Barris Beat Archives • Page 50 of 82 • Ted Barris

For a thousand D-Days

Written by Ted Barris on June 12th, 2014June 15th, 2014. Leave a comment

British and Canadian troops took the bridges east of the invasion beaches before daybreak June 6, 1944.

The day seemed rushed and complicated. People and vehicles rushed in every direction. Time flew more quickly than anyone wanted. There seemed no room, but to hurry through the day. It was D-Day, 2014, and we had tried desperately to get to an appointment with history – a commemorative ceremony at Bavent, in Normandy, France. In fact, when we arrived, the 1st Canadian Parachute Battalion padre, who had already conducted the scheduled ceremony, realized our predicament.

“I know you weren’t late 70 years ago,” he said. “However, traffic jams and road blocks notwithstanding, you’ve made it.”

1st Can Para vets Sullivan and XXX salute at Bavent memorial. — 1st Can Para vets Sullivan and Jones salute comrades killed in action or deceased since the war, at Bavent memorial.

Two veteran members of the original Canadian Paras – Mervin Jones, 91, from Quebec, and Robert Sullivan, 91, originally from Oregon – and Joanne de Vries representing her late husband, paratrooper and Legion of Honour recipient Jan de Vries of Toronto, had rushed in to the Bavent memorial location at the last moment.

“And it would be a shame not to mark this occasion with your comrades and your successors today,” the padre noted.

And so, the young clergyman conducted a second, smaller commemoration to fallen members of the battalion. On that very day – June 5 – 70 years before, Jones, Sullivan and Jan de Vries had parachuted from transport aircraft into the night to protect the flanks of the invasion beaches – Utah, Omaha, Gold, Juno and Sword – not knowing if they might succeed or die in an attempt to dislodge the Nazis from occupied Europe.

On this 70th anniversary of the Allied invasion, I and 48 other Canadians (who had travelled to France for D-Day commemorations and were also late for the original tribute) were relieved that Joanne de Vries would be allowed to join the veteran Paras placing a wreath of poppies at the foot of their regiment’s Bavent memorial.

“They were young,” the padre said before the minute’s silence. “Strong of limb, true of eye. Staunch to the end against odds uncounted.”

By the middle of the D-Day morning, June 6, 1944, about the time 150,000 assault troops were establishing the Normandy beachhead behind them, survivors of the 1st Canadian Parachute Battalion had achieved all the objectives assigned them in Operation Overlord. They had captured a vital German battery, made impassable all the bridges on the eastern flank of the D-Day landings, and they had isolated potential German counter-attacks.

Joanne de Vries and daughter Andrea stand where Jan de Vries dug in on D-Day 1944. — Joanne de Vries and daughter Andrea stand where Jan de Vries dug in with the Can Paras on D-Day 1944.

“In fact, Jan had landed miles from his intended objective,” Joanne de Vries told us this week in France. Then, following the wreath-laying ceremony at the Paras’ memorial, she walked us up the road to where her husband, Jan, had dug a slit trench on the evening of June 6, 1944, and defended this spot unrelieved for almost two months.

I have always admired Joanne de Vries’ support for her husband’s post-war campaign raising the profile of veterans. When Jan de Vries co-founded the Juno Beach Centre in Courseulles-sur-Mer, when he led the 1st Canadian Parachute Battalion Association, and when he spearheaded the effort to keep fellow Para Fred Topham’s VC medal in Canada, Joanne de Vries was there at his side. Now she does it in his memory.

A few kilometres away from the Canadian Paras’ site at Bavent, another of the women who joined the 70th anniversary D-Day commemorative tour I’m hosting this year, paid tribute to her father’s Normandy campaign story. On June 6, last Friday morning, we visited Beny-sur-Mer, home of Canada’s D-Day cemetery.

Pat Rusciolelli stands at grave of her father's comrade-in-arms - A.A. Starfield - in Beny-sur-Mer cemetery. — Pat Rusciolelli stands at grave of her father’s comrade-in-arms – K.G. Starfield – in Beny-sur-Mer cemetery.

Pat Rusciolelli checked the Commonwealth War Graves Commission site directory and then walked to the grave of trooper K.G. Starfield. She stood at behind his marker and explained to me what had happened. In early July, Starfield and Pat’s father, T.A. Bullock, were travelling in a Bren-gun carrier. At that time, their regiment, the 14th Canadian Hussars, was supporting the Allied liberation of Caen in an area known as Louvigny. A German mortar shell landed in the carrier, and severely wounded both men. Starfield died on July 15. Pat’s father nearly died.

“A piece of shrapnel lodged beside my dad’s spine,” she said. “He was paralyzed. They came to him and asked if he was OK. But the concussion had twisted his legs backwards, so he didn’t think he was.”

Pat went on to explain that her father thought he’d lost both his legs because he couldn’t feel them. Bullock was shipped home to Canada, where he eventually learned to walk again living a relatively normal life. As she stood there expressing how privileged she felt to attend Starfield’s grave at Beny-sur-Mer, Pat Rusciolleli was on the verge of tears. She pointed out her father was alive and well back home in Canada acknowledging an important moment.

“My father is 92 today,” she said. “Happy Birthday, Dad.”

Of course, wreaths and graveside visits – even on coincidental birthdays – don’t keep the memory of veterans alive. It’s the act of revisiting their achievements. If we continue to tell and retell the stories of their service, they live on.

