Sandy (Black) Proudfoot of Hockley Valley, Ont., writes about Gordon Sheppard, whose obituary appeared on March 4.
I dated Gordon Sheppard during my 15th year in Toronto. An intensely handsome, dark-haired, dimple-cheeked lad, he was slightly older than me. He grew up in the Moore Park section of Toronto; I was from the Kingsway area, which, at that time, was a very long way across the Bloor Street bridge for most city boys who dated "west end girls." Gordon attended the University of Toronto Schools and, that year, invited me to be his date at the UTS formal. He announced that he was not going to pick me up in his mother's car that night, as he usually did, but I was to be delivered to his home in Moore Park by taxi; no explanation was given.
You need to understand that Gordon was a unique person even at 16. Dressed in my formal gown and with excited anticipation, I arrived at his home that evening to host a pre-dance party with Gordon, only to find that he was not in attendance but upstairs still getting dressed. When he finally appeared, it was a grand entrance, indeed, and to the accompaniment of much hooting and cat-calling from his school chums. Gordon was dressed in formal attire, all right, but in a kilt. I was mortified. I was also told that he wore, beneath his kilt, leopard-skin underpants. I never asked about, nor saw, the source of all the amusement.
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