BOLD DECISIONS: MEMOIRS OF A JUDGE, LAWYER, TEACHER AND WORKING MOM

By Sandra Chapnik

At twenty-one, she married her soulmate. By thirty, she had four children. By forty, she was a practising lawyer. At fifty, she was appointed a Superior Court Judge, a position she occupied for over twenty-four years. BOLD DECISIONS is a story of how the author used those roles to champion the disabled and the underdog in a world much in need of a kindred spirit.

In clear, compelling language, Honourable Sandra Chapnik tells you how she overcame her fears and disappointments to live her purpose over a lifetime. In relating her intriguing experiences as a judge, lawyer, teacher and working mom, she answers the recurring questions: how did you balance your interests and priorities? Why did you choose law? What hurdles did you face?

Chapnik also speaks to the universal balancing act endured by working mothers who have growing children and grandchildren, and the need to practice unconditional love. It is a story of self- learning, where, in the process of helping others to believe in themselves, the author comes to believe in herself. Her insight and her passionate love story over 60 years resonates through the ages and is told with a warm and endearing sense of humor.

As a judge, Chapnik wrote over 600 reported decisions, prompting a Supreme Court of Canada judge to describe her judgments as "superb - beautifully written and filled with common sense and good judgment." Her description of some of her court cases will make you laugh and sometimes, cry.

In joining the author on her journey through the generations, the reader will obtain a personal, first-hand, behind- the -scenes view of the challenges facing judges, lawyers, teachers and working moms in this increasingly complex and chaotic world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798885056748

Book preview

Chapter 1

My Growing Up Years

Twins and Sins

Both my parents came from Russian immigrant families but neither side of the family displayed any sentimental attachment to Russia or Russian culture. My mother was born in Toronto in 1915 and had no memory of anything Russian at home. My father, two years older, had lived in Russia for the first eight years of his life prior to his arrival with his mother to meet my grandfather in Toronto, in 1921.

A Jewish greenhorn who spoke no English, he was bullied at first by his classmates. Friendly, strong and resilient, he quickly learned English, joined the school sports teams and was accepted into the Jewish circle of guys who generally stuck together. He rarely spoke of his boyhood years in Russia, and we rarely, if ever, asked him about it.

My parents met when they were very young and word has it that my dad made a surprise sixteenth birthday party for my mom. Though she played hard-to-get at that young age and after, my dad pursued her and they married several years later in around 1936. Both my grandfathers and my father ended up in the fur business, buying, making and selling fur coats.

My twin sister Barbara and I were born on January 13, 1941, I a full fifteen minutes before her. No ultrasound, no middle names for us. Someone once said there are two things in life for which we are never truly prepared, twins. And it is true.

Barb needed incubation due to her weight being only five pounds whereas the scale added a half pound for me, and mom would not leave the hospital without both of us. So, there I was in a hospital incubator without needing to be there.

From the start, Barbara resembled mom with her bronze skin and big brown eyes. I favored dad with his deep blue eyes and white freckled complexion. We never were identical but people would sometimes get us mixed up just because they knew we were twins.

Twins ran in the family, and people used to say they skipped a generation which eventually proved to be true in our family tree.

With fertility treatments, twins have become much more common. In our day, the Eaton’s store had a special for twins where everything purchased for one became two, that is, two for the price of one, including cribs, strollers, bassinets, and more, reflecting the phenomenon of twin births. No wonder that outstanding department store eventually went bankrupt.

Barbara, smaller, thinner, prettier, a bit of a cry-baby was no match for the taller, stronger, blue-eyed freckled, me. Bigger, meaner, I would hide behind a door or wall and jump out with a loud boo to scare her as she walked by. She, in turn, would run crying to mom and whenever I got a chance, I would sneer, "Cry-baby!"

Our grandfather used to call Barb Peanuts due to her more petite, delicate build and shy, fragile nature. I sure took advantage of those attributes in our early years together. Ahead physically as well as socially, I learned to walk while Barbara was still attempting to crawl forward. Despite our differences, mother dressed us exactly the same for many years with hats, dresses, coats, gloves, shoes and socks all matching.