Juno in his life

Written by Ted Barris on June 5th, 2014June 15th, 2014. Leave a comment

In many more ways than one, Juno is always close by. Fred Barnard’s been counting down the days, reminding his daughter, Donna, that the anniversary is coming up. At 93, he’s not as agile as the day he first became acquainted with Juno Beach. That day – June 6, 1944 – he waded ashore in Normandy as part of the greatest amphibious landing in military history. He helped the liberation of Europe gain a toehold in France as part of the D-Day landings.

“He remembers it all,” she said. “Whenever it’s close to the anniversary, it’s always on his mind.”

Well, D-Day is almost as often on my mind as it is on Fred’s, but especially with the 70th anniversary tomorrow. Some of you may remember how Fred Barnard and I came to know each other. Eleven years ago, I was standing in line at the CIBC in town waiting to pay my credit card bill. Ahead of me were an older man and, at the head of the line, a friend of mine. My friend asked what I was doing these days.

“Writing a book about Canadians on D-Day,” I said.

“Big anniversary next year,” my friend said.

“Yes. The 60th.”

Then it was my friend’s turn for service at the teller’s wicket. That left only the older fellow and me. As we moved up the queue, he turned to me.

“I was there,” he said quietly.

“A veteran, are you?”

“I was there,” he repeated and then continued, “on D-Day.”

What followed was an exchange of phone numbers, an invitation to visit and an interview that changed me, and it changed the book I was writing. Fred Barnard related to me his D-Day experience of coming ashore in Normandy that June day in 1944 with his younger brother Donald in the same landing craft.

Donald Barnard, Fred's younger brother, also in the QOR. — Donald Barnard, Fred’s younger brother, also in the QOR.

But Fred’s younger brother never made it off the beach; a single bullet through the chest felled Donald before he reached dry land. Until that day in 2003, Fred Barnard rarely if ever talked about it. I felt honoured to hear the Barnard brothers’ story.

Fred and I have carried on a friendly acquaintance ever since. Phone calls, visits to the house and the occasional chance meeting downtown have allowed me to learn more about my coincidental friend. As often as we’ve chatted, however, Fred remains a quiet and modest man. His Second World War service in France after D-Day proved to be equally remarkable. His Queen’s Own unit continued to spearhead the liberation of France and Fred was wounded by shrapnel in mid-August 1944.

All of that might seem just another veteran’s tale from a war so long ago, fading and nearly forgotten. However, several years ago, back in 2007, I accompanied Fred Barnard to a ceremony at the Moss Park Armoury in Toronto. At that event he received the French Legion of Honour.

“I was no patriot or hero,” Fred told me back in 2003. “I was just doing my job as a volunteer soldier.”

For the record, the Legion of Honour was created by French general Napoleon Bonaparte in 1802. It was and still is the highest award given by the French Republic for outstanding service to France, regardless of social status or nationality. It is the French equivalent of the British Victoria Cross and George Cross combined. Critics of Napoleon’s award once suggested that such “baubles on men’s chests were mere children’s toys.”

Baubles or not, I for one have the greatest respect for what young volunteers Fred and Donald Barnard accomplished that precarious June morning 70 years ago. In simple terms, were it not for them, I wouldn’t have the freedom to write these words today.

Fred remains a modest veteran. His daughter Donna allowed that Fred doesn’t get out much. The frailties of age and diminished hearing, particularly in larger gatherings, such as he used to attend at the Legion and veterans’ events, make meeting people awkward for him. Nevertheless, the victory of landing Canadian troops on Juno Beach 70 years ago tomorrow is very much on his mind. Even more so these days, his daughter said. Fred has been looking forward to seeing the way the TV stations commemorate the anniversary – he’s been watching documentaries and will watch D-Day coverage on Friday.

But D-Day will be close by in another way this year. Donna and Fred just recently got a golden retriever puppy (five months old) to be a companion to their older golden, Chloe.

“Of course, you know what we named the new puppy, don’t you?” Donna said. “Juno.”

While memories of the loss of his brother Donald Barnard on D-Day always come back to him this time of year, now Fred has something more pleasant to think of each June 6 – the new life in his life. Something worth remembering everyday, as we do a veteran’s service to his brother, his regiment and his country.

A peace-time image - Juno Beach in summertime. — A peace-time image – Juno Beach in summertime.

His microphone as witness

Written by Ted Barris on May 28th, 2014May 28th, 2014. Leave a comment

Knowlton Nash addressed journalism and broadcasting students at Centennial in 2001.

In his time, the man reported on the Mau Mau uprising in Africa, race riots in the southern U.S., and a near nuclear war over the Cuban missile crisis. He interviewed popes, presidents and just plain people. In the middle of times of upheaval and change – the 1960s – he met and reported on Che Guevara, James Meredith, Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech.

Finally, in 1978, he won the battle for the most coveted seat in broadcasting – the host’s chair at “The National” at CBC TV – and stayed there a decade. But Knowlton Nash was perhaps most drawn to reporting on a war in his very own backyard.

“Nowhere in the world has the battle over the kind of broadcasting we hear and see been fought with more ferocity than in Canada,” he told one my journalism classes in October 2001.

