When the Dumont minutes of Tuesday September 7, 1971 were written, Peter Lang and I were no longer living together. I was living at Courtland Avenue with Trudy Chippier and Diane Mason. Trudy had separated from Eddie Hale and Diane had separated from Bob Mason. Although living apart from our former partners all six of us continued to work at Dumont.

When I look back now, some 50 years later, I am amazed that we dared to walk this delicate tight rope between the personal and the more public space of work. I’m sure scheduling became the art of the impossible. Fortunately, Dumont had people like Liz Janzen and Bill Aird creating the master schedule. We also had production managers for each 7-hour shift, overseeing continuity from one shift to the next, coordinating perforator and computer tasks, design and layout. At the best of times, selecting production teams and assigning tasks required a fair bit of sensitivity and ingenuity.

I remember Trudy Chippier from the “Trudy and Eddie Hale days” when both were obsessed with securing business contracts from the universities and Conestoga College, locating raw materials for light tables, massive hanging ceiling lights, second-hand perforators and a working Compugraphic photocomposition machine (about the size of a refrigerator). The two of them together were a force of nature. They also owned Dumont’s only van – a used, white, Ford Econoline. This crude box of a van had two front seats, with the engine serving as a heated third in between, a scuffed flat floor that stretched from the front seats to rear-end loading doors, perfect for hauling thousands of newsprint.

Trudy’s and Eddie’s farmhouse was memorable for its dancing parties: the Rolling Stones (I Can’t Get No Satisfaction, Gimme Shelter, Let’s Spend the Night Together), Janis Joplin (Me and Bobby McGee, Ball and Chain), The Grateful Dead (Keep on Truckin), Rod Stewart (Maggie May was one of Trudy’s favourites), Jefferson Airplane (White Rabbit, Somebody to Love), and last but not least Led Zeppelin (Stairway to Heaven).

Diane Mason was new to me at the time. I remember Diane and Bob fondly and when Diane and Dan Chabot discovered each other (he too worked at Dumont) I was just as pleased for the two of them. All three were delightful individuals and an absolute pleasure to work with. They were serious, compassionate, hardworking, and reliable. And as I remember it, all three had a great sense of humour. When times were bad, they didn’t dump on others. I remember sleeping on Diane’s waterbed while at Courtland – an added attraction until it sprung a leak.

I rather enjoyed reading the introduction to the proposal on “hiring and firing” dated May 29, 1972. This intro reads like a “treatise” on “form” and was written by Lizzie (Liz Janzen) and me. To this day, Lizzie and I remain good friends. When I read this archived document I could imagine the two of us deciding to put the “obvious” to print to ensure a shared footing when discussing “hiring and firing.” I wonder now if it was over pots of tea at Ahrens Street or drinks at the Station Hotel.

A Moral Imperative

Ah, yes, I remember it well - but not so very well (it seems) without the helpful prodding of girlfriends with a shared history from the early 1970s. Back then, if you didn’t work at Dumont you knew someone who did.

For some, Dumont was the embodiment of “praxis” or “theory put into practice.” For others, it was this funky co-op typesetting shop on the second floor of the old Mitchell button factory on the corner of Weber and Victoria Streets in Kitchener. From the very beginning (for me) Dumont Press Graphix had this air of spent enterprise, Depression-era politics, and mysterious past encounters. Its musty wood smell, rickety unreliable freight elevator, high-beamed ceilings, exposed piping and tall multi-paned windows (some of which were cracked or broken) hinted at something more durable and larger than me.

In the early 1970s, we were all searching for something. The world we grew up in (when we learned more about it) proved not that attractive or inviting. Our studies at university provided insights but not necessarily answers. How might we begin to make sense of the world we inherited? How might we reshape it or improve its systems to better reflect our deepest heartfelt values? Isn’t this both the challenge and the burden that every new generation faces? At the time, it wasn’t so much a choice as a moral imperative.

Bridging Two Silos

I arrived at Dumont by way of the Eby Street commune, a political collective composed of two separate houses that lasted less than a year (perhaps a little over 6 months). The commune was an ambitious venture, an experiment into shared living that went beyond co-op housing. We pooled our financial resources, scheduled household responsibilities, cooked and ate together, and met as a collective at least once a week to discuss possible actions that might reflect our commitment to change.

There were, if I remember correctly, 12 of us altogether. The individuals I remember well are those I grew closer to while at Eby Street or those I had met on campus at University of Waterloo: Betty Burcher, Vicki Mees (a frequent visitor), Randy and Joy, Wally, David Monoogian, Peter Warrian, Heather Webster.

While at Eby Street I met Bill Aird, perhaps through Peter Lang (my partner and husband) or perhaps at RSM (Radical Student Movement) meetings on campus. One of our ongoing, recurring topics was how to bridge the gap between the two silos of university and community. We were all in some way connected to university either as teachers or students and we debated ad infinitum how we might share what we were learning with the community at large, how we might work to bridge the gap between the privileged and working classes.

I remember asking Rod Hay, when I was very new to the RSM, why were we so preoccupied with the working classes when so many universities did not question their “ivory tower” status. I remember his smile and simple response: We are the children of working class men and women. We are numerous. There are more of us than there are jobs. To keep us off the street (so to speak) the “powers that be” made it easier for us to enter university. We are learning about ourselves and in the process we are learning about privilege. And because we are the children of working men and women we see things differently. The balance seems uneven.

Rod may not have used these exact words. But, this is what I retained. There were large numbers of we so-called “baby boomers” at Waterloo and we did not come from wealth. Our loyalties lay elsewhere. Outside the universities, Kitchener-Waterloo was largely a working class city.

