It was 1979. Queen had a hit with Don’t Stop Me Now, Anwar Sadat and Menachem Begin had just signed a historic peace accord, and the Iran hostage crisis began. It was also the year the three of us became life-long friends.
I was Jewish, Steve Kennedy was Protestant and Jack McCarthy was Irish Catholic. We came from different backgrounds, but shared much in common.
Our parents were our role models. They taught us about social justice and compassion for our neighbour, and instilled in us a sense of humour that has carried us a long way. We were all social workers. Steve very early on became a trusted friend and roommate after we were recruited as part of a team of youth workers to handle teens who were one step away from reformatory. Jack worked with the Ottawa-Carleton Children’s’ Aid Society, where I met him when I began working there as a protection worker that year.
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We were baby boomers who had visions of changing the world. In our 20s, with frenetic energy to spare and in a more innocent time, we entered the field of social work with lofty goals.
We worked hard, we played hard and we were hit by various curveballs that showed us the world had many dark places. Poverty, alcohol and drug abuse, teenage depression and family violence became part of our work life and, in their own way, brought us closer together. When you work with such trauma, you need a shoulder, someone to listen. We became each other’s shoulders and confidants.
Jack had already been married to Sharon for a couple of years when we all met. He was the one with the house, where many an evening was spent over good food, wine and beer, and where we learned so much about each other.
Steve, born in Barrie, Ont., moved to Trenton as a young boy. His dad was in the Canadian Armed Forces, and it was as a result that this Jewish kid, while visiting Trenton with Steve, learned to drink beer from quart bottles at the legion hall. Jack, like me, was born and bred in Ottawa, and despite the differences in our faiths, we both entered adulthood with similar values.
I taught them Yiddishisms. We were the “Three Menchketeers,” rebels in our own way. Our work, even with agencies that depended on municipal and provincial funding, was always community-oriented and child-focused. Jack worked to change the system to better reflect the needs of single parents (mostly mothers) who were trapped in poverty and living in assisted housing.
My attention was usually on the family and the-then provincial government’s poor funding of agencies tasked with helping and protecting children in need. Steve worked with agencies that housed tough kids who could no longer live at home because they acted out so defiantly.
This was life-changing work for us, and despite its inherent sadness, it nevertheless made us understand that life requires hope.
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I married Karyn in 1984 and moved to Toronto. It was a traditional Jewish wedding at Ottawa’s Congregation Machzikei Hadas. My brother, Stan, was my best man; Steve and Jack, one Protestant the other Catholic, stood by me as my groomsmen under the chupah. We remained close. Steve got married to Karen in 1985, and to this day, the three couples get together whenever we can.
Alas, time, distance and work have affected our ability to see each other as we once did.
Nonetheless, late last month, after much planning, Jack, Steve and I met halfway between Ottawa and Toronto, at the Waring House Inn outside Picton, Ont. It was a weekend of food, wine and memories. How we laughed and how we told stories, and despite now being in our 60s, we came away feeling like were 25 again. For that very brief moment, we were once again the “Three Menchketeers.”