I have been proud to use as textbooks some of Knowlton Nash’s published writings about broadcasting, including “The Microphone Wars: A History of Triumph and Betrayal at the CBC” and “The Swashbucklers: The Story of Canada’s Battling Broadcasters.” Indeed, in 2001 he addressed my students at Centennial College about his research and writing of history versus his work on air.

“Writing books about broadcasting,” he told us, “is more challenging, more demanding (but) more satisfying.”

Knowlton Nash started writing his own newspaper at age 10, sold stories about collegiate football to the Globe and Mail as a teenager, thrived as a Washington correspondent, and then shaped the flagship nightly newscast at CBC TV through one of its most critical times – the 1980s. Under his guidance as anchor and senior correspondent, Nash helped to move the broadcast from 11 to 10 p.m. each night. And in so doing, he earned the trust and adoration of the Canadian public; often his viewers referred to Nash as “Uncle Knowlty.” Then, in retirement he turned to documenting Canada’s broadcasting roots – the birth of both private and public radio. He had completed nearly a dozen books when he died of complications from Parkinson’s disease last weekend at age 86.

As a fellow broadcaster I watched his more than smooth delivery from behind those over-sized glasses each night at 10. I admired his command of the historical context of the times, seeming to have at his fingertips every milestone relevant to the day’s news. I applauded his calm demeanor, though all the world seemed half-crazed and running in circles.

I think Knowlton Nash’s even greater contribution to the airwaves came after his celebrity on The National, when he wrote about the earliest days of broadcasting, when he said for example, “radio became the poor man’s theatre… a God-send during the Depression.” In his book about the CBC, he worshipped the two co-founders of the Canadian Radio League – Alan Plaunt and Graham Spry – attempting to move the Depression-era governments of Mackenzie King and R. B. Bennett to create a public broadcasting network, while the private-enterprise radio station owners of the Canadian Association of Broadcasters lobbied to prevent it.

“The idealists (Plaunt and Spry) wanted to use the airwaves primarily to educate and … strengthen Canadian unity,” Nash explained to my students, “while the Swashbucklers (private radio interests) wanted primarily to provide entertainment that was popular and most of all profitable.”

Knowlton captured the essence of those cut-throat battles both on and off the air. He showed us how the CAB called public broadcasting “international conspiracy… communistic and promoted by intellectual snobs.” But equally critical of the public interests, he showed that they plotted to “strong-arm the federal government” into establishing a public radio system in Canada. Typical of Knowlton Nash’s sense of balance and fairness in the telling of a story, he said, “I hasten to say that the Swashbucklers were not all avaricious philistines … nor were the idealists all ivory tower dreamers.”

Knowlton Nash and Barris at Centennial in 2001.

In the end of his analysis of the birth of broadcasting in Canada, Knowlton Nash recognized – like so much else in this country – there had to be a great Canadian compromise. He said that Canadian broadcast pioneers forced a “demassification” of media in Canada and “a tornado of change” that allowed a blend of both private and public cultures in order for Canada’s listeners’ needs to be met.

After Knowlton Nash delivered his broadcast history talk to my students, back in 2001, I asked him privately if he’d have preferred to broadcast in those pioneer years. He smiled at the notion, but then recognized that his career had been the best any broadcaster could ask for. Just what you’d expect a trustworthy TV anchor to say.

How to sell history

Written by Ted Barris on May 22nd, 2014May 26th, 2014. Leave a comment

Calgary school administrator joins me on floor of St. Marys High School gym following my keynote on experiential learning.

Maybe it’s the distance they have to travel from the centre of the country to where they live. It might be that they joined Canada (in 1905) later than did the original constituencies of Upper and Lower Canada. Or, quite possibly, it’s something in the air they breathe or the water they drink out there. But last week, when I asked a young Calgary woman how she felt about Canada, here’s what she said:

“My sense of Canada,” she said, “is that a lot more needs to be taught for the country to be understood by its people.”

On Friday morning, I delivered a kind of keynote address to the Calgary Catholic school board on the subject of experiential learning. I offered about 100 high-school teachers some insights about how to help history come alive. And indeed, the teacher I mentioned was absolutely right. Canadians aren’t taught enough about Canada these days. Ironically, the conditions under which I delivered my talk were not the most conducive to learning either; the teachers in my audience sat in bleachers in a basketball gymnasium at St. Mary’s High School in southwest Calgary.

“My job,” I told them last Friday morning, “is to help you forget that you’re sitting on hard, wooden bleachers in a high school gym.”

But I went on to suggest that my challenge was not unlike the job they faced every day – getting students figuratively out of their classroom chairs and literally excited about history, in particular, Canadian history. As many of you know, I can get pretty animated when I talk about people who’ve witnessed historical events – these days the Canadian participants in the Hollywood myth known as “The Great Escape.” And when I offered the story of one of their own, a Calgarian named Barry Davidson, that seemed to seal the deal.

Barry Davidson earned his private pilot's licence in the 1930s, joined the RAF, but was shot down and turned his air force skills to scrounging inside Stalag Luft III. — Barry Davidson earned his private pilot’s licence in the 1930s, joined the RAF, but was shot down and turned his air force skills to scrounging inside Stalag Luft III.

