ABSTRACT
I accepted an Associate Professorship at Canadian $10,500 and in the summer of 1960, we moved to Canada. We had providentially given up our apartment in Cambridge, and short of no jobs being available at all, I had no plans to return to Harvard. So, with pregnant Jean and three-year-old Peter, and the car packed high with our worldly goods, we took off for Canada by the northern route from San Francisco. Our Canadian immigration gateway was at the Detroit-Windsor border where we were posed a fascinating set of questions about profession, background, and nationality. What was our religion? I said Jewish and that was accepted; Jean said she wasn’t sure because she came from an agnostic family, but she had gone to Sunday school wherever the nicest boys were. She gave the immigration officer a set of alternatives and when she came to Scotch Presbyterian, was told that that was the best. As to nationality of origin, we tried to say United States but that was no go—it was Hebrew (sic) for me and on the basis of Jean’s father’s distant Pennsylvania Dutch origins—German!
