word scates, it motivated him. A day or two later while I was in nets, and I looked up and saw Dad walking towards me with a pair in hand. Although they were second (or third) hand, that I now had skates overrode any image concern. My ankles were so weak that my anklebone touched the ice when I turned.

The NHL was the only sports league on earth. The team to follow was the Toronto Maple Leafs. I idolized Johnny Bower, Dave Keon, Ron Ellis (who I found out years later suffered from depression), and any other player who wore a Toronto Maple Leafs jersey. In reverse, I hated any player who played for the Montreal Canadians. That was the case with most kids (and adults) in Dartmouth. We loved either the Leafs or the Canadiens—the truest example of polarization.

Many kids collected hockey cards. I think we valued the dusty stick of gum O-Pee-Chee included in the pack as much as the cards the package contained. Because there were only six teams in the NHL, we could realistically collect the set. At recess, we engaged in our earliest form of gambling by flipping cards at the Findlay wall, the winner being the card that landed the closest. A leansie (the card leaned against the wall) was like a 21 in Blackjack.

In 1967, I collected the whole set, but I never kept them. As with most kids, I had a better use for the cards: attach them to our bikes with clothespins. The flap, flap, flap sound each time the wheel hit the card sounded so nifty. The more cards we attached, the louder the sound. The cards were made of soft cardboard, so we had to replace them often. In the early 1990s hockey memorabilia became popular and valuable. I do not even want to know the value of the Bobby Hull, Jean Beliveau, and other cards we attached to our bikes.

Perhaps the funniest memory that may have helped to form the lifelong bond between Ken and me resulted from disciplinary action in grade 2. At the end of recess, students lined up in single file to prepare to re-enter the school. My recollection is that Ken told me a joke while we were in line, which was a no-no—no talking allowed. His version is that we spit on the ground, which of course was also illegal, and we were caught. Regardless of the cause, the teacher on duty promptly marched us to the principal’s office. Off we went down the long, wooden, creaky halls to Miss Conrad’s office. Years later, when I saw Sean Penn making the slow, painful walk to the death chamber in Dead Man Walking, it brought back memories of our walk.

Miss Conrad was the prototypical principal: old, grey haired, wrinkled face, black horn-rimmed cat glasses, no nonsense, and intimidating. We could understand why she was Miss and not Mrs. The teacher left us standing in the office, Ken on the left and me on the right, while she went to find Miss Conrad. We were both terrified and did not peep a word or even look at each other for what seemed like forever. The feeling of impending doom intensified with each passing moment of silence.

Then, all of a sudden, Ken let go the biggest fart I’d ever heard! The sound reverberated off Miss Conrad’s office walls before escaping out the door and rumbling down the empty halls like thunder. We looked at each other and burst out in uncontrollable laughter. The ultimate icebreaker.

But our fate was yet to be determined, so we had to try to switch back to serious. That did not happen until we heard the click click click of Miss Conrad’s high-heeled shoes making their way down the hall, amplifying with each step.

Into her office she entered, more stern-faced than usual. After demanding an explanation, she insisted on an apology.

I went first. I am very, very, very, very, very sorry.

Ken scaled down his version. I’m sorry.

Although that was my first and last time in her office, I could return today and point out exactly where we stood.

The funniest collective memory Ken, Murph, Smitty, Hugh, and I have is looking up Miss Brumwell’s dress. Unlike today, the teachers at that time usually wore skirts or dresses, and Miss Brumwell was no exception. After assigning arithmetic problems for students to work on, she would walk around the room to see if anyone needed help. When someone did, she would, by necessity (because of the low desks), bend over to assist. If that student sat next to one of us, it was our opportunity to strike. We dropped our pencil, making sure it was within reach to bend over while still in our seats. On the ascent, pencil in hand, we peeked up her dress!

To this day, I do not know what inspired us to do this. At age 7, we were still a number of years away from puberty; surely sexual excitement could not have been the motivator. Perhaps it was simply that we knew that girls had different features than boys, and this was the easiest way to find out.

In the summer, our family drove to Montreal for Expo ’67. I’m not sure if Expo was geared to adults or it was an indication of our family closeness, but the vacation does not take up a lot of space in my memory bank. It seems like I attended physically but not mentally. It reminded me of the opening clip to the Cheers episodes where Cliff returns from Expo ’86 in Vancouver, and the bar gang asks him about all the neat things they read about. The punch line is Cliff’s realization that he really did not experience very much in the way of the Expo’s attractions.

What I most remember was the five of us squeezed into our Volkswagen Beetle for the 800-mile drive. Because I was the youngest and smallest, I sat in the middle of the back seat. The other notable was our tent. Mom sewed together an 8' × 10' snow white monster from parachute material. The slightest puff of wind all but blew it away, and it wasn’t water resistant enough to hold off a light mist.