“He learned to fly with a one-hangar flying club at the Calgary airport in 1937,” I explained. “And when he got his private pilot’s licence, he immediately offered his services to Gen. Chiang Kai-shek, who was looking for pilots to defend Nationalist China. But the general turned him down. So instead, Davidson joined the RAF and was shot down over occupied Europe in 1940, instantly becoming a prisoner of war for the rest of the war.”

I’m a firm believer in putting a face on history. If teachers can make a historical figure come alive in the classroom – with an artifact, a letter, photograph or a well-researched yarn, they give students a way to connect. I also believe such work should be mandatory; in other words, I would make Canadian history as much a core subject as math, science and English literature. In Canada, we may be separated inextricably by geography, but we can help our history shrink the distances and bind young minds and hearts to the stories of their towns, their forefathers and their heroes, if curriculum and school managers give teachers ample opportunity to deliver Canadian history right between the eyes of every kid in the country.

Ironically, I think Alberta is one of only three education jurisdictions where history curriculum is mandatory. In other words, I was preaching to the converted last Friday in Calgary. Part of the additional problem is the means of delivering the history too. Today, most young people have too much information at their disposal – thanks to social media and the internet. They’re also quite frankly too wrapped up in the world of “me,” whether it’s YouTube, their following on Twitter and Facebook or shooting “selfies” at every opportunity. On one hand I think most teachers would encourage such self-expression. On the other, always pointing the world’s cameras and attention inward might make even the most altruistic Canadians far too preoccupied with themselves to realize there’s more to the country than what’s happened in the lifetime of a 16-year-old.

When he was still a teenager in 1940, Calgarian Barry Davidson had joined the Royal Air Force, become a pilot officer and first combat operations over occupied France. On July 6, on just his second flight with an RAF bomber squadron, Davidson’s Blenheim aircraft was shot down. From his POW prison cell in Germany he sent a first letter home to his parents.

“Looks like I am in cold storage for the duration,” he wrote.

Only for Davidson, the adventure of his wartime experience – as the famous “scrounger” at the famous Stalag Luft III “Great Escape” camp – was just beginning. And as I offered Davidson’s story to the history faculty in Calgary last week, I asked the women teachers in the audience who Pilot Officer Davidson reminded them of.

“Why Brad Pitt, of course!” one blurted out.

Then, it hit me. Maybe that’s what we’ve been missing in the presentation of Canadian history to young people – selling the sizzle of our heroes as much as the substance. Maybe Hollywood has it right after all.

Why we teach

Written by Ted Barris on May 14th, 2014May 14th, 2014. Leave a comment

Each spring, when students graduate, those of us who teach get to share their sense of accomplishment.

It came out of the blue. I hadn’t really expected to hear from this former student ever again. But there she was, contacting me by email several years later. And it couldn’t have come at a better time. The college year is just about done (as are we the instructors at the college done in more ways than one). But her words made all the tough teaching moments of the year evaporate in an instant.

“I’m not sure if this will reach you,” she said. “I just wanted to say thank you for not giving up on me and giving me more determination than I could have imagined.”

Janet was one of those college students for whom nothing ever came easily. Whenever my colleagues at Centennial College and I asked Janet and some of her classmates to come up with story ideas, it often proved as difficult as teaching them to swim in deep water. Then, there was the problem of finding sources for her stories; nobody was ever available and none of the leads we offered seemed to yield the information she needed. In addition, there was always plenty of adolescent angst swirling around her as she battled to balance schoolwork with life.

And deadlines always loomed large for her; there was more than one occasion when just one more extension for delivery of the news story was one concession I wasn’t prepared to give and she wasn’t prepared to lose. As her editor, I found that Janet required attention and coaching nearly 24/7. But she eventually passed the course. She went on to enroll in yet another course in corporate communications and public relations and she eventually landed a permanent job in the public service sector.

That’s not to say that teaching young people is ever totally rosy. This past winter semester proved a trial for a lot of my fellow journalism instructors and their students. Many more students than I care to tabulate had psychological difficulties, including such illnesses as attention deficit, depression and even post-traumatic stress. A number of our students had to cope with oppressive home situations – perpetrated by a dominant parent, a troubled sibling or sometimes even an out-of-control roommate.

More and more these days, the problems of the home end up in the classroom and those of us who’ve emigrated from being journalists to teaching journalism are not always up-to-date on the latest effective techniques for dealing with student psychoses or trauma.

I guess my least favourite moment involved an undergraduate student (not Janet), studying both university level academics and journalism at the same time. She was struggling with a news story about a long-standing strike in Toronto. I had suggested to her, in order to deliver the perspectives of both management and labour in her story, that she ought to go to a corporate representative for the management view and then to walk the picket line to listen to average employees explain their side of the story.

“That seems like an awful lot of work,” she said.

“Journalism is often like that,” I said. “You wear out a lot of shoe leather trying to get close to the subjects of your story.”

“But I’m just here for the marks,” she said. “I don’t want to be a journalist. I want to go on to law school.”

I didn’t quite know how to answer that one. But if she was paying attention, the young woman must have sensed my frustration at trying to steer her in the right direction only to learn she was only studying journalism like a minor subject and really just wanted the quickest way out.

In truth, we teachers often complain among ourselves. But what helps those (who’ve been teaching many more years than I) come back to the front of the lecture hall or the classroom semester after semester, is the hope that among the freshmen in the class will be gems in the rough.

