The Yellow Ford Truck
By Arlene Levin
(c) 2023
Summer: 1968
Newly arrived immigrants, Michael and I moved to Canada because of the Viet Nam war. Michael was in danger of being drafted. He said,” If I’m called up I won’t even go for the physical”. I said, “Well, then we have to leave.”
All of the arrangements made, we crossed into Canada July 20, 1968. We had a little apartment at Wellesley and Sherbourne in downtown Toronto. We were happy with each other and excited about starting our new life, but for the first time, we were without the support of relatives or friends. We were truly alone.
Was it a poster? Was it mentioned in the newspaper? The answer is buried in time. But Michael, the great researcher announced, “There is a free music concert this Sunday. It’s in an area called The American Ghetto. We should go as see what other expats are up to.”
As the story goes, in 1968 a small group of Americans drove a Yellow Ford Truck over the Canadian border and landed in Toronto on Baldwin St. They opened a store, named it after their truck and The American Ghetto was born, an area that became a cultural, commercial, spiritual and political centre for U.S. expats.
It was evening, cold and foreboding and there I was walking along Baldwin thinking about that magical afternoon concert. “It was right here almost, OMG, almost 50 years ago". The memory hung in my mind's eye as I walked into the New Age Book Store, the very store that was The Yellow Ford Truck years ago.
In a small anti-room in the back of the store, Paula, my friend was giving a talk on chakaras and I was running late. I quickly took my seat. I remember the lighting was low, the feeling was warm and friendly, exactly what you would expect in a new age environment. There were about 15 people around my age listening intently.
A break in the program gave me an opportunity to look around the store. Books and incense, affirmation cards, special rocks with curative powers and interesting sculptures of animals and fairy like creatures. There were little smiling Buddhas and stained glass angels standing with messages like “Believe and all things are possible”.
I searched out the owner who was introduced just before the break. A women a bit younger than me, she stood with a confident smile, observing the obvious success of Paula’s event. Attendees drifted through the store looking, choosing and buying.
I introduced myself and began, “This store has quite a history”. “Yes,” she said without hesitation, “This very store was THE YELLOW FORD TRUCK, the centre of the American Ghetto in the late 1960’s.”
Astonished at her quick response, she continued, “As a matter of fact, I have some old pictures from that period. Would you like to see them?” “Please,” I whispered.
We walked through the bustling store through another doorway and into a small well lit meeting room. There against the wall was a display of old photographs. One picture actually looked like the Sunday concert Michael and I went to so many years ago.
In the photograph, a big sign above the store window read. “Yellow Ford Truck”. A full band was set up in front. There were guitars and a keyboard and someone was playing a trombone. I could see a microphone for a vocalist and it looked like the whole band was attached to a professional sound system.
There were people with bicycles. A popcorn vendor’s little bicycle propelled cart looked like the ones you see today. The bell bottom clad audience numbering more than 50 stood in clusters listening to the music.
Looking at the gathering more closely. “Oh my God, That’s Michael” I said to the owner standing next to me. I pointed to the man standing in the lower right hand corner. “Yes that’s him, that’s his unmistakable characteristic stance.”
“But where am I” wondered, Looking more closely I found myself standing beside a car on the left side. I said, “Well that looks like me, though in this grainy image, hippies at the time looked quite similar-but I really think that’s me.” In the picture, there I stood, with long hair parted in the middle-a light jacket-and I was looking right at Michael. Actually, when you look more closely, Michael and I were the only ones not facing the band. I guess, separated, we were looking for each other.
The store owner was still standing beside me. She was smiling and I think a little amused at my reaction. She said, “Lots of people have seen these photos but I can’t recall anyone actually finding themselves.” I was stunned. “This is so amazing, frozen in time, that’s me 50 years ago!.”
I profusely thanked the owner. Then I took out my phone and took a new picture of the old image. I looked at it again and thought of Michael. Gone these many years I was a bit sad and then smiled thinking how incredulous we would have been sharing this moment.
I returned to my meeting but couldn’t stop thinking about what just happened. I thought, “What’s the chance of being randomly captured in a photograph and 50 years later standing in front of the image displayed in an historic collection.” My silent voice whispered “That’s me right there!”
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