We have a photograph of us dressed in tweed winter coats with hats and gloves to match, and another, in pink organdy dresses with large floppy pink hats and white lace-trimmed socks under shiny black patent-leather shoes. Another one flashed us in two-piece flowered bathing suits, exactly alike. That is, the bathing suits not our bodies. In each of them, I was taller, and she was thinner. This all changed when we reached the age of about ten and I refused to wear the frilly cute dresses anymore.

As we grew and developed our unique personalities, Barbara excelled in ballet and tap dancing. Wow, could she ever work those soles. She was a natural. Mastering the toe and heel metal taps affixed to her dance shoes seemed to be an easy task for Barb, as she shuffled them for stunning percussion-like effect. Tapity, tap, tap. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. One foot after the other. Easy, you say? Well, my attempt to mimic her turned out to be a total disaster as I fell to my knees, trying.

At the same time, I, more determined but less graceful, played in our school basketball, volleyball and track and field competitions. I clearly recall the devastation I felt when one day the younger runners shot past me on the track and I was no longer in front. No more colored ribbons for me.

My natural curiosity led me down more daring paths as I would peak through the upstairs bannister when our parents had company or whisper to my sister when their bedroom door was closed, "What do you think they are doing now?" She could not have cared less but me, my eyes widened.

My sister, a picky eater then, and I, a little chubby, remembers when we were quite young and our mom would feed her mashed potatoes while giving me veggies. She recalls how my mouth watered and my half-closed eyes stared at her as I watched her eat them with delight.

No wonder my mom did that. Her mother, my maternal grandmother, always slim, would preach, "You can never be too rich, or too thin." Thin was the magic word.

When the pediatrician would give us the usual childhood shots, I would close my eyes and tighten my lips in stoic fashion while Barbara, awaiting hers, sat whimpering in the corner of the room. Maybe I retained a high pain threshold or maybe my behavior manifested a stalwart, stubborn, tenacious bent. Sometimes though, it got me into trouble.

One day, I watched our mom hide something before she left home and as soon as the car pulled away, I searched for it. Thinking I had found a treasure, a chocolate bar, I downed the whole thing, or most of it. It turned out to be Ex-lax, a laxative. Need I say more?

Siblings fight. But they also have a strong tendency to protect each other. One day when walking to school, lunch boxes in hand, I spotted an older boy who was a known bully, harassing Barbara. Always the goody-goody, I ran to the rescue. We each ended up with a bloody nose but that kid never went near my sister again. Trust me.

Our brother, Joseph, whom we called Joey, came along about four years after our birth. I am told that the entire community celebrated first, when we were born twins, and then because after two girls my parents had a boy. We adored our younger brother with his light blonde hair, sky-blue eyes and good nature though we probably all spoiled him from the outset. He certainly learned early on how to capture our and our parent’s attention.

As I considered myself the older sister, even at four to five years of age, I took charge of Joey when my mother allowed it. I loved to make him laugh. Barb says they were constantly worried I would drop him.

But in the end, I did something worse. I would change his diapers at a time when they were not disposable. One day I accidentally stuck Joe with a huge diaper pin. He screamed and I cried my heart out.

It always surprises me when I remember something that happened when I was very young. Most such memories are said to arise from tragic or embarrassing events. I think our universe starts so small that one seemingly minor incident can carve a lasting place in our minds and hearts. Here is one embarrassing incident I have secretly carried with me pretty much throughout my life.

One day when in kindergarten, Barbara and I, walking, arrived at school a little late. As we entered the classroom, the students were standing while the Canadian national anthem, Oh Canada was playing over the PA system. This was followed by our recitation of the Lord’s Prayer, a daily ritual. Well, somewhere in the middle, I had to pee. So, I held up my hand which the teacher quickly ignored, then denied with a wave of her hand and scowl on her face. Red-faced, tearful, when I could hold it no longer, letting go, I felt a steam of pee making its way down my leg. I think my mom had to bring me a clean set of clothes. As I tell this after all these years, I still feel the fear of the oncoming tsunami and the chagrin I experienced at that moment in time. I venture to guess that many others have similar secrets entrenched deep within their consciousness.

