Second Sight

By Joan Rogers

BOOK SUMMARY/SYNOPSIS:

A young woman is going through a marriage crisis and after an argument with her husband, recalls how they met. Anna and Grant are from different cultural backgrounds and although they love each other and share similar val

• Language: English
• Publisher: URLink Print & Media, LLC
• Release date: Jun 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781643675329

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Second Sight

Copyright © 2020 by Joan Rogers. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, descriptions, entities, and incidents included in the story are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, and entities is entirely coincidental.

The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of URLink Print and Media.

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Published in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-64367-533-6 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64367-532-9 (Digital)

Fiction

15.06.20

Contents

Dedication

Preface and Acknowledgements

Kitchen Conversations

Humanity House

Royal Officers in Training

At Home

Lake Louise

In Love with Love

A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing

Time for Something More

A Personal Private Professor

When Lilacs Bloom

Little Taste of Paris

A Date with Destiny

Mr. Right

The Wedding Family

When I Have a House

The Long Road Back

Less Than Perfect World

That Kind of a Day

Time to Call Time

The Past is Prologue

Dedication

FOR MY CHILDREN

Preface and Acknowledgements

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The work on this book began many years ago, in 1977, setting me on an uncharted journey that unfolded over the years. People came into the picture as if ‘heaven sent’, to offer their time, knowledge, documents and friendship. I want to thank the following people for their invaluable assistance in helping to bring this book into being. It has become the story of the Little Book. :

Dr. Roy Shoichet, Dr. Lionel Solorsh and Dr. Dave Davies, Toronto Western Hospital, whose compassion, brilliance and experise restored balance and good health. It was Dr. Shoichet who suggested I write this book as a form of therapy and encouraged its publication. He had a detailed word for word account of Anna’s story, was focused on results and building capability.

Kingsway Lambton United Church ministers, Reverend Harry Denning, Reverend Dr. Victor Shepherd who gave spiritual advice, support and instruction on the nature of the Holy Spirit; Reverend Dr. Jan Huntjens, Reverend Hugh Reid, Reverend Dr. David Winsor for guidance and prayers, and the invaluable friendship of the creative women of the Church Women’s Group.

My lawyers, John Sheppard, Saul Schwartz, William Harvey, professor of the Ethics of Law, Victoria College, University of Toronto, Lorne Wollson, Daniel Melamed, Torkin, Manes, Arbus and Cohen, and Bill McKechnie for their love of truth and justice.

Marion Thomson, my father’s sister, who researched the ROGERS ancestry, for fifty years, then handed her material over to me, as a legacy. Her research was done through the Genealogical Society, through archivists and through letters and visits from relatives. She said she had taken it as far as she could and asked me to carry it on. I made a vow to continue her work.

Jane Zavitz-Bond, Pickering College, archivist, my aunt’s dear friend, who shared her historical research and knowledge of our family ancestry. She provided me with numerous articles, and a book, The Journal of Timothy Rogers; a detailed account of pioneer life and the founding of the town of Newmarket, in 1802. Forefather Uncle Albert Rogers, his son Edward (Ted) Rogers Sr,. the ‘Father of Radio’, and grandson, Edward (Ted) Rogers Jr., inventor of the cell phone, are important historical figures in this powerful Canadian story.

Professor Collico and Instructor Don Fenton, University of Toronto, Communications and Public Relations, specifically how to write a press release; Carol Solursh, Albert Graves and Nancy Grigg, Humber College, for their excellent instruction in creative design.

Diane Von Furstenberg, a.k.a. ‘Nuscia’, fellow traveller, Nice, France, 1990, who found her voice, expressed her truth and encouraged me to do the same. I was inspired by her and upon returning home, took my manuscript down from the shelf, where it had been collecting dust for twenty-two years, and began transcribing it onto WordPerfect.

OPRAH and Bette Midler, who acknowledged receipt of my manuscript on Oprah’s Book Club, Wednesday, November 8, 2000.

My deepest thanks and gratitude to dear friends, Teresa Bobrow, M.A. Phil., Ann Lannan, Maureen Lannan, Darlyn Stevenson and Margaret Morris for their invaluable help in editing, encouragement and support.

