Yes, Kawhi Leonard’s buzzer-beater was great, but for legendary, how about Bill Barilko’s Cup-winning goal?
He took the pass. He moved around the arc on the floor around the basket. There were four seconds left in regulation time. And all spectators in the building were on their feet, leaping and screaming. At the corner of the offensive end, he turned, jumped and launched the ball.
“Is this the dagger?” one commentator shouted into a mike.
Then, with the ball in the air, the final buzzer blared. The ball landed on one side of the rim, then bounced to the other side, bounced a third time, dribbled a fourth, and then dropped through the hoop. “Yesssssss! Game! Series! Toronto Raptors have won!” the announcer screamed finally. (more…)
RCMP cordoned off the community centre in Sherwood Park. Sherwood Park News.
The first I heard, it was a fire inside a building. Later on, last Tuesday evening, I learned it was an explosion. Then, it was two explosions. Next, that the blasts had occurred in the same community where I was about to present one of my Remembrance talks, last Wednesday night. But I never felt as if I were in any real danger until I learned that the RCMP had become involved.
“RCMP have cordoned off the area around Festival Way in Sherwood Park,” the CBC News story reported Wednesday morning.
If that community – Sherwood Park– sounds a bit familiar, it should. It’s a satellite town near the City of Edmonton. And it’s the place where last Tuesday evening, according to police, a young man set off two bombs inside a public parking garage, and one of the bombs severely damaged the car he had driven there. (more…)
In the 1950s, this is the kind of work ethic that got John Zentana and his family into Canada.
He was only 18, back in 1955. He didn’t speak a word of English when he and his parents arrived from Italy. And his skills were few; he knew how to sharpen knives, so his father could butcher what livestock the family had raised for food. But when John Zentana arrived in Canada, none of that mattered. The basic criterion for entry to this new country was simple.
“Are you all prepared to work?” immigration authorities asked.
The topic came up rather suddenly. My son-in-law had dropped by to pick up his children. He sat on the step. We got caught up on the day. Then, he explained that he had been talking to his eldest daughter – that she was getting to the right age – about walking home from school with a friend rather than being picked up every day by her dad or her grandparents.
“We want to help give her a sense of independence,” he said. (more…)
Aileen Hill, one of 150 Scarborough Neighbours honoured.
I wouldn’t have known that she was my neighbour. But it turns out that in more ways than one, she and I have been connected. First, we have both supported the arts and those who create them. Next, we are both the children of immigrants. But for me the surprising aspect of our neighbour connection is that Aileen Hill and I both have Scarborough roots.
“I was born here,” she told me, “then, moved with my family to the Caribbean, but have now come back to Scarborough.” (more…)
Suddenly, people in the room felt a great deal of tension. A man rose from his seat in the middle of the auditorium. He cleared his throat. He appeared to muster his courage in front of several hundred others in the audience and a platform of political dignitaries. He looked to the moderator and began to speak.
“I am a taxpayer in Scarborough,” he began, “and I see the Scarborough subway extension coming, but I have a serious question…”
At precisely that moment, in the corner of the hall some sort of air compressor or ventilation pump clicked into gear. And the gush of air and the grinding sound of its motor all but drowned out the sound of the man about to ask the dignitaries present that serious question. (more…)
1930 Lewis Hine photograph – depicting “skywalkers,” steelworkers atop Empire State Building – is often used to symbolize “precarious work.”
We hadn’t seen each other in awhile. We stopped to catch up. My friend told me it had been a tough summer. His father had passed. He’d had to put a favourite pet down. So, his work as an artist had suffered. We’re about the same age and we talked about whether the idea of stopping work or even retirement had entered his thinking. He pointed out, while it might be appropriate and healthy to slow down or even retire, that it wasn’t feasible.
“I can’t just decide to stop working,” he said. “Working artists can’t afford to do that.”
We talked a while about what retirement might look like for him. He sensed that he might do more work of his own choosing, as opposed to the work that customers needed or wanted done. But ultimately we came back to the kind of work life he experiences.
View from the back of the Agincourt Collegiate Institute band… with music teacher John Rutherford conducting. (May 1967)
I really had no idea what was going on. I was a long way from being in the front row, or being in the know. As a member of the supporting cast, I didn’t really understand the point of the exercise. But then band leader John Rutherford invited me down to the front where he stood and instead of having me play my instrument, he asked me to listen to everything from where he stood. And after he led the band through the same musical number again, he explained.
