CHAPTER 1
IN THE BEGINNING
It was around 3:30pm on Thursday, August 06,1931. I had been playing with several of my playmates, atthe corner of Richelieu and Lacasse streets (in Montreal'sSaint Henri district), roughly half a block from my home.Suddenly, one of my friends called out to me, telling methat my dad was being taken to the hospital. I ran towardsmy home, but only got there in time to see the ambulanceturn the corner at St. Antoine Street, enroute to the RoyalVictoria hospital.
Around 10am the next day, Mother received thenews that Dad had succumbed to his illness during thenight. Mother was barely in her thirties, and was now awidow, with several small children to take care of.Understandably, she was devastated by the sudden death ofher husband, and it was to affect all of us adverselythroughout our lives, in many ways. However, inretrospect, Dad's death should not have come as a surprise,in that, at that time, he had been essentially bedridden(while under the doctor's care) for something like eighteenmonths. Nevertheless, his passing heralded for me (thefourth of six children), the start of a long and at timesdifficult journey, to a reasonably successful adulthood.
Although I had had a dad for only a little over fouryears of my life, I believe that a lot of him rubbed off onme. For one thing, Dad was widely respected in the Black-Caribbeancommunity as a scholar, having emigrated fromBritish Guyana (early in the 1900s) to study Medicine. Heattended medical school at both Howard and McGilluniversities, prior to marrying Mother.
Some of his friends even referred to him as 'Doc' Massiah,although regrettably, he never graduated from eithermedical school. I never found out why. Yet, despite hishigher-than-normal education, he spent his all to briefworking life as a sleeping-car porter for the CanadianPacific Railway (CPR). But this perceived failure (on hispart) instilled in me at an early age, the commitment, that atleast one of his children would obtain a doctorate, althoughnot necessarily in Medicine. And because I seemed to havebeen blessed with an insatiable curiosity about how andwhy things work, together with the facility to learn things, Istarted my arduous academic journey towards a doctorate,in the post stock-market crash, depression-years of the1930s. An early picture of Mother and Dad is shown below.
CHAPTER 2
SCHOOL DAYS-DEAR OLD GOLDEN RULEDAYS
By the age of three, I could read. So the transitionfrom home to elementary school was uneventful. Theschool was Lewis Evans — a one-story, rectangular eight – roombuilding, situated at 4275 Richelieu Street, just southof the CPR railway tracks, that walled off Montreal's St.Henri district, from lower Westmount to the north. It waspresided over by a dapper, but sadistic principal (Mr.Snodgrass), who also taught grade seven.
From the day I entered Lewis Evans School, until Itransferred to Royal Arthur school (at the end of grade six),I was at the top of the class. Learning came easily to me. Itook great pride in receiving gold stars on my report,denoting excellence, and the honour cards given to theleading students at the end of the school year. But myotherwise carefree days at Lewis Evans were affectedadversely by my fear of the principal. He seemed to relishinstilling fear in the students through his unbridled use ofthe strap — a practice that I found to be abhorrent,especially since it was being used on pre- pubescentyoungsters. Therefore, I rejoiced when this medieval formof torture was finally abolished in all schools.
Ironically, it seemed like poetic justice, that sometime after being transferred to another more affluentschool, Mr. Snodgrass was convicted of sexual malfeasance,involving some of his students. I do not recall what hispunishment was, nor do I remember even being concernedabout it.
There is something that occurred in grade 6, whichmerits mentioning. I think of it, even today, as an act ofextraordinary kindness.
A number of black youngsters were chosen eachyear, by Mr. Dudley Sykes (the Executive Director of TheNegro Community Centre), to attend the Rotary Club'sChristmas Dinner, at Montreal's Windsor Hotel.Fortunately, that year, my younger brother Michael and Iwere chosen to attend. At the dinner, each boy was placedalternately beside a Rotarian. The man who sat betweenMichael and me, was a Mr. John Mills. He told us that hewas the President of the Westmount Rotary Club. Duringthe dinner, he asked us what we would like Santa to bringus for Christmas. I blurted out — a Meccano set — havingin mind something in say a 12 x 12 box, selling for nomore than $5.00 — a princely sum in those days! Ofcourse, by then, I no longer believed in Santa Claus, nor didI have any expectation of actually getting a Meccano setfrom Mr. Mills, or any one else, for that matter. Still, I wentalong with what I thought was a ploy on his part — bygiving him our names and address. At the end of thedinner, we thanked him for his kindness, and left, neverexpecting to hear from him.
On Christmas Eve, we were busy setting up ourChristmas tree in a wooden box, filled with lumps of coal.Around 8:00pm, the doorbell rang. When we opened thedoor, a man asked if Michael and George Massiah livedthere. It was Mr. Mills! He said that Santa had left apackage for us at his home, and had asked him to deliver itto us. Then he brought in a huge flat box that had to be 3ft.long x 2ft wide.
It contained the largest Meccano set that I had everseen! There were hundreds of parts, a large...
