Retreat, but write

At Sage Hill Writing Experience, writers (l-r) Shar Mitchell, Gayle Sacuta and Linda Killick, pose with Ted Barris in the Saskatchewan sunshine.
At Sage Hill Writing Experience, writers (l-r) Shar Mitchell, Gayle Sacuta and Linda Killick, pose with Ted Barris in the Saskatchewan sunshine.

Shar Mitchell and I greeted each other like old friends. We are. But we haven’t seen each other in years. We exchanged smiles and a hug. We got caught up on spouses and kids. We reminisced about the 1970s when she – then Shar Lenz – felt disillusioned with nursing and expressed an interest in the media. I offered some leads and she landed a job in television. She never looked back. From TV producer to feature writer to actor to concert tour assistant for the ’70s band Seals and Crofts, Shar’s professional life has brimmed with travel and experience. But with pleasantries over, she asked for my help with her next challenge.

“For 10 years I’ve been carrying this story like a yoke,” she said to me this week.

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The spirit of writing

It was a reverent moment. Our host entered. We had all enjoyed our first meal in the dining hall together, while on the wall over our shoulders a painting depicted Christ and the apostles at The Last Supper. Our host – a middle-aged monk – apologized that not all seven Franciscans normally resident there could be present; two of them – men in their late 80s – had recently been moved to hospital for elder care, he said. Nevertheless a younger 70-ish Brother Dominic bid us welcome.

Brother Dominic
Brother Dominic

“We are brothers of prayer,” he said. “But we welcome you here to St. Michael’s, your home away from home.”

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Food for thought

Post card of The Double T Diner in Baltimore, Maryland, c. 1960.
Post card of The Double T Diner in Baltimore, Maryland, c. 1960.

It’s kind of like breezing by Baked at Frankie’s on a summer morning. Frank and Donna Van Veghel are sitting on a bench out front taking a break, sharing a coffee and the day’s news. Or, it’s like arriving at The Tin Mill when Don Andrews is there at the door greeting his guests. My wife, my sister and I were travelling back from the U.S. through Pennsylvania last weekend. North of Harrisburg we stopped for breakfast at a roadside restaurant called Angie’s Diner.

“Is there really an Angie?” I asked the waitress.

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When walls come tumbling down

GARAGE_FROMBACKYARD1I’d been planning the demolition of my garage for a long time. Built sometime in the middle of the last century, my fast disintegrating, single-car enclosure – I had come to realize – had outlived its usefulness and had to go. So, over the weekend, I hired a friend and his future son-in-law to help me bring the old building down. But what the destruction of my old garage revealed as it came down was a great deal more than I expected. For example, as we three demolition types took a break last Saturday afternoon, I asked my longtime next-door neighbour, Ronnie Egan, when she thought the garage had been built.

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A voice of unity

He helped save Canada.

Aside from times during the two world wars, I think some of this country’s darkest days occurred in the years immediately following the Centennial in 1967. First with the St-Jean-Baptiste riots and bombings in Montreal (1968), then during the October crisis (1970), when the FLQ kidnapped and killed cabinet minister Pierre Laporte in Quebec City, hope for maintaining a united Canada seemed bleakest in those early 1970s.

Then, in November 1976, the Parti Quebecois came to power on a platform that included Quebec’s separation from Canada. I worked as a radio producer/host for CFQC in Saskatoon in those years. Our morning program was heard all over the three Prairie provinces. And I remember our station manager, Dennis Fisher, calling us together soon after the PQ’s historic victory that autumn.

“The nation has never been so threatened,” he said. “It’s up to us to do something.”

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Memorable but forgotten

The morning that 90,000 troops of the People’s Army of North Korea crossed the 38th Parallel to invade South Korea — June 25, 1950 — Don Hibbs was driving the first of his nighttime cab customers across town in Galt, Ont. If he’d turned on his car radio, Hibbs might also have heard that the five-year-old United Nations Security Council was then considering a resolution to “furnish assistance to [South Korea] to repel the armed attack and restore international peace and security in the area.” The resolution amounted to a declaration of war between the Koreas. And it changed Don Hibbs’ life.

To read more, click here for the full story.

A claim of security

CHAIN_FENCE2aIt was about 6:15 the other morning. Nothing was stirring outside. I happened to be out giving the dog one last run past the fire hydrant before leaving for the city. My wife had pulled the car into the street. I noticed her staring straight ahead with a look of total surprise on her face. I looked in the same direction.

There, about 20 metres away, a deer (I think it was a doe) dashed across the road, paused on a neighbour’s lawn, then just as quickly bounded several times into a backyard and disappeared over a fence.

“She looked petrified,” my wife commented.

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Just give it time

WATCHFACE-smallWe played the part of the cavalry last Friday night. You know, charging in at the last moment to save the day. Well, maybe it wasn’t quite that dramatic. But my wife and I provided our tag-team babysitting service to our daughter and son-in-law that evening. Of course, for us, the assignment was anything but a hardship. We revelled in the chance for quality time with our two-year-old granddaughter and nine-month-old grandson. And it turns out that’s exactly what our adult kids needed too.

“It was nice to have some time to ourselves,” our daughter has said on occasions such as that.

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Copyright gone wrong

copyrightTEDOne day last winter at the college where I teach, I stood waiting for a copier/printer to complete a job so that I could photocopy a letter. Initially, I paid little attention to the pages landing in the printer discharge slot.

Then I noticed the material was repeating itself. Every third page was identical to the one printed three pages earlier. The photocopied pages, I noticed, came from a book. The printer kept spitting out the sequence until nearly 50 versions of the same three pages had piled up. Somebody somewhere in the building was copying the book excerpt and planning, I guessed, to circulate copies among students. The person didn’t realize the copying was happening at this printer in my corner of the college, because he never came to pick up the copies.

“Who would waste all this paper?” I thought.

Then, I got even more ticked off that the person doing the mass printing was simply ripping off the author – copying all those pages and giving away the content for nothing. Lawyers call it a breach of copyright.

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Way of the dodo bird

I stopped at one of my favourite art-supply shops in the city, the other day. Out of habit, I passed the cashier, said hello and walked directly to the aisle with the portfolios. They’re those bound folders that contain those see-through plastic sheaths for photos, clippings or other important papers you want to display. Anyway, like old Mother Hubbard, when I got there the shelf was bare. I asked what had happened.

“Oh, they’ve been discontinued,” the sales clerk said.

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