As some of you know, I’m a stickler for the proper use of language. Just ask my daughters or my writing students. Some call me a “CP Style fanatic.” All journalism in Canada begins with the “Canadian Press Stylebook” for proper spellings, grammatical forms, rules of punctuation, structure for quoting sources, methods of attributing interviewees and when to use abbreviations and when not. The smaller version of the 500-page CP Stylebook is a companion volume called “CP Caps and Spelling” for thumbnail references to all the correct English usage in Canadian journalism. For some, including my former student Janet, coping with the rigid rules of language was never easy. But as she concluded her email to me last week she paid me the ultimate compliment.

“I am now the content manager for (a large Canadian charity,)” she said. “Sitting on my desk … are my Stylebook and Caps and Spelling. I use (them) every day.”

Sometimes, it’s the small victories that mean the most.

Honouring a covenant

Written by Ted Barris on May 7th, 2014May 7th, 2014. 1 Comment

At 22, Tim Laidler didn’t have a worry in the world. As a reservist in the 2^nd Battalion of Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry in 2008, he felt confident he could accomplish his eight-month commitment in Afghanistan – guarding supply convoys in Kandahar Province.

This particular day, however, Cpl. Laidler had been assigned an additional task, guarding the gate at Kandahar Airfield. A civilian ambulance approached. He opened its doors for a routine check and was suddenly faced by an Afghan girl of 16. She’d apparently been forced into an arranged marriage and felt her only way out was to set herself on fire, to be saved by the Canadians, or die by her own hand. She died.

“What had the global community come to, that a young girl had resorted to kill herself in front of me?” Laidler asked himself. “I suddenly felt myself disconnect. I felt myself die inside.”

Nearly 30 now and a survivor of post traumatic stress disorder, Laidler spoke to an audience of MPs, senators, active and retired soldiers, and a number of invited guests (myself included) on Tuesday. The 1st Annual Sam Sharpe Breakfast (exploring Veterans’ Mental Health and Wellness) was arranged by Durham MP Erin O’Toole and co-hosted by retired Gen. Romeo Dallaire, now a Canadian senator.

As MP O’Toole described it, the gathering over a breakfast in the Centre Block on Parliament Hill was designed to bring together key advocates trying to help Canadian veterans coping with operational stress injuries (OSI). O’Toole explained that he organized the event in honour of one of the original sufferers of PTSD.

Col. Sam Sharpe campaigned for, financed and led the 116th Bn to war in 1916.

“Col. Sam Sharpe was a Member of Parliament (for Ontario North) who served on the battlefields of the First World War,” O’Toole said last week in the Commons, “before returning to Canada where he took his life struggling with his mental injuries.”

Unlike Uxbridge’s own Col. Sharpe, Tim Laidler found help before harming himself. A former comrade-in-arms recommended he participate in the Veterans’ Transition Program, a research initiative at the University of British Columbia, connecting veterans with other veterans struggling with OSI. At first, Laidler said he resisted saying he didn’t need counsellors telling him what to do. But he learned to open up to his peers and that in turn opened up a brand new career.

“Otherwise,” he said, “I’d have gone off to a little corner of the country and disappeared.”

Laidler is now a Masters student at UBC as well as executive director of the resulting Veterans’ Transition Network. He explained that VTN all started with about a dozen guys in 1999, and has grown to about 400 volunteers whose goal is to launch similar programs across the country by 2015 allowing VTN to one day assist 150 veterans a year. Through his own story, Laidler emphasized that help had come from his community, from his buddies, from his family, but not from either the local or national offices of Veterans’ Affairs Canada.

Laudable for community, I thought, but not for the federal government or its civil service whose job is to help the veterans constituency. Indeed, VAC via the government’s current Veterans’ Charter has in some cases paid veterans lump sums to eliminate them from being a long-term drain on federal pension budgets.

Romeo Dallaire served in the United Nations mission to Rwanda in 1994.

Co-chairing the information breakfast with O’Toole this week, Senator Romeo Dallaire offered his own take on the growing PTSD problem. In 1994, Gen. Dallaire had commanded the United Nations assistance mission in Rwanda. The genocide he witnessed in the African nation became the subject of his 2003 non-fiction book Shake Hands with the Devil: The Failure of Humanity in Rwanda. The resulting PTSD had forced Dallaire’s release from the Canadian Forces in 2000, when he turned to lecturing and conducting research on conflict resolution.

During the Tuesday morning session, Dallaire lamented that despite the end of the Afghanistan operation last year, Canada “is still taking casualties. Not just the walking wounded,” he said, “but those taking their own lives.”

I asked Dallaire about the elephant in the room at Tuesday’s Sam Sharpe Breakfast. Why wasn’t the body most responsible for veterans’ welfare, Veterans’ Affairs Canada, present and accounted for at the breakfast?

“Canada’s veterans are an unlimited liability… and (caring for them) is a lifelong covenant,” he said.

“What about the Veterans’ Charter?” I asked. “Isn’t paying veterans lump sums instead of living up to that unlimited liability, cutting them out of the system, violating the covenant.”

“We can’t talk about the charter,” he rationalized. “It’s still before Parliament.”

It appears, nearly 100 years after the Ontario Regiment was decimated at Passchendaele, Belgium, sparking Col. Sam Sharpe to take his own life in 1918, that just like it was back in the Uxbridge colonel’s day, the fate of Canada’s veterans lies more in the hands of family, community and fellow soldiers than it does in Veterans’ Affairs Canada, the body most responsible to service that unlimited liability.

