Ted Barris

I think I can pinpoint the first time I ever felt self-confident.

It didn’t come on graduation day. It wasn’t contained inside that rolled-up education degree. I can’t even say I felt self-assured when I got married or with my first steps as a professional. You’d think a guy who had his first newspaper column published in high school, his first radio show as a teenager, his first book released in his twenties, would have loads of confidence. But no. The day I think I realized I had found my niche in the world was the day my brother-in-law Bill Doig gave me a friendly poke in the shoulder.

“You know,” he said, “you’re pretty good at what you do.”

I had only just left my hometown of Toronto for work a few months earlier in 1976. My wife – his wife’s sister – and I had only been married a year or so. She and I really had no car of our own (my folks had given us one). We didn’t have a roof over our heads (Bill solved that; he invited us live with them). We had very few possessions. Heck, we didn’t even have a credit rating. But somehow because I was (overnight) Bill Doig’s brother-in-law and working in the same city as he was, I suddenly became a somebody.

You see, when Bill gave me that compliment, it was more powerful than a pat on the back for being a good communicator. It went beyond the fact that Bill regularly tuned into whatever I was doing on the air. I mean, he could have listened to the local country or rock ‘n’ roll station, not his brother-in-law’s morning information radio show. But because he respected what I did – and often told other people so – he invited me into his world, his circle of acquaintances, and a friendship, which I’m proud to say flourished for over 30 years.

Sadly, the earthly part of our close friendship has just ended. Last week, my brother-in-law Bill Doig died at 67.

Genuine kinship with someone who’s a relative by marriage is rare. But Bill and I felt simpatico and not just out of professional respect. I remember the first time I met him on a hobby farm just outside Saskatoon. It was July and he needed to transport hay for his horses from the fields to his barn. While Bill had scores of friends – closer and more physically adept at such things – this wimpy and unskilled Barris body was the only one that showed up to help. He never forgot it.

Some years later, when Jayne and I bought a piece of Saskatchewan prairie adjoining his and Pat’s land, west of Saskatoon, and then moved our first house, a 40-foot mobile home onto it, Bill was always there to help – with the tools I never had, the skill I never had, and the loyalty I never thought I deserved. But all that gave me something extra. Because Bill showed me how to build a fence, plant a windbreak, do minor repairs, and even handle basic tools such as drills, wrenches and a chainsaw, for the first time in my life, I felt – if I had to – I really could fend for myself.

I’ll never be a handyman’s handyman, but Bill gave me the confidence to try and fail and try again.

There’s one other gift my brother-in-law bestowed upon me. It is perhaps the least obvious, but (to me) among the most precious. Not long after I’d begun my broadcast journalism career at that radio station in Saskatoon, I contemplated assembling a program I sensed listeners needed – a Remembrance Day broadcast comprised of a veteran’s memories. Bill suggested his father, Harold Doig. Like most vets, “H.T.” (as everybody knew him) seemed hesitant to talk about some of his most traumatic navy experiences, least of all to this 20-something stranger with an interest in war history.

But with Bill’s encouragement, H.T. gave me his memories, including a vivid recollection of seeing his brother after his first Atlantic convoy trip to Murmansk, Russia, and back.

“That first mission was so harrowing,” H.T. said, “that when my brother came back, his hair had gone completely white.”

It’s a veteran’s memory I’ll never forget. What’s more, that gift from H.T. and from his son Bill in many ways opened the door for me to explore the memories of hundreds, indeed thousands, of other veterans. Bill’s gift of trust became the most gratifying career I could ever have imagined. So, brother-in-law Bill Doig, though I can never fully repay you, I pay tribute to your greatest gift to me – believing in myself.