Part way through B.J. Byers’ concert last Saturday night in Uxbridge, the young pianist finished one of his toughest pieces – an etude by Chopin. He wiped the perspiration from his face with a towel, smiled broadly – as if he had just conquered Everest – and acknowledged the packed house at Trinity United Church.
“There was once a time, I wouldn’t have been able to face this,” Byers said. “I would have just turned and run away.”
It happened one morning a couple of weeks ago. I was driving down Brock Road in the southbound rush-hour east of Toronto. In the stop-and-go-traffic just below the village of Brougham – near the intersection of Brock and Hwy 407 – I pulled up beside a pickup truck with a construction logo on the door. I had my window down. So did he.
“Construction season’s started, eh?” I said so the guy could hear me.
“Oh yeah,” he said and smiled. He seemed glad to be working.
“Big time 407 overpass?” I asked. (more…)
It was a new idea at the time. In the late 1990s, students in college were certainly used to attending classes during which experts lectured them. But perhaps not quite the way I envisioned such a thing. I was interested in having the journalism and broadcasting students I teach at Centennial College meet contemporary media figures, who were highly visible in the profession. One of the first to agree to come to engage my students was quite eager.
“I truly enjoy, and still feel flattered when I’m asked to chair a symposium, referee a debate, or give a speech,” she told me in March 2000.
My guest speaker was Pamela Wallin. (more…)
I was on my cellphone several times during a recent trip to Ottawa. I had a couple of conversations with family while I was in the National Capital attending meetings of The Writers’ Union of Canada. I also texted several of my colleagues back at the college about some of the writers’ workshops I attended. But once, last Thursday, I was doing something completely unrelated when I took a cellphone call from newspaper reporter Katie Starr of the Kitchener-Waterloo Record.
“I’m doing a story about a veteran friend of yours,” she said. “Do you have time for an interview?”
“Yes,” I said, “but I’m in the middle of something.”
The ceremony was about to begin. Most of the dignitaries had assembled. The sound system was live. The pipe and drum bands were tuned and ready to go. But the MC of the proceedings held off until just before 11 o’clock.
“We’re awaiting some guests of honour,” Colonel Bob Chapman, the MC, said. “They’ll be here momentarily.”
Then a transit-sized bus pulled up to the curb on Simcoe Street in Oshawa. The bus was resplendent in poppy insignia and Remembrance Day slogans and when its doors opened, out came about a dozen veterans, most under their own power, but clearly needing some assistance. That’s when this heart-warming thing happened. (more…)
It began innocently enough. I wanted to mail some postcards home. I’d done the hard part – composing some thoughts and finding the addresses. I’d even discovered that postage stamps were available in tobacco stores here. So I searched one out and asked for “francobollo” in my best, fractured Italian. But the tobacconist waved his hands. They didn’t sell stamps anymore. I’d have to go to the post office. There, I found what I thought I needed – wickets, line-ups and clerks – until I reached the front of the line.
“No. No,” the clerk said. He too was waving his hands at me, as if I was contagious. And he shouted at me, “You need ticket!”
“Oh, a first-come first-served system like a bakery,” I thought. “I can do this.”
Outside the restaurant in Catania, Sicily, the young man and woman were listening to my conversation with Harry Watts. They overheard us talking about the liberation of their country, Italy. What made the moment rather special was that standing right in front of the young couple was one of the thousands of men who had accomplished that extraordinary feat, 70 years ago this summer. But the young couple seemed perplexed.
“We thought the Americans liberated our country,” the woman said.
“No,” Harry Watts said politely, but firmly, “this part of your country was liberated by Canadians.”
A veteran friend of mine and I happened to be comparing notes about an upcoming overseas trip we’ll be taking together. We were itemizing some of the clothing he might need for the climate where we’ll be travelling. I reminded him about the possibility of rain at night and the likelihood of warm temperatures in the daytime. I used some reliable advice:
“Pack layers,” I suggested, “so you can add or subtract as needed.”
“Why do you think I take several days to pack?” he pointed out. “I like to plan these things.”
“So that’s the secret,” I kidded him. “You take almost as many days to pack as we will be travelling.”
I could hear it before I could see it. It sounded a bit like a strong wind blowing through the trees. But it was a constant white-noise sound. Then I could feel it. The earth beneath our feet seemed to vibrate. Not an earthquake, but as I walked onto the wilderness bridge, I could feel it being pounded.
The force of surging water seemed to rattle the steel and stone of the structure to its core. I stood there at the centre of the bridge spanning the river where it pours over a large drop known as Victoria Falls and I marvelled at Nature.
“This is as close as I’d ever want to get to a tsunami,” I suggested to a one of my travelling partners. “What power.”
I guess because they demand the greatest attention on the world stage or occupy the most broadcast time and newspaper space, we tend to pay closest attention to national political figures when they speak.
When, for example, Sir Wilfrid Laurier said, “The 20th century belongs to Canada,” or Pierre Elliot Trudeau said, “Just watch me,” we remember the statement and the speaker. We don’t tend to remember, however, what Toronto Mayor Allan Lamport said about the way his city grew and prospered.
“No city ever became great,” he said, “without a subway.”