Chapter 35: Just an Art Friend

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Because our subjects were so restricted in high school, depending on which study area we chose, which was office practice for me, I was never able to take an art class. I thought I would like to learn how to paint. I noticed in the newspaper that they were offering an art class for oil painting at night. It was open to anyone, it had no prerequisites and it wasn’t a credit course. A local artist was teaching it.

I decided I would take it, partly because I was bored and wanted to do something new to help fill in my last year in Dryden. I also thought I might meet a boy there. I don’t know why I thought of that. I suppose I was forever hopeful that I might find a boyfriend somehow, somewhere. I should have known it would be mostly adults in the class. Still, I wanted to learn painting techniques, so I would try it. I had concluded that I had no hope of dating any boy from the high school. There was something about me that scared them all away. Maybe, there would be someone at the art class who I wouldn’t scare off.

I went early to the first class on a Wednesday night, signed up with the instructor, and paid my small fee, $20 or something like that. It wasn’t very expensive. Then I sat down. I wondered if I would know anyone in the class. Two older ladies came in with their art kits. They greeted the teacher and I could tell they knew her well, and had taken these art classes before. They said hello to me, and I recognized them. They lived on our street, just two houses up from us on Casimir. I had spoken to them occasionally. They were sisters and kept a very nice garden. Some other adults came in. A young guy who was perhaps about 20 years old came in. I didn’t know him personally, but I had seen him at the high school quite often. He worked for a company that stocked the vending machines. I think I would want a boyfriend with more ambition than that, but I didn’t dismiss the idea of getting to know him, if that should happen. About 15 people were already there, when Glen Nymark came through the door, followed by a male friend. Now this was curious.

There were a few empty seats beside me, so Glen came over and sat next to me. He introduced me to his friend who spoke with a German accent. His friend’s name was Roland. Glen always seemed formal and professional, but he was always cordial and easy to talk to. Roland was more casual and younger in demeanour compared to him. I had never seen Roland before, at least not that I was aware of. I found out later that he was a machinist at the mill and worked in the machine shop just outside Jim Brown’s office. Perhaps we had seen each other when I worked there for those few days, but I saw a lot of men when I worked in that office, and I hadn’t specifically noticed him.

The art teacher gave her first lesson and showed us how to start a painting. Because the two ladies had taken the class before, they already had their brushes, paints and such, but most of us didn’t. We were given a list of supplies we would need, and told we could buy them downtown at the stationery store. The teacher would supply the first canvas for us to use next week.

Before the next class, I bought the supplies I needed. I once again got to class early and sat down. I was waiting for Glen and his friend to come in, and soon they did. Glen was always friendly and gregarious and knew most of the people there. Glen set down his notebook next to me, said hello, and bobbed around the room chatting with everyone.

Roland came over, moved Glen’s book over and sat beside me. Slowly, we got to know each other. Roland had constructed an art case out of wood and bought some brushes and other supplies. I complimented him on the case and he offered to make me one. I asked him how much it would cost and he said he didn’t want any money for it. Glen sat next to him and didn’t seem to care that Roland had moved his notebook over.

The next week, Roland brought me the art case he had made for me. I was surprised that he followed through on what he promised. I was so pleased with it. We chatted about our lives. He immigrated to Canada from Germany in 1956 when he was 18. I did some quick calculations in my head. That would make him 30 years old now. I was somewhat apprehensive about our difference in age. Had he not told me, I would have guessed he was in his mid-20s.

Although Glen was around the same age, Roland seemed more youthful. I was 18 years old, still in high school. Roland had been working in Canada for 12 years. When he was my age, he had already immigrated to a new country, while I still lived at home. There were such huge differences in our life experiences, but I was mature beyond my age. I was very serious about my future and my goals in life. The experiences I had made me feel older than most of my classmates, but still, this was an incredible age gap. I wondered if I should even allow a relationship to begin so as not to have to end it. Perhaps I should just forget about this guy, but he fascinated me because he was so different from any of the boys my own age.

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I knew that Roland drove a dark blue 1959 Cadillac, a very distinctive car with large fins on the back. He lived in a small apartment building on King Street near the post office, which was not far from my house. I passed by it often and, each time I did, I wondered if I would accidentally see him. Through the Christmas holidays, I noticed his car sat there with the snow accumulating on top of it. It hadn’t been moved in days. I wondered where he was and what had happened to him.

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The art course continued in January and I found out Roland had spent Christmas in Montreal with his sister and family. That was why his car hadn’t been moved. He finally asked me out on a date, a very casual one. He suggested we go to the Thunderbird restaurant to play billiards. The Thunderbird hotel was about three miles west of town on the highway. It had the only indoor pool in the area, so it was nice to swim there in the cold winter. I had been there once for a birthday party for a girl in my class. I would have gone there more often, but I couldn’t go there on my own as it was too far to walk and I needed transportation from someone.

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Roland was slim and handsome. I thought he looked like the actor Omar Shariff with his dark hair, olive complexion and square jawline. High school boys, like my brothers, drove Volkswagens, Chevies or Fords. Most were older cars and were constantly breaking down and falling apart. Some of them had pick-up trucks. Several had motorcycles. So, Roland’s 1959 Cadillac was a very unusual car to see in Dryden. I could identify his car anywhere and I’m sure anyone else could, too.

The fact that he came from Europe appealed to me very much. I was still determined to go to Paris and see the Eiffel Tower. Maybe he could take me there. My last name made no difference to him. He knew what the word “freak” meant, but my name wasn’t significant to him. My name was inherited, just like my blue eyes and mousy brown hair. I am who I am. He had no peer pressure to influence him one way or the other. He was also older and surely more mature. He often told me that I was beautiful. No one ever told me that before.

I was slowly falling in love. When I was not with him, I longed to be with him. When I was with him, I was perfectly happy. He treated me well and I knew he loved being with me. He was genuine and honest. I could trust him completely. I knew he had no ulterior motive other than wanting to be with me, wanting to date me, wanting to spend as much time as possible with me. He was mature and I found him very attractive. Some of the girls at school saw me with him and asked me who he was.

“Oh, he’s just an art friend,” I told them.