Spring in my step

Written by Ted Barris on May 1st, 2014May 7th, 2014. Leave a comment

In the year 2000, I joined my daughter on the annual Terry Fox Run.

They’re ba-ack! Over the past few weeks, I’ve watched masses of Canada geese – in giant Vs – winging their way north. I’ve seen a few muscle cars, out from under their custom-fitted winter blankets, taking to the streets. I’ve watched the local hardware stores erect their portable garden shops for the growing season ahead. I’ve watched a few pairs of shorts and bare legs – on both men and women – return to neighbourhood sidewalks. But that’s not the return I’m talking about.

I’m talking about the outdoor runners. They’re back and they’re everywhere.

The week the snow had retreated from the bike paths and walking trails… the day they felt they could safely expose their knees and calves and not suffer frostbite… the moment the pavement was dry enough, the runners were out in their Spandex, their ear buds and their blissful running trances. Of course, there were lots of the diehard year-round runners out there all winter, but I’m talking about the fair-weather runners, who can’t wait to parade their fitness regimen outside, huff and puff stylishly in the early spring air, and make sure the rest of the world takes notice and wonders why.

Well, some of the running is a desperate response to cabin fever. People with a penchant for exercise, suddenly feel they have to get out of the house at any cost. And sprinting to somewhere is as good an excuse as any. Runners appear more eager than most to fight off the effects of being cooped up for the winter. They run outside as a kind of statement of defiance, that spring has finally taken hold, that it’s time to escape the relative inactivity of the living room couch and lead the annual human migration back outdoors. I suspect that’s one of the reasons they stage the Boston Marathon early in the spring.

I spent the part of the weekend down in southwestern Ontario, where warmer temperatures tend to arrive first. There, I spotted plenty of shorts-clad runners along country roads near Woodstock, on the downtown streets of London, and deep into the bike paths that crisscross all of the Thames River Valley. In places they were fighting for space with bicyclists, motorcycle enthusiasts, and even automobile traffic. I visited my oldest friend (celebrating his 65th birthday) in London, and we talked about running this time of year.

“I lose myself when I run,” he said. “I focus on a spot ahead and I’m in the moment. Everything else kind of disappears.”

I can relate to that feeling from my days as a long-distance runner back at high school. Our brand of outdoor running happened in the fall for the cross-country championships and in the spring before track and field trials. When I ran my requisite three or four miles (I can still relate best to miles, despite over 40 years of trying to learn metric) per night, I lost myself in the run just like my friend. Especially in April, the early spring chill, the late winter cobwebs, and the pain of the day before, all went away the moment I began a spring distance run. Like goalies, runners “get into a zone.”

Take for example the case of half-marathoner Krista DuChene, last weekend, in Montreal. As she closed in on the final few klicks of the Montreal half-marathon, she suddenly felt a pain in her leg apparently much greater than lactic acid build up.

“One person in the crowd yelled out, ‘Crawl if you have to,’” she told the Toronto Star, “and in my mind I said, ‘You bet I will.’”

It turned out that a minor undisclosed fracture in her leg grew to a full fracture and she ran the last five kilometres of the race effectively on a broken leg. DuChene is the second fastest woman in Canada at the marathon distance. She’s preparing for the Commonwealth Games in 2014, the Pan-Am Games in 2015 and the Rio Olympics in 2016. And her time proved particularly speedy – one hour, 16 minutes and 37 seconds. But finishing the run on a broken leg wasn’t exactly the way she’d planned it.

I don’t think I could ever run through that kind of pain. But I can relate to it. The last time I competed in a long-distance competition, the regional championship run (about 1968) had us climbing a 30-degree hill right at the end of the race. As I began the stretch, I pushed and felt the pain in my chest and legs move outside me. I felt myself flying up the grade until I saw the finish line. I think I placed 67th in a field of 200 that day. To me it felt like winning the Olympic Marathon. I had beaten the hill, the clock and the elements. And suddenly having the outdoors in springtime … seemed reward enough.

Dangerous at any age

Written by Ted Barris on April 24th, 2014May 7th, 2014. Leave a comment

Seniors do not cause car accidents simply based on their age. — Prudent drivers come in all ages.

You can almost set your clock by it. The moment the latest story hits TV or the front pages of the daily newspapers about an elderly driver being involved a car crash, you can be sure the following day people on coffee row or at the gym will raise the subject. They’ll be indignant. They’ll blame the government for being too lax. But the thinking will be almost unanimous.

“Seniors are causing too many accidents,” they will insist. “People over 80 shouldn’t be on the roads.”

The case against older men and women getting behind the wheel of a car has grown in intensity in recent years. Small wonder. Each time a senior is involved in a car collision, it headlines the news. There was the recent case in Cooksville, Ont., where a 71-year-old man decided to make a left-hand turn by bypassing five vehicles waiting to turn and executed the turn from the middle of the intersection. The resulting crash killed his sister-in-law, her best friend and maimed him and his wife. A judge sentenced the crippled man to 10 months in jail.

A year or so ago, there was the incident in Winnipeg, where an 86-year-old driver pulled backwards out of a parking stall, but then continued in reverse the full length of the parking lot where he struck a child and ultimately came to a stop when his car hit a tree. The small girl survived, but the driver was charged.