Amazon team: Bryan Hutchison, Tania Martinez, Tom Wallace, Ginny Gale, Richard Prem and Abdur-Rachim, a brilliant team, who first published this book in 2011. AuthorHouse team: Hilary Kanyi, Yanie Cortez, Shane Villamor, Mary Carillo, Joseph Vodzak, Kathleen Fugazzi, Barry Lee, Marcus Chait, Julius Artwell, Jane Javier and Robert Kosberg, for their unwavering support to take it to the next level in 2014.

The long journey to completing this book was beset by extreme conditions. Our beloved mother died September 30, 2011, leaving us bereft. She was the glue that held our family together. The temptation to drop out along the way was great. Just when I was pressed to the limit and wanted to quit, James Rogers, my dear brother, handed over, without my asking, the De Forest family ancestry, on our mother’s side, dating back to Gaspard De Forest, Avesnes, Flanders, France, 1450-1520 A.D. and Jesse De Forest who fled Europe in the 17th Century due to religious persecution.

My dear family, my beloved children who light up my life; brothers and sisters who supported the project with good humour, smiles and encouragement. Marion Halford, my dear sister, who contributed letters, newspaper articles and her information from the Mormon Genealogy Records. Brother, Bill Rogers and sister, Beverly Rach who offered their love and support during good and challenging times. There was a desire to speed through everything in the blink of an eye.

A special thank you to Ted Rogers Jr. for sending me an autographed book about his father, RADIO WIZARD: EDWARD SAMUEL ROGERS and the Revolution of Communications, by Ian A. Anthony. Three radio pioneers came before him, Reginald Fessender, Dr. Lee De Forest and Nikola Tesla. Dr. Lee De Forest claimed to be Father of Radio. De Forest said, I discovered an Invisible Empire of the Air, intangible, yet solid as granite. The past has come to life to benefit other people and society. Ted Rogers Sr. is the recognized Father of Radio.

Deepest gratitude to dear friends, Rose Simone, Adrian and Muriel Paterson, Mary Audrey Raycroft, Carol and Rick Fellman and the Christian women at A’Glow International; to The People’s Church, Pastor Timothy and Hazel Starr, Charles O’Connor and Irene Chandroski, whose spiritual light and faith inspired me to complete the task.

There is an astonishing alignment of all the factors, each one at the right place, the right time and the right people. When a new work is begun, all that is needed are a few people who share the same vision and are committed to achieving exciting results. When that takes place there is dynamite. I needed help from a greater source to deliver.

John Honderich, The Toronto Star, lawyer, reporter, editor, publisher and chair, who has a treasure trove of information; witness to the larger story: the real characters and authentic experiences woven together in fictional form to create this book. He can provide the tools for change; Ann Birch, M.A., CanLit., historical researcher, author, award-winning teacher who came into the picture late and offered her expertise, support and guidance.

When a group of people, no matter how small, work together with a common purpose, the results are immeasurable and continue to affect lives and help others world-wide. It was a mystical mission, I was on, to complete an impossible task.

On October 16, 2018, URLink Publishing contacted me. I am deeply grateful to Kirk White, Barbara Poe, Bella Dy, Lora Adams and Stacy Lyn for their belief in this book. Their kindness, patience and passion for publishing can help bring this book to the attention of readers world-wide. By inspiring and empowering others, we can bring hope to a universe that groans to be raised up from the ruins.

To say I thank them with my whole heart, does not begin to express the gratitude and affection I feel for these brilliant and generous people. I feel a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid.

Kitchen Conversations

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"W omen! he shouted. You women! What is it you want?"

You are liberated, Anna. For years I’ve listened to you quote the authorities: Betty Friedan, Sylvia Weinstein, Kate Millet, Simone de Beauvoir, Gloria Steinem and…

All right, Grant, you have made your point. You don’t have to go on listing names all night.

Women are liberated. They are equal to men. They are equal but different. Now, where do you go from here? You are confused about your roles, your direction, your values, said Grant.

He slammed his open hand down hard on the kitchen counter top, his iron Engineer’s ring making a dull clink as it hit the hard surface. You women should be sisters now, working towards a common cause. That’s what you used to tell me. What you need now is a great woman to emulate; some marvelous creature who laughs and cries just the way you do, someone with whom you can identify. You need someone to show you the way from here.

We had Jackie Kennedy.

"Passé. Margaret Thatcher.

Power hungry.

The Queen.

Too Royal.

That just about exhausts the list.

You are ready for something new, said Grant. What marvelous men do you men have to emulate?

We have had no one of significance since Christ.

Exactly.

Women need an equivalent, she said.

