It happened after I’d graduated from Ryerson in 1971. I’d learned about a position writing press releases and biographies about up-and-coming rock ‘n’ roll musicians. They called it A&R, an artist and repertoire position. My employer would be one of the biggest recording labels in the world – Warner Brothers. And, they told me, I would be working from a brand new office in Yorkville, the heart of Toronto’s pop music world.
I wanted that job so badly I could taste it. I applied in June, got it in September and was told I’d start in December. It would be my biggest, best Christmas present ever. Then, the roof caved in.
“Sorry to have to tell you this,” the Warner Brothers flunky said on the phone that December. “Changed their minds. No A&R office. No job.”
“Some Christmas present,” I lamented.
But all was not lost. Soon after the recording biz job evapourated, I learned that one of my résumés had landed at, of all places, the University of Saskatchewan in Saskatoon. Turned out the audio-visual department at the U of S needed someone who could write, produce and direct television. Well, I’d just spent three years studying all that at Ryerson; why couldn’t I do it? Besides, I’d never been west of Sarnia, Ont., in my life. Being single, on my own and with no responsibilities, I figured, “Why not?”
There was one hitch, however. The day I agreed to take the job in Saskatoon, the commercial pilots at Air Canada decided to press their demands for a new contract – especially during the high-demand Christmas period – and walked off the job. And since Air Canada was the only airline flying into Saskatoon back then, I found myself stuck on the ground in Toronto.
It didn’t seem to bother my potential U of S employers. They and I expected the strike would end in a matter of days and, I felt sure, by Christmas I’d be settling into my new role as the resident audio-visual producer at the campus of the University of Saskatchewan. But the pilots’ strike dragged on and on.
“Pilots are still out,” my friends at the student residence where I was living would call out each evening after dinner. “Let’s say ‘Good-bye’ to Ted one more time.”
Without a word of a lie, all my post-grad Ryerson pals, all my sister’s under-grad pals and a whole bunch of hangers-on visited a pub named “Doc’s” at least a dozen times leading up to Christmas, through Christmas and on towards New Year’s. That’s how long the Air Canada pilots remained off the job and that’s how often they said “Good-bye” to me.
So, I’d gone from anticipating a Christmas job with a big recording company, to a confirmed Christmas job at a western Canadian university campus, to endless Christmastime good-bye parties at Doc’s pub drowned in copious amounts of draft beer and late-night choruses of “Auld Lang Syne.” My future, to say the least, looked tenuous. My career felt stuck in neutral. The Christmas of 1971 seemed a total bust.
When the strike finally ended and the Air Canada pilots began returning to work, it was nearly a month into the new year. My friends at the residence had either grown tired of singing “Auld Lang Syne” or (returning to their own lives) had decided that recovering from yet another drinking and singing binge at Doc’s was not worth the expense or the hangover; they had moved on.
My sister and a couple of friends were the only ones left to see me off at Pearson International that morning – Jan. 31, 1972. When I arrived in Saskatoon, three hours later, I stepped off the DC-9. In those days passengers actually walked down a set of stairs outdoors before entering the airport. And that’s where I met my new boss.
“Welcome to Saskatoon,” he said. “It’s minus 52, the coldest day of the winter!”
The hair inside my nose froze instantly there on the tarmac. I wondered what the heck I was doing out in the middle of the Prairies so far from home. I also wondered if I’d made the right decision to seek my fortune in a place as remote and frigid as Saskatoon appeared to be.
“By the way,” my new boss added. “Tonight, if you’re not doing anything, why don’t you come to an evening class I teach at the university on TV writing.”
“Sure,” I said, pretty much forgetting about the commitment until later that afternoon when he reminded me. But it so happened the after-hours writing class included an evening student named Jayne MacAulay, the woman I would later marry…
And thus the best (if a little belated) Christmas present ever.