And again the chorus screamed in unison for a ban on the elderly to drive. Well, in fact Manitoba is considering the implementation of stiffer restrictions or prohibitions much like those in Ontario. Currently, when a driver reaches age 80, according to the Government of Ontario site, s/he gets a letter and renewal form. The octogenarian then goes to a clinic for a vision test, an interactive group session about traffic laws, a complete screening exercise and a driving record review. Only then is the individual’s competency for driving determined. What’s important to remember, however, particularly in the case of the guy who made the illegal left-hand turn in Cooksville, is that he exhibited bad judgment; he didn’t screw up because he was 71.

“(The turn) is a marked departure from the standard expected of a prudent driver,” the Crown prosecutor said in court. “This manoeuvre, although brief, was highly dangerous.”

As a Manitoba publication pointed out recently, sometimes the danger posed by senior citizens behind the wheel comes from a deterioration of motor skills. In other words, it’s very likely age will cause eyesight to blur, reflexes to slow or one’s wits to become muddled. But any of those shortcomings can occur among young people too. Introduce the sense of invincibility or entitlement that the young often feel and the result can be speeding or drinking under the influence. Throw in a dash of smart phone addiction or the vanity that your “followers” can’t do without you before you park and you have equally dangerous distracted driving. When was the last time you saw a senior texting an LOL on the 401?

Sure, there is the potential for the invisible crippler – dementia – to hasten the need for an elderly driver or the family to take action. And statistics appear to be working against the elderly. In the past 20 years, the number of drivers over the age of 65 has doubled in Ontario, from 600,000 to 1.2 million. And at the same time the Alzheimer’s Society reports that half a million Canadians have dementia, with a new case reported every five minutes. In a generation, the babyboomer numbers will increase the frequency of to a new case every two minutes. All that doesn’t alarm Dr. Shawn Marshall at the Hospital Rehab Centre in Ottawa. The Toronto Star quoted Dr. Marshall’s “Candrive” study two years ago.

“The vast majority of older drivers are safe,” Marshall discovered in his research and he decried “crazy blanket comments (about seniors) that are ageist and unfair.”

I remember distinctly when my mother gave up her driver’s licence. Nobody told her she had to. Neither the police nor the DOT people came down on her with a legal ruling. Nor did her family apply any pressure. She simply recognized that her strength, her reflexes and her ability to see after dark were not what they used to be. She, like so many seniors who fear the loss of independence, but fear hurting someone even more, did the right thing. She decided to leave the car in the parking garage until a member of her family came along to help her get somewhere. Or she took the bus or a taxi.

One of the most powerful lobby groups representing seniors, the American Association of Retired Persons, recommends in-person licence renewals and screening that is not aged based.

“What determines your safety isn’t your age, but your ability,” AARP said.

Dollars and education sense

Written by Ted Barris on April 17th, 2014May 7th, 2014. Leave a comment

In the 1960s, CKLY Radio occupied an old house on the main drag of Lindsay, Ont.

That summer of 1969 came to an end for me with a flourish. I pulled out all my favourite LPs (record albums) from the CKLY Radio (Lindsay, Ont.) library to air that night of the finale. I assembled all the best recording star anecdotes that I could use with each of my choices of songs. I called all my friends who’d been listening to many of my all-night broadcasts from Victoria Day to Labour Day, through that summer, in hopes they would listen. And when 6 a.m. arrived and my final show of the summer came to an end, I signed off.

“That’s my final All Night House Party broadcast,” I said into the microphone. “Thanks for listening. Maybe I’ll see you next year.”

That summer I had worked from May 24 weekend – 10 p.m. to 6 a.m., six nights a week – through to the September Labour Day Monday. I was proud of the broadcasting I had done. I was honoured to have gathered a pretty loyal following around the Kawartha Lakes region. And I felt pretty confident the manager of CKLY Radio would invite me back the next summer to repeat the show. (He didn’t.) But most important, I deposited my last on-air pay-cheque in the bank. I had worked about 13 weeks. I had added an important broadcast credit to my resume. Even better, I had raised enough cash from my CKLY pay-cheques, to cover my tuition – about $1,200 – to go back to Ryerson that fall and complete the courses for my Radio and Television Arts diploma.

I discovered this week, from data released by Statistics Canada and from listening to senior economist Armine Yalnizyan of the Canadian Centre for Policy Alternatives (CCPA), that by comparison I had it very easy back on 1969. Yalnizyan explained on both CBC Radio and TV that I had probably worked – on average – about 230 minimum-wage hours at CKLY to pay for my undergraduate diploma, while students attending much the same kind of media course today would have to accumulate the equivalent of 570 minimum-wage hours.

“We say to our kids, ‘Go to university if you want a good professional degree,’” Yalnizyan told the CBC. “But that’s getting more difficult to do.”

In other words, tuition – the money today’s youth and their families have to save to keep those students in class and accumulating the appropriate credits – costs two and a half times as much today as it did when their Babyboomer parents or grandparents were saving cash for a college or university education 40 years ago. According to the latest research from Yalnizyan’s CCPA the smallest increase in the number of hours required to pay for tuition was n Newfoundland and Labrador – about 16 per cent; while Ontario has experienced the greatest increase of minimum-wage work to pay tuition – about 173 per cent.