Anyway, stop this warfare with your neighbors. These neighborhood conflicts should not affect your life, said Grant.

"I have had many wonderful, kind and loyal friends.

These neighbors who profess to be friends are not friends. They are a closed, little group who worship money and power and their connections. They are worshiping false gods. This is the ME generation. They compete fiercely with one another to further their own ends. They are more vicious than men. Women can be obnoxious."

Maybe it is you who should change. You cannot change them, said Grant.

It had already been a trying day and her husband was forcing her to accept the situation. She took a sip of Dubonnet and pressed the cool glass against her flushed face. It was soothing. She tightened the belt of her bathrobe and wrapped her arms around herself in a nurturing, protective gesture.

Maybe you are right, Grant. We have known these neighbors for five years. They welcomed us the day we moved in, do you remember? I am usually positive and optimistic but I am not that competitive. You know what I am like.

You are not a conformist, I know that. This community is all about conformity. You refuse to submerge your own personality to conform to this group. You are a free spirit, fiercely independent. That is why I married you. You are more spontaneous and expressive than any of these career women. You need your own space. You need challenge, risk and chance as a daily occurrence. I am like that myself, said Grant.

Thank you for your words of wisdom, Grant. They laughed.

I can give you challenge, risk and chance as a daily occurrence, he joked.

That is why I married you. Life is never dull with you, Grant. You make life exciting. They laughed. "This neighborhood is upper class, powerful, conformist and regimented; quietly going about their own business with deep tunnels of wealth beneath them.

You have to hit back but in humor. If someone insults you, you must put them in their place in such a way that it appears it does not bother you too much.

What are you saying? It is a duel, but with words, with its thrusts and pares?

Something like that, he said.

Speaking of the French, do you remember what the French Ambassador said?

"The French Ambassador? Oh sure, resurrect him once again.

That was thirteen years ago," said Grant.

He thought I was charming. Do you know why? He was astute, sensitive, and a true aristocrat. He recognized the best in people. These nouveau rich neighbors may have money but they have no knowledge of noble thought or aristocratic manners. What it comes down to is consideration for others. That is what manners are all about. These riff-raff know nothing about sensitivity. They look for the worst and always find it.

Riff-raff? Grant challenged.

"It is my mother’s French expression, ‘racaille’, it means rabble," she chuckled.

Let us stick to the present. You are unhappy. Admit it.

It is true, I am unhappy, I admit it.

What have you to be unhappy about? You have everything. We live in a big house, in a nice part of town, we have three beautiful children, and you have me. he chuckled.

You! She teased. How did I ever get mixed up with the Greeks? Let us talk about culture shock. You hypnotized me. I don’t think straight when you are around. I am under your spell.

He laughed.

I found all my happiness through you and the children. I have nothing for myself. I need a challenge. Maybe I should go back to work. You are so preoccupied with your business that you don’t notice me anymore. I question whether you value me or love me. You don’t show it. Your company demands all of your attention. I could take a lover, or run away or marry someone else.

I know who you should marry. You should marry a psychiatrist.

I can’t talk to you, Grant. I should have married someone else. This has been hell. Trying to unite two cultures in a marriage does not work. My father was right, as always, it does not work.

It is twelve o’ clock, let’s go to bed.

No, please, let’s finish this.

Well, this is the end of the tenth round with a knockout in the second. I am going to bed.

I can’t talk to you, Grant. You do not try to see my point of view. We just cannot communicate. I should have married one of my old boyfriends.

Old boyfriends! Are you serious? Not one of them would have lasted more than one year with you. I have been on this merry-go- round with you for thirteen years and I can tell you, I am dizzy.

Now you know about my old boyfriends, who do you think would have made the best match for me?

M-m-m. Let’s see, Willy, John, Brett, and Savvier.

Don’t count Savvier, he was only a friend, she interjected. "Let me see:

Willy—Alcoholic.

John—Greek, but I don’t hold that against him. Brett—Elitist.

All three of them were losers. Actually, they were all assholes if you ask me."

You discredit my taste in men? You are my ultimate choice!

Oh, Christ. Why do you always suck me into this bullshit? I don’t know who you should marry, he shouted. I am going to bed. Marry whoever you want.

Saudi kings have four wives she murmured as he stomped off.

He climbed the stairs in a huff, leaving her standing alone with old memories.

She picked up the newspaper sitting on the kitchen counter and glanced at the front page. The Toronto Star, April 17, 1977.

