Frederick Dean Jefferson III had an American friend named Roger, who was a draft dodger. He had a successful enterprise working in Canada providing a steady supply of marijuana to pot-heads, drug-fiends and dope smokers all over Montreal. Business had been good but he was experiencing a slight problem with his latest shipment.
Two days prior, armed with phony ID, he had been accompanying two kilos of Acapulco Gold out of New York city bound for Montreal on a Greyhound bus. He had unscrewed a panel in the bus’ bathroom and hidden the grass in the bulkhead. His plan was simple - cross over the border into Canada as an innocent tourist, unscrew the panel retrieving his goods and then distribute the product to his customers. But, when he got to the Canadian border, the customs officials refused to admit him because he had no money and they were afraid he would become a parasite of the welfare system. He couldn’t explain that all of his capital was tied up in his product neatly stashed in the bathroom bulkhead so they tossed him off the bus and he stood in the rain watching his big payoff drive away.
Being no fool, he memorized the bus number and proceeded to Plan “B” which was to follow the bus to Montreal and retrieve his illicit goods there.
He snuck across the border that night and made his way up to Montreal. By the time he arrived at the Montreal bus depot, his bus had turned around and was on its way to Burlington, a small town in Vermont. Now, being a fool, he proceeded to Plan “C” which was to ask Frederick what he should do.
Frederick asked Jim if he would drive Roger down to Burlington so that his successful enterprise could be restored. I went along for the ride.
Three long haired freaks approached the U.S. border at Swanton, Vermont in a beat-up blue van with a paisley interior, red, yellow, blue and green wheels and a peace sign on the door. The border agent grasped the handle of his service revolver as we drew near. The U.S. authorities were still sensitive after the police riot at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago this August. This guy looked like he blamed us personally. Our Canadian plates didn’t help. Americans are suspicious of all foreigners. In fact, they seem suspicious of anyone who isn’t living within their very house; and I’m not sure they trust them either. I believe that their Constitution states that every citizen must open fire on anyone who comes anywhere near them ... it’s the law!
If the agent had known that Roger was a fugitive on the lam he probably would have shot us all on the spot. But he let us through with a bored “Y’all have a nice night.”
We sped down Interstate 89 to Burlington. Roger directed us to the bus station. He told us to wait while he went in to rescue his package. Jim and I did as we were told and watched from the van. Roger crept among the darkened buses in the lot until he found the number he was looking for. He pried open the door and disappeared inside. I could see two security guards standing, having a smoke, just one bus over. Even they had guns. I wouldn’t be surprised if playground supervisors were packing even in the laid-back State of Vermont.
Roger popped out carrying a package wrapped in a black plastic garbage bag and darted into the shadows. One of the guards heard a noise and snapped his attention towards the bus. They both tossed their cigarettes aside and pulled their weapons. From my vantage point, I could see Roger crouching behind the buses shuffling towards us as the guards searched between each vehicle.
Roger got to us and Jim drove us the Hell out of there. When we reached a spot close to the border, Roger jumped out with his package. He left us with instructions to pick him up in an hour, one mile on the Canadian side, then disappeared into the bushes. We proceeded through Canadian customs and waited at the designated spot. After a long time Roger came bounding out of the trees and we returned to Montreal with the bricks. Jim and I received two ounces as compensation.
The EXPO-67 that had been staged in Montreal a year earlier had left behind many monuments such as Olympic Stadium and Habitat 67, a modernistic experiment to create housing for the masses. But, for us, the most exciting holdover from EXPO was Man & His World, Terre des Hommes, and its La Ronde amusement park. Man & His World was located on two islands in the Ste. Lawrence both directly across the river from 1201 Notre Dame est. Isle Notre Dame held most of the pavilions including Canada’s inverted pyramid called Katimavik while Isle Saint Helene was the site of Buckminster Fuller’s 250 foot geodesic dome; the U.S. pavilion. Next door was the Youth pavilion, Pavillon de la Jeunesse.
Jim heard that there would be a Battle-of-the-Bands to be held at the Youth Pavilion on Labour Day and he entered The Seeds of Time in the competition. We were far too high to have any worldly desire to compete with other bands but we really wanted to play a big gig in Montreal and this was our chance.
We weren’t disappointed. There was a massive crowd on hand at the outdoor stage of the Youth Pavilion. We soon realized that all of the bands entered in the contest were French-speaking and so was the audience. We were the only English-speaking people on the island. But, we were not to be deterred. There was no shame in being from the west coast. So what if the only French I knew was, 'ou est Michelle? - Michelle est dans la salle de classe'? I wasn’t opposed to anyone speaking French. It was only fair to ask that nobody be opposed to me speaking English.
We arrived on stage with our motley collection of original swing - skiffle - bluegrass - country - folk - rock songs. We were a peculiar sight for most of the clean-cut middle-class teenagers in their fashionably hip elephant pants and shorty leather jackets which were 'in' at that time. We were all very thin (all we had eaten for months was potatoes) and pretty scruffy. I had frayed jeans, a white tee-shirt and a worn out old black vest that I had found.
Geoff and Steve addressed the audience in English. At first they were unresponsive. We started to get to them with our happy little tunes and irreverent and, at times, naughty humour. They loved our cheap theatrics like The Popalucci Brothers; a silly skit where Steve set up Geoff and Lindsay for what looked like a dangerous acrobatic stunt but ended in an hilarious anticlimactic collapse by all of them. John and I played circus music as the three of them shamelessly milked wave after wave of applause. It was stupid but they loved it!
When we got to the tag section of Steal Away, the band was cookin'! John pounded on the old Wurlitzer piano so hard it was rocking across the stage. I swear that I could hear strings and horns coming out of it and, because we were chugging along in such a groove, I believe that the audience could hear them too. When we climaxed at the crescendo and began the last chorus ending, the crowd erupted. We were blown off the stage by the passion of the ovation. We stood for a long time as they cheered and screamed their approval. Geoff looked around at us with that Cheshire Cat grin of his and we all knew what he wanted ... God Save the Queen.
We played a rocked up, irreverent version of The Queen on special occasions. We knew instinctively that this was one of those occasions. They would either 'get it' or they would kill us. We would have accepted either.
They did get the parody. They were with us and even sung along in an entirely harmonious lampooning love-fest.
There was no Battle-of-the-Bands, there was only The Seeds of Time and the youth of Montreal. They sent me out onto the stage to accept the trophy. I didn't know what to do so I placed it in front of me and reached for my fly. Luckily, the rest of the band engulfed me and Jim whisked me out of there before I could do something stupid. Jim still has the trophy.
We adopted the bar in the Nelson Hotel directly across the street from Le Fripon Restaurant on Place Jacques Cartier as our watering hole. We were blissfully happy to spend entire days drinking glorious Canadian beer in copious quantities. In our ignorance we had no idea that upstairs, in several of the hotel rooms, a small organization that became known as the Front de Liberation du Quebec or the FLQ, was plotting a scheme designed to tear the county apart.
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