Mom and Dad

We grew up in a small, but lovely house in a good, friendly, safe neighborhood in central Toronto, and when our parents could afford it, we moved to a larger home in the same general area. A big square backyard housed colored flower beds and white and purple lilac trees as well as an apple tree that we got rid of because it created a big mess. Our mother loved that house and so did we.

Mom was the quintessential home-maker, cooking, cleaning, sewing, ironing, hanging laundry on a makeshift clothesline with wooden clips in the backyard. With no washers, dryers or dishwashers, mom would splash soapy lukewarm water over the dirty dishes. And we would dry them with a dishtowel that always seemed to get soaked pretty quickly. Men, the breadwinners, did not share those jobs then. Sometime after Joey was born, mom acquired help with babysitting and some cleaning duties. For child-rearing advice, Dr. Spock, the baby guru, ruled.

I believe mom completed two years of university but left before graduation. Marriage beat school for women in those days when being a homemaker and raising children was viewed as the ultimate profession. As time passed, and I considered my own future, I became curious about the wider possibilities for women. And I was eager to meet people who were enjoying adventures far outside the home.

When we were young, in about 1946 or 1947, our parents purchased a small cottage on communal grounds in Muskoka, Ontario. Dad would take out our motorboat which he named Twinjoe to go fishing in the glass-like blue lake, dotted with rocky islands and topped with budding greenery. I often begged him to take me with him. What a thrill it was when he did.

He would teach me how to fit a worm on the hook and throw the stuffed rod into the sparkling water. Most often my hook came up empty. Dad would sometimes let me drive the boat for a short distance as we left for home. I loved the smell of the fresh water, the wind blowing in my face, the sound of the horn on the boat and the feeling of freedom it gave me. But, most of all, I cherished the time alone with my father as he happily taught me how to relax quietly, patiently waiting for a fish to bite.

Early mornings in the country, frogs croaking, yappy dogs or ducks would awaken us. No sleeping in there. On land, we could run, play, swim and enjoy the summer sun and mother’s yummy chocolate cakes and fabulous homemade blueberry pies.

When we came up from the beach, the fresh aroma of a newly-baked cake would often greet us at the door as we rushed in slamming the half-broken screen door behind us. Mom would let us sit in the cozy kitchen as we waited, anxious to lick the extra cake icing from the spoons. Later, we would crawl into her bed when we needed a hug. She made me feel loved.

Judaism always found a place in our home. It was not that our parents were overly religious. But they always belonged to a synagogue. We paraded there as a family on Jewish holidays and attended religious school on weekends. The Sabbath was special. Mom would make Friday night dinner and as we grew, my siblings and I would fight over the meaty bones in the rib roast and who would recite the motzi, thanking God who brings forth bread from the earth. Dad proudly led the brief service with an extended Kiddush, the blessing over the wine, sung in his low, serious cantor-like voice. We children, feeling old and important, drank grape juice in a wine cup.

Mom, impeccably dressed, lit the shabbat candles while preparing and serving the meal, with our sporadic help. The main course usually consisted of matzah ball soup, chicken, rib roast or tender beef brisket, and turkey on holidays. Salad, vegetables, challah, chopped liver and homemade dessert topped off the delicious meal. On other nights, between homework assignments, we gulped down a more simply prepared dinner, generally as a family and usually called for six o’clock. But it was the experience of dressing up and being together on shabbat that provided a special bubble of closeness for our growing family.