“You see, Ted, while you’re going um-pah, um-pah, um-pah, um-pah,” he said imitating my trumpet part, “the rest of us are down here playing Howard Cable’s ‘Newfoundland Rhapsody.’”
I had to admit, sitting in the back row of the third trumpet section of the school band, I had no idea what the rest of the student musicians were playing. I was just reading my part as diligently as possible, making sure I didn’t lose my place in the music and (most important) ensuring I didn’t play any of my “um-pahs” in the wrong place. John Rutherford knew I’d never amount to much of a trumpet player, that I had achieved in brass-instrument performance terms the equivalent of the Peter Principle. More important he understand that, up to that point, the orchestral results of our rehearsal were kind of lost on me. But in that sudden Eureka moment, our band leader and music teacher, Mr. Rutherford, realized if I could see and hear how I was contributing, that I would realize the value of my input, in short, why I mattered.
Memories of Rutherford and our Agincourt Collegiate Institute concert band came rushing back to me this week as I read some rather disturbing statistics about the decline of music in Ontario elementary schools. For example, according to a report on “The Arts in Ontario Schools,” just issued by the People For Education (PFE) lobby group in Toronto, while in 2012 nearly half of all grade schools in the province had a teacher dedicated to instructing music, last year (2013) that number slipped to just above 40 per cent. Is that significant? Sure it is when you consider that in the late 1990s as many as 60 per cent of schools had specialist music teachers such as Mr. Rutherford.
The study goes on to say that those of us in the Greater Toronto Area may have it better than in rural Ontario. It points out that about six in 10 GTA schools have some kind of music instruction going on. In northern Ontario learning about bass and treble clefs, key signatures, melody and harmony is restricted to just over a quarter of all schools. And while the study is designed to sound an alarm about how music training has declined, Annie Kidder, a spokeswoman for PFE, warns that a fading music curriculum may also have an economic impact on society.
“When you talk to people in business now,” she told Canadian Press, “they feel that capacity to think creatively, to innovate, is a core part of being an entrepreneur – being able to lead a change in a knowledge economy.” In other words, Kidder says music gives kids 21st vocational century skills.
I wholehearted agree. Anybody who can read music charts, pick up tempo, translate that to a motor skill and make the results come to a musical conclusion, must have an arithmetic capacity. And that can’t hurt when it comes to deductive reasoning or motivational capacity either. Good musicians can certainly make successful business leaders.
But I think the value of music goes beyond quarter notes and time signatures. Music, some say, also heals. I know a dozen years ago, when my own father suffered a series of strokes in the last year of his life, resulting in aphasia and limiting our ability to communicate with him, that music helped us get through to him. If we played a bit of Jean Sibelius or Benny Goodman into his headset, that music almost always brought a smile to his face and a sense of calm to his demeanor.
Occasionally, a student musician got a chance to substitute conduct. That certainly built a kid’s self-esteem!
Just this week, Toronto played host to a conference on music and health research. Dr. Jane Edwards, who works with neuro-scientists in Europe, told CBC Radio that her members are exploring ways in which music is used as a standard treatment against depression and even as means of assisting young people to fight cancer.
“Teenagers in music therapy have an increased resilience against the disease,” she said. “Doing such things as music videos during traditional cancer treatment, helps them get back to school and get on with their lives.”
Whatever other tangible things music delivers, as a young person, I will never forget how maestro John Rutherford and his music teachings gave me a sense of self-esteem and belonging that sitting in the back row of the trumpet section had always escaped me.
Sometimes the message of road signs never sinks in.
All evening long, I kept hearing the warnings. I had driven as far southwest on Highway 401 as it goes – in fact, I think I got to Kilometre Number 1 – in Windsor. I knew when the event at which I was speaking, on the Windsor side of the Detroit River, wrapped up, I faced the four-hour drive home to Uxbridge. At 10 p.m. I got in my car, started the engine and heard the weather forecast.
“Environment Canada has issued a weather statement,” the announcer said. “Wet snow or blowing snow will make driving conditions treacherous.”
“That’s OK,” I thought to myself. “With my snow tires on, everything should be fine.”
A few weeks ago, at Centennial College where I teach, we realized things were reaching a breaking point. Students faced a never-ending stream of deadlines. Faculty appeared completely stressed out. And everybody seemed at wit’s end. So, we invited in a campus counsellor to conduct a stress workshop. Eventually, she just asked straight out, “What seems to be the problem?”
“I can’t seem to get things done,” one student said. “There’s never enough time.”