This is a date I will remember as long as I live, she thought. Anna tucked the newspaper under her arm, picked up her glass of Dubonnet and headed for the living room. She had a lot to think about.

She settled herself comfortably in one corner of the beige silk-covered sofa. A Nana Mouskouri tape played in the background, her haunting, lyrical voice filling the room. I have a dream, she sang. Anna paused to listen to the familiar words of the song.

"I have a dream, a song to sing, To help me cope with anything.

If you see the wonder of a fairy tale, You can take the future, Even if you fail. I believe in angels

When I know the time is right for me

I’ll cross the stream

I have a dream."

This song is so beautiful, she murmured. A lamp in the corner cast a soft glow over the beige silks and velvets.

Beige, why beige? She couldn’t remember why she decided on a beige color scheme. Oh, yes, it began with the Persian carpet, woven with silk threads in the Hunting design in shades of beige, brown and blue. It was far beyond what they could afford at the time but she could not let it go. Grant was furious but now he liked it.

The children of Persia wove these carpets in their home. The salesman called it the cottage industry. They used children because their fingers were so small and deft. On some occasions, they were tied to their loom to prevent them from running away. What an inhuman act against a child.

After she bought the carpet, the rest of the room was designed around it. The chairs and sofa were down-filled, covered in heavy beige silk. A pair of Louis XVI Bergere chairs covered in blue velvet was drawn up to the fireplace. The paintings were added slowly over the years, her paintings, large, bold abstracts in red, pink, orange and cobalt blue.

‘Masterpieces!’ Grant had pronounced. These will never hang in the Louvre. I will not allow it. Their laughter echoed around the room. He had felt the happy vibrations were absorbed into the walls and furniture. Everyone called it a good house.

A variety of potted plants and flowers made the room look like a comfortable garden room. It was almost dog proof to accommodate their pup, Aussie.

She sighed and sipped her Dubonnet. A basket of wool and a partially knit sweater sat within reach on the floor.

I believe in angels, she sang softly along with the music. Anna smiled as she recalled what three-year- old Chloe had said just this morning.

How are you this morning, Chloe?

I like you and you like me and that is how we are. It made her smile just thinking about it.

Aussie came bounding into the room, upsetting her basket and tangling the wool.

"Bon soir, Aussie. Comment ca va, mon petit chouchou? Asseyez vous."

Aussie had been trained by the RCMP in Quebec and did not understand English commands. Since his services were not required in Quebec, he was shipped out and an ad was placed in the Toronto Star newspaper for a French-speaking dog. They could not resist him. He was hilarious. The funny thing was, he was forcing everyone to speak French.

… To help me through reality, sang Nana.

Reality. My reality was living in two cultures. It was a stressful. If her family were here, there would at least be a balance between the two; two dysfunctional families perhaps, but at least, a balance. Anna felt her identity was being swallowed up by a great whale called the Greek culture.

What should I do about Grant? Their friends said they were a matched pair, which was true to a point. They were opposites like salt and pepper, oil and vinegar, hot and cold, day and night. As much as she tried, she could not reconcile their differences and rise above them.

Aussie gave her a quizzical look and whined.

"Les francais son tous des raleur…the French are all whiners," she told him.

Aussie was now playing with the ball of wool, leaving it in a tangle.

She untangled the wool. This is like the denouement of my life, she thought.

The night she met Grant, she was at a Christmas party with Savvier, the French count. They both belonged to Les Canadiens Francaises, a French club associated with the French Embassy. She was practicing her French in preparation for a trip to France.

This was her date with destiny. She tore up her itinerary, canceled the travel plans and bought a trousseau.

Life was good, but not so fast. We can never know the days to come. Hubris! Do not tempt the gods. They can take it all away.

She picked up her newspaper again. Nat King Cole sang What a Wonderful World

Yes, it is, she thought.

She glanced at the headlines of her newspaper.

April 17th,, 1961 was another date she would never forget. It was another time, another place. It was the day of the Cuban crisis. Kennedy was trying to save the United States from a nuclear invasion. Russia had installed missiles in Castro’s Cuba and the communists were ready to attack.

Memories of old friends came flooding back. She would never forget Humanity House with Emma and Mike. And then there was Willy. If the group at Humanity House could only see her now.

Humanity House

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Anna was a second-year student at the University majoring in Psychology and was a member of the Peace Corp. She was getting her father’s approval and following her own interests.