There’re a lot of numbers in there. But what they mean essentially is that our kids and grandkids, trying to pay for their post-secondary educations, have to work at two or three jobs during their down time (usually in the summer) in order to emerge from their holiday break with enough cash in their bank accounts to pay colleges and universities the tuition for the coming year.

In addition to the hardship this whole scenario inflicts on students, it also creates an odd result at colleges and universities, perhaps to their benefit. The post-secondary institutions now have to gear their programs to have students in their halls of higher learning not for three or four years. Now the students enroll in programs over a period of five or six years, inflicting even greater hardship on families funding their kids’ education. And if the students can’t raise the cash in their savings accounts, it means they have to go further into debt, not by just a few thousand dollars, but more often by tens of thousands of dollars.

“I’ll be paying off my student loans well into my 40s,” I remember hearing one of my students lament.

Just this week, I overheard a number of my own journalism program students. They were discussing the nature of the courses, the background of the students and the tuitions they paid for their educations. Typical are the tuitions for University of Toronto (Scarborough College) – somewhere in the neighbourhood of $8,000 per semester. That’s about five times what I would have paid 40 years ago. But when I asked one of my students about the UTSC tuitions, she shocked me.

“That $8,000 is nothing,” she said. “I’m an international student (from outside Canada). Our tuition for the same course is nearly four times that amount, over $30,000.”

I wondered how many more summertime all-night shows I might have had to broadcast had I been an international student. I’d never have made it.

Playing it safe

Written by Ted Barris on April 8th, 2014April 8th, 2014. Leave a comment

Over the weekend, my wife and I arrived at our daughter’s and son-in-law’s house. As usual, we brought the coffee and donuts. Our grandchildren supplied the entertainment. Last Saturday, Wyatt (who’s nearly two) and I played a little floor hockey in the kitchen. I flipped a rubber ball his way. He chased it – arms and stick flailing every which way – and then he whacked the ball back to me. It wasn’t too long before I cautioned him out loud.

“Be careful,” I said. And then almost instinctively, I added, “I don’t want you knocking somebody’s eye out.”

A playground in Washington, D.C., deemed unsafe was cordoned off by police.

It wasn’t a really serious warning. In fact, he’s not old enough to understand many of the words in the warning. And, in truth, the only damage he might have inflicted would have been chipping a bit of plaster from a wall or denting a baseboard or two. My blurting out the warning was just a grandparent being protective and playing it safe.

But isn’t that a telltale sign of the times? We’re always telling our kids to take care, watch out and be safe. Funny, I don’t remember my parents ever saying that to my sister and me when we were growing up. In fact, like most parents back in the 1950s and ’60s, our folks pretty much kicked us out of the house most early evenings and weekends just to get us out of their hair.

As long as we came back for suppertime or bedtime, I don’t think our parents ever worried where we went, because we were often in the company of the rest of the kids on the block. I don’t imagine they cared what we did, because we generally played in the backyard of one set of parents or another. And nobody worried just when we got home, since somebody along the block would call one of the kids inside and that would usually break up the playmaking for another day. Safety never really became an issue, unless somebody got more than a bruised knee or a cut lip. Those were just flesh wounds and to most families that seemed par for the course.

The other thought I had when I warned my grandson about his flailing stick was that scene in the movie “A Christmas Story.” That’s when the character Ralphie says, “I want an official Red Ryder air rifle.” To which one of his parents says, “No way. You’ll shoot your eye out!” And I guess that was the genesis of the paranoiac parent, who fussed and worried over everything his/her children explored for fear it could kill him. (Frankly, I’d have used the “shoot your eye out” line just to keep my kids away from any real firearms or even toy guns, but that’s a different discussion.)

In the 1970s and ’80s, as parents of young children, my wife and I were very conscious of the need for safe playgrounds and even safer streets. I remember “street-proofing” our kids not to talk the strangers and on occasion volunteering to stand around teeter-totters and swings just to make sure nobody got hurt to make the school liable for damages. It was the beginning of the era when municipalities, school boards and parents suddenly felt kids had to be protected from everything.

But wasn’t it our moms who told us, “You have to eat a peck of dirt before you die”?

And we often did eat dirt in pursuit of being king of the castle. I remember with both horror and gratefulness one occasion when a bunch of us kids went off into the woods to climb the tallest and most accessible of the trees – the cedars. My sister had absolutely no fear of heights. I was just the opposite. She scampered up the oldest, driest cedar tree, while I just hung upside down from the lowest, thickest branches.

Then it happened. I heard a crack above me and my sister came crashing down breaking through every cedar branch en route to the ground; in retrospect I guess the cedar limbs probably saved her. On the ground, she was screaming in pain, but she was very conscious. No matter. I was off like shot to retrieve the doctor who lived next door. And he was back just as rapidly, only to find my sister cut and sore, but with all the climbing kids gathered around her laughing about the commotion she’d caused.

There was something about play 50 years ago. Rightly or wrongly, we never considered the danger – either real or imagined. We all looked out for each other. And we never worried because our parents never appeared to worry. Today, I guess everything’s reversed. We teach our kids (or their kids) to worry because we worry, whether danger lurks or not. We want everybody to be safe from all risk at all cost.

In so doing, we may have taken away our kids’ best defence mechanism – lack of fear.