To our mother, one’s home was their castle. A person’s home had to be comfortable, cozy, practical and welcoming. And ours was. Mom had a knack for decorating in a way that was lasting and special. For many years, Barbara and I shared a bedroom painted white and pink with two beds framed with white bars and white lace-like coverlets. We would argue, confide, bicker, hug, jump on the bed, read comic books, finish our homework, then hunker down till we finally fell into a yawning sleep. In the spring, if the chirping birds or brother Joe’s laughing or yelling or crying did not wake us for school, mom would. We continued to share that room with more neutral and upgraded décor, until Barb’s marriage at twenty years of age, in June 1961.

Dad, papa to his grandchildren, never really loved the fur business. But he loved people and treated everyone from the women he fitted with fur coats to cousins, nieces, nephews, and the floor cleaners, with the same generosity, kindness and respect. Carrying a smile on his lips and hard fruit-flavored candies in his pockets, he was like the Pied Piper to many.

Occasionally, he took us to hockey games where we sat high up in the bleachers and where we cheered Teeter Kennedy, the captain of the Toronto Maple Leaf’s hockey team, yelling "C’mon Teeter" every five minutes as we shelled peanuts. We endured the crowds, the boos, collisions on the ice and players slamming into the boards. Those times, I would often cover my ears with my hands.

What fun we had in those winter days, skating or tobogganing down hills. Mom would dress us up with matching coats and hats to go downtown, sometimes only to view the stupendous Christmas story displayed in the Eaton’s department store windows. Or sitting on the curb dressed in winter snowsuits, excited to watch the fabulous floats in the Santa Clause Parade pass by. We waited, waving small Canadian flags, until Santa finally appeared and the crowd, us included, erupted in applause and shouts, screaming "Hi Santa," as if he could hear us.

Our dad was a clear and present influence in our lives. A force to be reckoned with, he was also very strict about the importance of family. When we fought with each other, his face would turn red or he would bang his hand hard on the table. His body language always shut us down.

As the eldest of five, four boys and a sister who recently passed away at age ninety-four, he would intervene and mediate if there was a serious altercation or dispute in his family. Not that we were privy to any of that. But, my sense is that any disputes within his family enclave were short-lived. Though I overheard some rumblings of discontent, I cannot recall anybody ever being excluded from or not attending family events. Maybe my father’s magic worked.

Grandparents

A word about my grandparents: sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart. As I look back, I remember many happy days and experiences with them. Dinners at a lovely home in a good neighborhood with our maternal grandparents whom we called Mommy Fanny and Daddy Jack, our frail warm, smiling grandmother and our strong, smart, sometimes harsh grandfather, leading the fray.

I remember when he told me about a lesson he himself had sadly learned. "Think before you speak. Once it is out of your mouth, you can’t take it back." I sometimes wish I had taken his advice more seriously.

On Yom Kippur, my grandmother who never drove a car, would influence me to stay at our Temple all day, fasting, though I always cheated. And to take her to United Bakery for lunches where she would never let me pay. Together, the Benders made a stunning couple.

Sundays, our paternal grandparents welcomed us.

With elegant white pillars outside and large rooms inside, their property on Palmerston Boulevard in Toronto, held aunts, uncles, cousins and more for early Sunday night dinners. Daddy Vic, as we called him, with his booming voice and the same blue eyes and freckles that marked much of our family, would convene the proceedings and Mommy Rachel would organize the kitchen.

Delicious food, far too much, children fighting and shared stories were the order of the day, similar to what we experienced when visiting at their cottage enclave in Belle Ewart on summer days. Sounds of children whining, fighting, hiding, running filled the atmosphere. Wet kisses on my nose from my grandfather which I immediately wiped off, would provide a typical wet ending to a happy day.

As mom’s parents became early members of Holy Blossom Temple, a fledgling Reform Jewish congregation in Toronto, it was natural for our young family to join our grandparents there. At six years of age, Barbara and I were honored at a consecration ceremony, an event that I believe carries on to this day. This is what happened.

Dressed in white blouses and short grey skirts, we joined about twenty-five classmates in the beautiful sanctuary. Each of us received a small replica of a Torah which we held while singing the prayers as we paraded down the aisles.