Humanity House was a dilapidated, four bedroom house in a once fashionable part of Regina, a growing prairie town with a population of 95,000. The fireplace in the living room smoked; the carpeting on the stairs was thread-bare; but it was freshly painted and cozy.

Their furniture consisted of Salvation Army modern and family contributions. They put it together with satisfactory results, nailed a huge ‘Ban the Bomb’ sign over the front porch and hung a ‘Humanity House—Welcome’ sign in the front window.

And then there was Willy. Willy White. She had not thought of him in years. He was part of Humanity House the night of April 17, 1961, the night of the Cuban crisis and right in the middle of final exams. The living room was jammed with young leftist intellectuals, students who hung out at Humanity House.

The president of the Student Council, was a socialist but did not associate with the House. He was not an activist and he had a personality clash with the General. He was in Law and disagreed with the General. That was the beginning of his political career that would earn his first seat in politics in 1967.

By that night the students had been cramming for weeks, often until two in the morning in an effort to maintain an A-standing, or for many, just to pass. Exams were half over. Everyone was bleary-eyed and highly anxious about his or her performance in the weeks to come. An atmosphere of gloom prevailed. Pounding headaches, clammy hands, knotted stomachs, blanking out, were common complaints

Some students should be worried. They had been goofing off all year and deserved to flunk. But some of the prepared students had an unreasoning and totally unnecessary phobia about exams. They went to pieces when faced with an exam. Others lacked the essential study skills. It was sink or swim time.

For so many students, when they received an anticipated low average, their last shred of self-confidence would vanish. They began to question their intelligence, rather than trying to budget their time or read the questions carefully.

My chest feels so constricted.

I can’t take this pressure… what an ordeal… this is agony… I am going crazy….

Such comments abounded. They looked haggard. Exams were hell.

It wasn’t usually this busy in the House. During exam time, everyone was holed up studying and only occasionally would they straggle in and sit in sparse little groups here and there to drink espresso and agonize over the exams written and those to come.

Tonight, everyone was taking a break. They were waiting to hear the latest reports from Cuba. They were dedicated, young idealists. After graduation, they would volunteer to serve in third world countries for very low pay, as teachers, economist s, engineers and agriculturalists.

This ideology was a grand concept initiated by John F. Kennedy to encourage others to serve their country. Dean Leddy brought the concept of Canadian University Students Overseas—CUSO—to Canadian campuses. It was amazing how the idea caught on.

Willy was very critical of the House. To him it represented a haven for beatniks and communists. He saw himself as the conservative, capitalistic, establishment.

What a bunch of phonies, Willy would say. They should have been missionaries.

Mike and Emma, student leaders of the Corps and landlords of the House, were studying. Nancy, Lester, Dave and Dennis also lived in the House on a co-op basis, paying what they could afford towards food and rent; sharing in the cleaning and upkeep.

They were all studying Spaghetti, their Golden Labrador Retriever, who had been wandering restlessly around the House, and began to bark.

The General had a pencil still clamped in his teeth, his hair disheveled from running his fingers through it while he studied. He looked ferocious. Emma had crept silently down the stairs, heard the conversation and dissolved into tears. This was the limit.

She was twenty. As she sat on the stairs and wept, Spaghetti whined at her knee. She could have had anything she ever wanted as the daughter of a powerful, wealthy radio station owner. They did not approve of their marriage but she married him one year to go before graduation.

She got up, went to their bedroom and flung herself across their bed, weeping hysterically. She tried to sort out the baffling outcome of their marriage but brilliant as she was, she could not reconcile her values to his. She could not reconcile opposites and rise above them. He wanted her to give up the car and stop wearing her diamond. She said no. She wanted him to wear his Brooks Brothers suits, lock the strangers out of the House and work as a Psychology professor when he graduated. He said no.

Mike was the son of a powerful, wealthy lawyer who wanted the best for him. They did not want this marriage either but he married her anyway.

They went to university and were both brilliant students with one year to go before graduation. And so their fights raged on while the living room filled with strangers who dropped in out of curiosity but stayed to catch the show, the Saga of Emma and Mike. Their friends, who knew them well and loved them, were pessimistic about the future of their marriage.

Tonight, April 17th, the world may be coming to an end but at least they were together and at peace with each other. Emma was sitting quietly now in the midst of the crowd of students. These were people she knew well.