The only noteworthy addition to our grade three class was Diane, an overweight and homely girl who was heavily teased. To prosper in life, people usually need to be blessed with a certain advantage such as looks, intelligence, personality, or athletic skills. Unless Diane had a caterpillar-to-butterfly transformation, I cannot imagine that she has excelled in life based on looks. Interestingly, I occasionally reflect about her and wonder if she found contentment and her niche in life.

During the summer, the edges of Oat Hill Lake teemed with pollywogs, known to many people as tadpoles. Ken, Hugh, and I used to catch the larger ones, those starting to form the shape of the frogs they were destined to become. They were relatively easy to grab. We waded into the two feet of water on the lake’s edge where they lived on the silt bottom, lowered our hands into the water, slowly sneaked up behind them, and voila. Then what? It wasn’t as if we were going to keep them as pets. Normally we let them go, but one day we needed something more exhilarating

We spotted a flat rock nearby about four feet in diameter. Our devious young minds thought it would be interesting to see what happened if we hurled pollywogs against it. Fittingly, we labelled it Executioners’ Rock. I felt guilty, but when my two friends were doing it, I was not going to opt out. Moreover, in some warped defence, our actions paled in comparison to Ken’s next-door neighbour. He once squished a pollywog in his hand!

I returned to Oat Hill in 2003 with my daughter Hannah, who was 2 years old at the time. We went to look for and catch pollywogs. Sadly, where the lake’s edges once thrived with them, we saw only one. I did not try to catch it; it seemed inappropriate to try.

Our grade four teacher was Miss Conrad, the old hag to whom Ken and I had to apologize two years earlier. Some of our deeper personalities began to show that year. Hugh, who had long been a bold and practical joker, turned and pissed on Dookie’s leg while they stood at the urinal! On the other hand, Hugh revealed his compassionate side, something most people had not witnessed. We had a mentally slower person in our class. Instead of picking on him—he was an easy target—Hugh treated him with genuine kindness. I believe Hugh’s wife Darlene recognized this positive side of him years later. However, he still possesses his audacious side to this day; at Smitty’s 50th birthday, Hugh told 75-year-old Mrs. Smith that we thought she was a piece of gear when we were in high school!

I escaped some trauma others experienced that year when the school assessed our singing ability. We could sing either O Canada or Jingle Bells in front of the music teacher (fortunately not our whole class.) Based on tone, range, and pitch, the teacher categorized us as a bluebird (top category,) redbird, or yellowbird (lowest category.) Although one would never know it today, the teacher rated me a bluebird, as were Hugh and Ken. She rated Smitty and Murph yellowbirds. Today we laugh about it when we reminisce. In grade four, it was an indication of comparative worth.

In the winter, I started my official hockey career and played for a team called the Ponies. Dartmouth had only one rink at the time, the Dartmouth Memorial. The Memorial was an out-of-date, wooden, barn-like structure built in the 1930s. It had no Zamboni, so rink rats cleaned the ice with hand ploughs and then followed up with large watering tanks they pulled around the arena. The head rink rat, named Charlie, was a diminutive and rough-cut man who looked to be in his 50s. His scraggly beard complemented his gruff mannerism. In a way, I felt for him. In later years, I wondered if his tough demeanour was a subconsciously generated response to the lack of respect people gave him because of his physical traits and the position he occupied.

Because so many kids played hockey at the Squirts level, and there was only one sheet of ice to service the city, the rink was sectioned into three ice surfaces by large ropes strung across both blue lines. Even by tripling the number of games played at the same time, our schedule included games at 6:00 a.m. on Saturday mornings. To Dad’s credit, he faithfully awoke at 5:00 to drive me.

Although the Memorial was in serious need of replacement, it holds some fond memories. We would often go there to watch the Dartmouth Arrows Junior B team. Before each game, they played the Canadian national anthem on a scratchy record. One night the record skipped: we stand on gu—we stand on gu—we stand on gu . . . until the announcer nudged the needle. At the canteen, we could buy French fries in a paper cone for 15 cents or in a rectangular cardboard container for 25 cents. Either way we soaked them in vinegar. Nothing better!

Grade four was the first year we tasted authority. Miss Conrad announced the opportunity for us to be crossing guards for the younger kids. I applied and was handed a white vinyl belt or shoulder strap that denoted that I held a position of influence. At the end of the school year, Miss Conrad recognized the crossing guards with pins, which she presented in class. She did not include me. I never said anything, but I felt jilted. I assumed it was because she did not like me—perhaps it was payback for the office visit in grade two? That logic did not explain why she accepted me as a guard in the first place, or why she presented Ken with a pin, as he was also a crossing guard. I construed this omission as rejection. Was it an early indicator of self-esteem and self-confidence issues?

Looking back, my current day battles with self-consciousness and sensitivity were imprinted even in grade four, and this type of interpretation would significantly impair my interpersonal relationships when I got older. Of course, Miss Conrad likely simply forgot to call my name, nothing more harmful than that.

Dena still looked as good in grade four as she did in grade two, but none of the guys really struck up any kind of meaningful conversation with her. We were too young to understand male-female relationships. Besides, we had more important matters to deal