Our mom had stayed back with Joey, and when I got home, I showed her the Torah, adding something like this:" Mommy mommy, the Rabbi blessed me!" You would think I was the only one he blessed. Nope. At the conclusion of the service, we bowed our heads as the Rabbi blessed the whole class. But my heart felt it was only for me.

Growing Pains: Longing to be Thin and Popular

With that background and my natural happy, obliging nature, one can readily see how I continued to be and feel blessed. And in a way, I did. But the truth is that my teenage years were not the happiest years of my life, not even close.

The age of thirteen is a tricky time, straddling the innocence of childhood and the growing independence of being a teenager. It is generally recognized that at thirteen, there may well be a necessary parting between a teen and his or her parents. Obviously, this does not always happen. But, it did happen to me. My high school days can be described as bittersweet. I was somehow living my best life and my worst life at the same time.

I was the one who would answer the teacher’s questions with my hands shaking in the air, waiting to be recognized. You know, the one who thinks she knows everything and the one everybody else loves to hate.

The trouble was that I longed to be in the popular in—group and that made everything worse as my frustration and unhappiness continued to mount. The fact that I had freckles, frizzy hair and had gained weight at summer camp eating Wildfire chocolate bars purchased from the tuck shop, did not help. The popular group of girls were generally good-looking, close, trendy and confident. They stuck together. Some were cheerleaders for the school’s basketball or baseball teams. I did not fit the mold. It was not that they were overly bitchy or mean. But, when I approached them in the school hallway or outside in the schoolyard, sometimes they would stop whispering and disperse or turn away. More snobby or stupid than malevolent. I think physical beauty was their defining characteristic. And even with my cool athletic skills and good school grades, I could never hit the mark.

Did I ever despise my body during those developing adolescent years.

At the cottage, I would walk to the end of the cottage dock and when nobody was looking, throw off the cover or T-shirt draped over my one-piece bathing suit, and quickly jump into the sparkling, refreshing lake water. Then, I worried that everyone on the beach heard the loud splash and they were quietly laughing at me.

Those days, I secretly tried to eradicate my freckles with lemon juice and other treatments I would read or hear about. All failed. But I recall, much later, watching a movie billed as a romantic comedy starring the handsome Rock Hudson and Doris Day, a cute, vivacious actress and singer with blue eyes and fair skin. When the camera closed in on her pretty face, I noticed a clear row of freckles dotted naturally across her cheeks. "Wow", I thought. "Maybe I don’t have to try that new stinky miracle freckle cream, after all."

For the school prom, maybe in an effort to help cover my freckles, my mother bought me a dress with a high ruffled collar, skirt slightly flared and sleeves that touched my elbows. My dress in navy taffeta topped with that shawl collar was nice. I was happily preening in the mirror, thinking I looked slim and pretty in blue, reflecting the blue in my eyes, when Barbara entered the room. The moment I saw her all dressed, a sharp pang filled my psyche. Barbara really looked stunning with her hair up and her shiny satin peach-colored strapless gown. The elation I had begun to experience quickly dissipated.

Was this jealousy? Was it part of the natural competitiveness that fraternal twins often experience? Did Barb or our mom notice how I felt then? I think not. Our dad always told us we looked beautiful. Mom usually did too. The excitement for the next stage when our dates would pick us up, mine a long-time friend, took over. But, I left for the prom with a sense of anxiety and a growing lack of self-confidence.

I remember having a pretty good time though my dance card was never full, and the portrait of an energetic, confident Sandy lost its shine as it disappeared into the night. Everything seemed so fake. I couldn’t wait to get home.

In those distressing days, my repeated attempts to claim a position in the school choir were also denied. This, of course, led to further angst and a near total lack of self-confidence on my part. The teacher/conductor finally let me in for rehearsals. I knew there were much better singers than I, and that, as part of a group, I didn’t have to shout out a song with vigor. But, I thought my voice would be drowned by the others and all would be good. It wasn’t.

Only much later, after singing with my kids in the car who kept telling me I was off-tune