Four TV sets were lined up in a row, all tuned to a different station. Two telephones with thirty-foot extension cords were sitting on the coffee table. A radio sat on an end table, on low volume so it could be heard but wasn’t intrusive. They were covered on all fronts.

Emma’s blond hair gleamed in the dim light. Her three-piece wool suit was carefully pressed, her nails manicured, her makeup perfect, her diamond shimmering on her left hand. She looked very much the capitalist. Her eyes followed Spaghetti, the one thing she loved most in the House. She was chuckling and admonishing the others not to feed it.

General Mike was in the kitchen with his most trusted aides-de-camp, Dennis and Dave. They were engaged in a most mysterious operation. He was humming and muttering, opening and closing cupboards, checking his watch, all the while, throwing out instructions to Dennis and Dave to do this and that, and they would do it. Then he would bolt for the door, run down the hall to the living room to see what was happening in Cuba.

He had all areas covered from Kitchen to Cuba. Sometimes he would get on the phone and talk to an adviser whose opinion he respected. He would pace thirty feet, the length of the cord, turn and come back, talking about the Cuban crisis all the while. Sometimes, he stood in front of the four TV sets watching the events unfold as he analyzed them over the phone. Everything was under control. He was pleased.

Anna sat perched on the arm of the chesterfield. This was her second home. She had been coming to Humanity House since Dave introduced her in September.

Dave was a small elfin student with a great artistic talent. He was in a few of her art classes and attracted her attention one day in class by saying, My God, you have golden eyes. She liked his opening line. They began long conversations. He told her to give up smoking, and then told her about Humanity House and Mike and Emma.

She instantly loved the atmosphere and the exchange of ideas. Tonight she was wearing blue jeans, a black turtleneck sweater and over that a Ban the Bomb sweatshirt. Her hair was long, cascading halfway down her back. She was smoking a Du Maurier cigarette and held a small mug of coffee in the other. She surveyed the situation, just observing, not talking.

You are always watching, watching.

Observing, she corrected him.

Dave was smiling as he came up beside her. She moved over so he could share the arm of the chesterfield. She took a deep drag on her cigarette. Dave reached over and took it out of her mouth.

If you only knew what it does to me every time I see you inhale that cigarette.

He butted it into the ashtray.

For heaven’s sake, Dave, who do you think you are? Willy doesn’t even do that.

She took another cigarette from the pack and lit it.

How long have you been going out with him? Almost three years. We started going out in first year."

Do you love him?

Very much, she said quietly." Dave got up to

Don’t go, you are a good friend, she laughed. Emma wants to see you, he said. It is Top Secret.

Tell her I will just be a minute.

She inhaled another cigarette and sat for a few more minutes gazing around the room. A log was flickering in the fireplace casting a warm glow over the room. Everyone was discussing the Cuban Crisis with their eyes glued to the television sets.

Dennis was Mike’s best friend. Dennis was in his final year of Political Science, a natural leader who organized most of the rallies on campus. He planned to go to South Africa with CUSO after graduation. Dennis was talking now, giving the discussion its direction.

This is Kennedy’s biggest fiasco so far.

The CIA is behind it, said Dennis.

Nancy sat with her arms wrapped around her legs, her chin resting on her knees. She was hauntingly lovely, her eyes deep, sad expressive pools. She looked as though she were still mourning for her dead mother. She looked fragile, alone and vulnerable. She wanted to be an artist like her father, but she said she had been blessed with only mediocre talent. Her dreams of renting a loft and living in Greenwich Village making a living from her paintings, was optimistic at best. Yet she knew nothing else.

Art was her life. She had been surrounded by it from the day she was born. She watched her father paint, cleaned his brushes, prepared his canvasses and talked with his artistic friends. She absorbed it through example.

They painted at the Emma Lake School and met New York critic. When she saw Clement Greenberg’s enthusiasm for Saskatchewan art and artists, it was then that she decided to go to New York.

The CIA, Nancy was saying, Don’t talk to me about the CIA. Everyone is terrified of holding a position, of saying anything. TV is so bland.

I hate the bland and thoughtless more than those with opposing views, said Dave.

Dennis and Nancy nodded.

Two more students came to join the group in front of the TV. Andrea and Sidney were regulars at the House. Andrea was a raven- haired atheist with a gentle whimsical air, a wisp of a girl. Sidney was a gangly Orthodox Jew. They were in love and wanted to marry, and had resisted the opposition