HMCS Shawinigan, corvette torpedoed off the East Coast in 1942.
I almost missed her. I’d finished a presentation to the Tillsonburg military historical club. In fact, I thought I’d answered all of the questions from the audience. Then, I noticed a woman in the back row with her hand raised. Even when she stood, I could only see her head and shoulders above the seated audience. Diminutive though she was, however, her voice was strong.
“My father was in the Battle of the Atlantic,” she announced. “He went down with HMCS Shawinigan. All hands were lost.” (more…)
He stood at the lectern in front of hundreds of us. A lit cigarette dangled from his left hand (they were allowed indoors back then). He spoke almost entirely without notes, as if his words were a credo he’d crafted over years until the message came out as his own. I’m paraphrasing now, but here’s what this man from Quebec said on stage at the University of Toronto’s Convocation Hall that day:
“We are heirs to a fantastic adventure – an early America that was almost entirely French,” he said. “We are heirs to an obstinate group which has kept alive that portion of French America we call Quebec…”
The year was 1969. I’d sat mesmerized for the better part of 90 minutes inside Convocation Hall, listening to the man who wanted to lead Quebec out of Canada. (more…)
Thanksgiving with a new branch of the family included.
It’s coming up to five months since the derecho winds struck our community on May 21. In those first few weeks after the storm, I wrote extensively about the experience – the fearful moments prior to, the anxious moments during, the mixed emotions afterward. But as damaging as those times proved to be, I think we all shared the sentiment. It could have been worse.
“At least we don’t have bombs falling on our heads,” I remember thinking (a reference to the plight of Ukrainian civilians facing Russian bombardment in their homes and streets).
My family and I spent part of Thanksgiving weekend gathering, catching up, feasting, laughing and shedding an emotional tear or two. (more…)
The Hive in Nanton – just one of many attractions created by local entrepreneurs.
Whenever I get the chance to visit other provinces, I find myself gravitating to smaller towns. Last week, I was travelling through southern Alberta on a public-speaking tour. One of the places where I’d been invited to speak was Nanton (population 2,000), about an hour’s drive south of Calgary.
While there, my host invited me to lunch at a new eatery in town called The Hive. It was part vendors’ shop and part truck-stop café. Inside I was introduced to owner/operator, Kristen Hall.
“Welcome to The Hive,” she said. “It’s what’s buzzing in town.”
I rolled my eyes and groaned.
“It’s always a good idea to start your visit with a laugh,” she said. “Enjoy your stay.” (more…)
Burned out building on Brock Street East, Uxbridge.
Monday night’s candidates’ forum was drawing to a close. The next to last questioner in the Q&A portion of the forum at the Uxbridge arena had to stand on a chair to reach the microphone, but her dad helped her get there. It was probably long past her bedtime, but Bella McKenzie-Pugsley collected her thoughts and spoke clearly but with concern.
“Why are there so many fires?” she asked the candidates seated across the south wall of the hall. “Our firefighters are great people. They are our heroes.”
The fire that frightened nine-year-old Bella, broke out last Wednesday night (Sept. 21) and in a matter of hours gutted 11/13 Brock Street East. (more…)
John Dougall wrote his mom about WWII from a merchant ship. His letters coincidentally made their way to me.
I wasn’t expecting to be surprised. This particular public-speaking event seemed straight forward. I’d arrived early and worked with the tech guy to get my presentation ready. I’d met with the bookseller to pre-inscribe some books. Then, I sat watching people file in. Then, a face registered, and her name tag – Jane Hutchison. She spotted me and came right over.
“Hi, Ted,” she said with a smile. “I’m John Dougall’s niece.”
“What are you doing here?” And I gave her a hug.
She said she was a longtime member of Canadian Club of Halton and heard that I’d been invited to speak about those who’d served at sea in the Battle of the Atlantic (the subject of my latest book). She said she didn’t want to miss this event, since the subject was near to her heart. (more…)
In 1976, the movie character Howard Beale epitomized society’s rage.
I had just finished one of my anti-technology rants. I’d complained about something my computer had lost. I was angry that our television service provider had updated all of our access to programming such that I needed an electronics degree just to tune in the news. And I hated the way some of the on-air newscasters mispronounced names and places. My wife patiently waited for me to take a breath.
“Is there anything that made you happy today?” she asked.
And I smiled sheepishly back at her. Then, apologized. (more…)
Alex Barris – my father and mentor – had a sign over his desk to inspire him to write.
The sign always hung in my father’s office, right over the spot where he worked. That happened to be just above his typewriter (in a time before computers) where Dad pumped out many millions of words in a life-long writing career. But Dad had installed this sign over his work space for those days at his office in the basement of our house when maybe the spirit to actually put fingers on keys occasionally eluded him or when he periodically felt unmotivated.
“There’s only one way to become a writer,” the sign read, “by applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair.”
My father, Alex Barris, wrote probably a thousand radio, television and movie scripts, hundreds of columns for newspapers and periodicals, scores of screenplays and at least half a dozen books at that typewriter in his basement office. And I frankly doubt that he ever needed encouragement, coaxing or cajoling to put the seat of his pants on the seat of his chair. (more…)
CTV – where grey “business decisions” attempt to obliterate black and white.
First, I welcomed the opportunity. The CTV producer invited me on spec to come up with an idea for a show featuring prominent Canadians. At the time, back in the 1980s, as a freelance writer I made much of my living pitching ideas without payment on the chance if the broadcaster liked the idea, I’d win a contract to write the script. So, I massaged the prominent Canadians idea into an outline, presented it to the producer and asked for a contract to write the show.
“We’ll have to see what the budget is,” he warned.
“When will you let me know if I can write the show?” I asked.
“After we’ve budgeted for the guests and the paint for the set.” (more…)
Public health kept a lid on SARS at Scarborough Grace Hospital in 2003, despite Health Ministry incompetence. Global News.
The news nearly killed my mother. I believe that it hastened my father’s death. In February 2003, my father suffered a debilitating stroke that stole his two most precious faculties – speech and memory. Because my parents lived in Agincourt, paramedics rushed him to Scarborough Grace Hospital.
Days later SARS struck the same floor of the hospital where my father was recovering. Nevertheless, nurses told us they could isolate Dad sufficiently so that Mom could still suit up with PPE and see him. But then the Conservative provincial government, thinking it knew better than the health-care specialists, intervened.
“For his safety,” they told my mother, “we’re isolating your father in the new PPP (public-private partnership) hospital in Brampton.”
“How is my mother, living in Agincourt, going to be able to see my father in Brampton?” I asked the office of then health minister Tony Clement.
“She can communicate with him by fax,” they recommended. (more…)
