I should have been suspicious.
I should have been suspicious when Ronnie Egan, my neighbour of nearly 25 years, asked if I would take her to the grocery store. I should have been suspicious because it was a Sunday. And she wanted me to drive her there at precisely 2:15 that afternoon. Odd in retrospect. But given that 1) she was a chief petty officer in the Women’s Royal Canadian Naval Service during the war and she therefore does everything with purpose and precision, and 2) that she is the world’s greatest neighbour, who was I to question? But I did speak up at one point.
“What do you need at the store today?” I asked.
“Just a few things for an event I’m going to,” she said.
It turned out the event was a surprise party for me. You see, Sunday was my 60th birthday. Ronnie and the whole world – well, my whole world – was in on the scheme to gather at the local music hall and surprise me. And I didn’t suspect a thing. Although I should have.
I should have been suspicious when my relatives – all here from the U.S. for a small family reunion – arrived for the usual weekend afternoon of horseshoes in our backyard, but they arrived before noon! The clue? My family is not that punctual.
Furthermore, when they arrived – Aunt Mary and Uncle George (New Jersey), Uncle Angelo (Maryland), and cousins Diane and Jerry (Florida), as well as my sister Kate (Toronto) – they all seemed to hit the ground running. Within minutes of their arrival, the men had launched into the first game of horseshoes and the women informed us they were off on a shopping trip. A shopping trip? What about the hors d’oeuvres, munchies and dip we normally prepare for the backyard festivities? And the backyard bar? What I didn’t know was they were off to prepare the music hall.
I should have been suspicious when neither of my two oldest and dearest friends – Dave Ross and Ross Perigoe – phoned to wish me “Happy Birthday.” Ross, Dave and I have known each other since Grade 2. We were all born in 1949. We’ve always phoned each other on birthdays. But not Sunday, because Dave had travelled from London and Ross from Montreal to surprise me.
When, last week, most of my teaching colleagues at Centennial College in Toronto, didn’t seem to offer final good-byes for the summer holidays, my antennae should have been alerted. Instead, fellow journalism professors – Lindy Oughtred, Steve Cogan, Ellin Bessner, Christine Smith and Malcolm Kelly – were in on the plot.
I should have been suspicious when my wife Jayne didn’t prepare her world-famous artichoke dip for the backyard party, or when our daughter Quenby – months ago – wrote in my date book on July 12: “Book no appointments. It’s your birthday.” And when our other daughter Whitney (who finished her final performance at the Fringe Festival in Toronto Sunday afternoon) said she’d try to attend the family gathering, I should have put two and two together. Whit arrived in time to sing two of my favourite songs, while her sister Quenby masterminded the entire enterprise.
While tending her 19-month-old daughter Layne and expecting our second grandchild in September, Quenby e-mailed all my “families” – high school chums, Uxbridge Oilies teammates, veterans, newspaper kin, writers’ circle friends, musicians, battlefield tour companions, college associates, broadcasting and journalism colleagues, and friends from all over this community. She organized the food and drink. She even gathered pictures from 60 years of my life for projection on-stage at the music hall. She covered every base and buttoned down every potential loose lip – except one.
A few weeks ago, when I ran into the music hall custodian Bruce Bennett, he happened to mention that the facility was ready for “that event I was involved in at the hall.”
“No, I’m not emceeing anything that weekend,” I said. And, yes, I should have been suspicious. But I never connected the dots.
And so, at precisely 2:15 last Sunday afternoon, when Ronnie said we had to leave the horseshoes to do her run to the grocery store, I never tweaked. It never occurred to me I was being had by my favourite neighbour. I never was suspicious. And having helped Ronnie shop, as directed, I delivered her (and me) to the music hall where my whole world was waiting to shout, “Surprise!”
And Quenby got it exactly right when she borrowed from Frank Capra’s “It’s a Wonderful Life,” describing my good fortune in friendships. She referred to me as “the richest man in town.”
