My father Harold died unexpectedly when I was eighteen years old.

Three years later I am driving down highway 15 with my new friend John Frost.  We are driving into Guadalajara to meet up with his buddy Ken Edwards.  Ripping the heads off fat prawns and drinking cold Mexican beer gets us in the mood for the Sunday afternoon adventure in the sun:  the corrida.

On that particular Sunday the Spanish bullfighting legend El Cordobes is the star attraction. On paper anyway.  There is a local up and comer, Riviera, who is about to give the legend a lesson in guile, bravado and reckless abandon, characteristic of colonial behaviour the world over.

I’m twenty two years old, uncertain and adrift.  Maybe I’m running away.  Perhaps I’m running towards something.  I didn’t know then, but in retrospect I was running toward my life that had been abruptly altered.  I’m excited to be with these men.  Both are twice my age.  Both are world war 2 veterans, artistic, intelligent active men with a shrewd eye and a quick tongue.  I was encouraged to think that is what men are or at least, could be.

Their stories are interesting and characteristic of the time.  John and his wife ( Joan van Every ) 
emigrated to Mexico in 1963 when Richard Nixon became Governor of California.  Ken took up a GI Bill scholarship in 1947 at the University of Guadalajara.  An anthropologist and social reformer his story is both thrilling and earnest.  Had these men found inner peace? Were they running away?  Were they able to adapt, grow and develop so far from their home base?

John Frost was an artist and photographer of some note.  The grandson of AB Frost the illustrator of Brer Rabbit and the Uncle Remus stories ( and much else ) and the son of an artist and illustrator JB Frost, John developed his own artistry on the shoulders of these men.  Ken Edwards reorganized the village pottery industries in both Talackipaki and Tonala when they were in post war decay and disarray.  Pottery from these towns ( suburbs of Guadalajara ) are found in homes worldwide ( see  piece above ) and I often tell Ken’s story when I spot a piece.  His efforts were my introduction to the concept of community development.

Being with Ken and John on that Sunday afternoon was  special.  So was Riviera’s stellar performance.  The upstart colonial!  How dare he!

I had become detached from my family following my fathers death.  The reality was that my home left me abruptly.  My sister Sheila was developing her own life in northern Quebec and my mother ( with my grandmother Bertha  in tow ) found work with her brother ( Blake McCann some 1200 kilometers away.)  I had to figure stuff out myself.  I found comfort and inspiration in Ken’s and John's stories.

I realized that I didn’t know too much of my fathers story and it saddened me greatly.  What did he think about this?  Or that?  How did he assess his own life?  What lessons did he learn and what mistakes did he make along the way?  I never knew my father as an adult and as I come from a family that doesn’t reveal much, I had to figure it out myself.

I am left with an array of thoughts and feelings as I look back.  Would dad have approved of my life choices?  Would he be proud of me?  Would he have guided me, questioned me and been my inspiration?  I’ll never know, but I do know that I think about him every day, I seek his counsel in my mind and talk with him remotely.  He has pride of place and I choose to think he would like that. Many of the things I will write about him are speculative, but I will probably be near the mark.

Perhaps it was being estranged from my family, uncertain in a direction and  quite simply, I drifted.   
Sitting quietly in Vancouver's Stanley Park with CLL mate Wayne Hicks, we mused on what we were doing and more probably on what we weren’t doing.  We were both contemplating a return to university, but neither of us were overly excited at the prospect.  I mentioned that a year earlier I had met a guy from New Zealand when we were skiing in Kitzbuhel Austria.  He had said to me that I should come to NZ and we could ski the big glaciers.  Wayne was a top climber. He said Sir Edmund Hillary was a New Zealander.  Maybe we could go climbing there.
Long story short, we found a travel agent, learned that there was 1 flight a week to New Zealand and there were seats available the next day.  48 hours after contemplating the idea we landed in Auckland:  September 17th 1967.  Pretty rash, poorly thought through and exhilarating as hell.  Here we were!

Wayne looks in the phone book, spots Ed Hillary’s number and rings him.  They chat away like climbers do and make arrangements to meet the following day.  I head south.  Hitchhiking was easy and within a couple of days I was in Christchurch looking for my contact.  He was in Zimbabwe, but his family took me in and acquainted me with the farming set in North Canterbury where I stayed until the end of January 1968.

I worked as a barman at the Hanmer Lodge, pressed wool for Rob Savill  ( brother of my friend in Zimbabwe ), met the local school teachers and learned that in NZ you were paid to go to Teachers College. What!!  Was that an incentive?  I had always thought that I would become a teacher, but going to college in NZ meant  breaking away from Canada.  Was I ready? Regardless, I enrolled, was accepted and in early February embarked seriously on my immigration journey.  I joined the History group.  My tutor was Harry Evison who introduced me to a world that was intriguing.  Our class of 30 odd students were a strange lot:  all embarking on careers in teaching.  Harry kind of took me under his wing and assisted me in adapting to my new world.  He was a left leaning ( very left ) man and very much a father figure.  I spent time with his family, rented his home for a couple of years when he and his wife Hillary lived in Dunedin and still see Jeremy ( second child ) who is a retired surgeon in Christchurch.  

How difficult would it be to adapt to a new culture?  I had contemplated living in Mexico and going to university in California, but New Zealand felt oddly familiar and somehow I sensed I was ‘ home ‘. I rented a house, advertised for a flatmate and settled into student life again.  Max Walker, my new flatmate,  was an athlete.  He was NZ pole vault champion and had been a decathlon champion the previous year.  He was a first year teacher and we found a good routine.  The college group was fun and learning the intricacies of teaching was a challenge.  Harry gave me three terrific placements during the year:  Onslow College in Wellington, Westland College in Hokitika and Hillmorton High School in Christchurch.  All left leaning schools with skilful teachers and enlightened students.  I loved it.    

John Libby came to America from England and I left Canada for New Zealand 338 years and twelve generations  later.  We both travelled over major oceans ( he the Atlantic and me the Pacific ) to reach our destinations. Six generations ago Dr. Benjamin left the United States for Canada. However he traveled less than 100 kilometers up the road. The difference for him was not great.  My relocation to New Zealand took me to one of the most remote lands known.  I did feel isolated then and I still do today.
 
In late 1968 I applied for six teaching jobs.  I was offered a position with each application.  The one I accepted was at Kamo High School in Whangarei, Northland. The trip north was memorable.  Dave Montgomery and I hitchhiked north from Christchurch.  We spent a night in Nelson, a night with Dave’s  parents in Wellington and arrived in Whangarei a couple of days later.  We went on a road trip to Cape Reinga with Bill Gruer in his model A Ford. We met the potters mentioned elsewhere, came across renowned folksinger Paul Marks living a subsistence life in the bush with his family, and met Freddie Gore, a jazz musician who had played in Stan Kenton’s orchestra. He built a replica Norman castle near Kerikeri.  A wild collection of characters.

The school was quite ordinary.  Many Maori students and  the school run by outdated managers.  I quickly found my friends.  Clive Williams the art teacher and Dave Monro the science teacher.  We became fast friends.  Clive introduced me to Stephanie Tiffen and six months later he was the best man at our wedding. 

My move felt complete.  I integrated well enough and discovered that New Zealand was an easy place to live and work.  Fifteen months after coming to NZ on a whim, I was a qualified secondary school teacher and a married man.  Canada drifted to the back in my mind despite letters, phone calls and occasional visits from old friends.  I was home.
ALBERTA

WRAP