On the Line

I remember Bill Aird as one of the key players in the community newspaper On the Line. I liked Bill, his thoughtful way of speaking and his passion for the underprivileged. I decided to help distribute On the Line in downtown Kitchener. I also participated in the Dare Strike (front page news in On the Line) as one of many students showing their support for the Dare factory workers. I became friends with one of the families involved in the strike and later rented an attic apartment from them.

As has been described in other articles on this website, On the Line was inspired by the insight that information is powerful and that the press plays a key role in sharing and disseminating information. It didn’t take long to carry this insight one step further: Freedom of the press belongs to those who own one! Owning the means of production was also one way to reduce costs for creative and independent journalism.

Dumont – A Precarious Tolerance

When I started at Dumont in 1971, I knew nothing about photocomposition, perforating machines, punch-hole tapes, paste-up boards, layout tables, waxing machines, proofreading, editing, photography, organizing payrolls, scheduling, and shift work. But I did know how to type (and yes to this day I believe I can type faster than Nick Sullivan, aka Nicky Savage) and I was a seasoned worker.

By the time I arrived at Dumont I already had several years work experience. I graduated from high school in Montreal when I was 16. Instead of immediately going to university I enrolled in Business College (the former Mother House at the corner of University Avenue and Sherbrooke Street West) and for two years afterwards I helped send my brothers to university. Mine, was a working class household from the Montreal East End: Catholic, dominated by a widowed war bride whose modest hope for her daughter was that she marry well.

I think that the black and white photos of Dumont’s early days capture some of my fondest memories of Dumont. It was a difficult place to work at times – not everyone shared the same work ethic or “praxis.” But, it was a world where creativity and best efforts were respected and encouraged, where we struggled to learn and to improve our skills, where techniques were shared and judgments (for the most part) withheld. Bit by bit, we were learning from each other and sharing – no matter how difficult or painful.

This precarious tolerance applied to our personal lives as well as our daily tasks at Dumont. We were all in and out of relationships, trying to make “head or tail” of marriage, couples, sexuality, commitment, personal freedom, individualism and collective growth. We took on so much!

In the spring of ’71, I returned from Europe, broke, having travelled for 8 months and not knowing what was next. Back in Kitchener-Waterloo I found work at Camp Columbia for the summer. Reconnecting with friends and meeting new ones, I heard that Dumont was looking to hire in September. Yes!

I didn’t know anything about newspapers (other than reading the Chevron and having friends who wrote for it) or typesetting. But I could type and I knew I liked the proposed co-op/collective model of Dumont -- a fit with my values having grown up a Mennonite girl (United not Old Order) and definitely a fit with my developing feminist and left leanings. And then (luckily) Janet, Mary and I found a house to rent on Ahrens Street. Just a roll out of bed or a stagger home, either way Dumont was close by. The Station Hotel was an added bonus (greasy breakfast or late beers).

I learned a lot at Dumont. I never did become proficient at layout, and couldn’t match Winnie and Nick in the ticker tape contest of accuracy and speed, but I could organize the scheduling, figure out the finances, bring meetings to consensus and to an end, and be a worker bee, willing and dependable. I learned that although we might all agree about what had to be done, we needed to identify the different tasks to do them well; some people were a lot better at some tasks than others. So when there was a time crunch it made more sense for me to do the proofreading than to try to fit type onto a layout page when the text was too long.

I learned how to participate in a meeting, how to speak up, how to get the “agenda” done, how to work with a variety of personalities in various states of mind with different skills and interests in a sometimes tense, down-to-the-wire atmosphere.

Dumont meetings were often long and at times tedious. There were as many as 18 people working at Dumont in the early 1970s and meetings were deliberately non-hierarchical. We had neither set format nor designated chair. Often, leadership in directing or managing a meeting fell almost inevitably to the few more naturally inclined towards creating an agenda, taking notes, devising next steps and ensuring that everyone who wanted to speak were able to do so. Discussion was encouraged.

We often went around in circles, everyone having a say and then repeating once again to clarify or make sure that we were heard accurately. There was a dusty, over-stuffed couch with pillows that sank to the floor and a couple of large armchairs that were always taken before I arrived. Many of us pulled up chairs and stools and, if I remember correctly, most of our meetings were in the late afternoon.

A meeting that sticks in my mind was one attended by a large German Shepherd – at the time we had no policy on dogs or cats at work. The meeting had been going on for some hours with people coming and going, taking short breaks, and speaking sporadically. At some point the muscular and rather fearsome Shepherd was shooed off a chair to make room for humans. The Shepherd reluctantly stepped down from his position of comfort, slowly pacing around the room looking for another spot to sit (or so we thought). Much to our surprise, the Shepherd suddenly started to jerk off in the middle of the meeting!

Throughout my working career, I’ve been a keen observer of human behavior. And as I continued to fine-tune my meeting skills, maneuvering my way through difficult personalities and challenges, this event would often come to mind. What more could possibly astonish me!

I don’t remember there being much “to do” about the Shepherd’s bad behavior. In the early 1970s we were reluctant to voice feelings of shock or disgust when it came to sexual activity, canine or otherwise. But, the image of this shepherd and our shared personal responses over tea at Ahrens Street or beer at the Station Hotel remain with me to this day.

Ahrens Street was my base for three years, a long time in those years. Janet, Mary, Winnie, Jane, Lesley (and Sara) and David Monoogian are friends even now, 50 years later (although I have lost touch with David). Sitting at the Ahrens Street dining room table we shared many pots of tea, lots of laughter, passionate discussions, angst, tears, friendships, visitors, great meals, and some very personal growth.