2025 A Year of Challenge and Patience

Hi Mum:

Just a quick note to share some pictures of your great-granddaughters. You may not remember them too clearly – you were forgetting quite a lot there at the end – but that’s Jaia on the left and Naomi on the right. I went to their second birthday party this weekend and, of course, they got a pile of stuff. It’s fascinating to see them grow up: they are now walking and talking in phrases, some of which I understand.

Here’s a picture of your new great-grandson Elias. He was born August 12. This is an unusual picture of him since he is usually nursing or sleeping. Or screaming. He does that a bit too. The girls adore him and are very protective of their little brother. It may not always be so …

This coming weekend is Remembrance Day, and I am hoping to visit Mount Pleasant cemetery for the Air Force service. I went last year – which may have been a special anniversary of some sort – and it was very moving. After that, I will probably swing by the family plot to say hello to you and all the other Air Force types in the family. When I think of the sacrifices you and Dad made – that so many people have made – I might even have a little cry like I did last year…

I miss you, and think of you a lot. Much love.

David

PS. I was a bit late getting out of the apartment and decided not to go to the service but instead went straight to the family plot. As I was arriving there, a Canadian Forces C130 transport came through just above the tree tops. It was there for the service, but it really felt like a private fly-past for all the Kent air force types.

November 2: Here’s a lovely little house on Balliol Street that won’t be with us much longer. I’ve done no research to confirm this, but I believe this to be the farmhouse that stood on these lands prior to their subdivision. It was left on a large lot while new homes – mostly semi’s – were built around it. Now there’s an application at the Committee of Adjustment to allow its’ demolition, severance of the lot, and construction of two new “3-storey dwellings with front integral garages”. I am very sure that the applicants will point to the adjacent new-ish houses, which are an anomaly in the neighbourhood, as justification for the project. Mediocrity justifying schlock.

I have written about this process before, because I really don’t understand the thought process behind demolishing something with significant physical, monetary, or sentimental value only to replace it with something less valuable. This case is different since this is not “just another house”, but a house with historical value to the community and the city. I don’t understand how someone can look at it and decide that it’s just an old house that’s getting in the way of making a profit. Buildings like this have an intrinsic value that is greater than their monetary value. At what point do we decide that this sort of application is simply not acceptable ?

I indulge the guilty pleasure of watching BBC programs that show homeowners renovating and restoring heritage buildings in the British Isles. Inevitably, they are heritage listed, and “the Planners dictate what must be done” throughout the renovation. There seems to be little negotiation or appeal, and, even as a former Planner who would love to have the draconian power to dictate outcomes, this regime seems incredibly restrictive.* It wouldn’t be acceptable here, but surely there has to be a more efficient and effective way of preserving what little heritage we have remaining in our cities. As one consulting architect said to me many years ago: “If we don’t start protecting buildings from the 50’s and 60’s – never mind the 1800’s – there won’t be any left to get old…”

Well, here’s one building that truly is old and we are about to lose it. This situation, and the many others like it, leave me feeling sad and frustrated that there is not more public pressure to resist this sort of churlish destruction of our heritage. We are losing our past and accepting a mediocre future in return.

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* One large commercial project involving many millions of pounds of investment encountered a brown bat – one bat – in the roof, and all work was halted for several days while the bat was appropriately re-housed within the building.

October 23: There has been a huge outpouring of emotion following the death of Gord Downie almost a week ago. He was a public figure, a musical icon and a man of apparent warmth and integrity. More than 10 million of us watched the Tragically Hip concert in August of last year, and, at the time, I wrote that it would be interesting to see what he did during what little time remained for him.

He has been busy:  he finalized an album with the Hip; he conceived, wrote and produced an album, a graphic novel and performed a concert telling the story of  Chanie Wenjack ( “Secret Path” ); he released a book of his own poetry. He visited the north and used his reputation to highlight issues facing the First Nations community. Any of these would be a signature achievement. That he achieved them all under such dire circumstances is remarkable and a true measure of his determination.

So we are left again to consider what might have been. What more might he have accomplished had he lived longer ? But I think that approach misses an important point: what he achieved was inspirational. We shouldn’t think about what he might have done, but rather about what we might do ourselves if we gather even a small amount of  inspiration from his example. What more appropriate way to remember Gord Downie than to use his untimely end as motivation to accomplish meaningful things in what little time remains for us

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October 25: On last night’s show, Rick Mercer did a segment on Gord Downie which nicely captured what I think Downie was about. Love him or hate him, here’s Rick:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=utSEoGFh1tI

October 6: He’s the kind of guy that you encounter on the TTC and hope that he will not be interested in having a conversation. You know the type: he seems slightly sweaty and his clothes are all a bit outdated and a size too large; his hair is too long and obviously hasn’t been washed in a while; he moves like a man who has been mainlining caffeine for days and his eyes dart around the bus like an animal looking for a quick exit.

He sat opposite me on the Davisville bus last week as I returned home from the second week of practice with the New Horizon Band. Frequent reader(s) may recall that I played with them 2 years ago and, although I enjoyed making music, I put my electric bass aside in favour of other things. During the Summer, I decided that the band deserved another chance with more commitment to practicing and learning on my part. So it was with some quiet happiness that I sat on the bus with my bass in it’s gig bag, standing on the floor in front of me. I will admit that I had positioned it to partly block my view to Mr. Java Brain, who was now sitting directly opposite. Didn’t work.

“So you play bass” he says, loud enough for the folks in the back of the bus to hear. “I do” says I, “but it’s just my second week”. I hoped that my lack of experience would put him off some how. “So do I” he says, and then proceeds with a monologue outlining the type of bass he plays, the strings he uses and the way he can figure out tunes by playing a recording from YouTube through a tuning machine. “Of course, I have to have it restrung backwards because of my fingers.”

Only then do I notice that he is missing all four fingers on his right hand, along with the top joint of his thumb. His left wrist, obviously smashed at some point, is frozen straight out and can’t be bent into a position that would allow easier access to the frets.

At that I moment I was shocked and a bit ashamed. I had been so quick to judge this guy on the basis of his appearance and behaviour, that I had nearly missed the opportunity to connect with someone who was truly passionate about making music. When I saw past the appearances, I came face-to-face with a man who had figured out how to overcome the obstacles in his life and was trying to express himself in a creative way through music. He was, in fact, just like me.

This little vignette replays in my mind from time to time. It is a not-so-gentle reminder to not be so quick to judge others. It also reminds me that I live a relatively privileged life, with many comforts and opportunities that are not available to everyone. It also shows me that passion and commitment can take you places many would think to be unachievable. Musicians come in all shapes and sizes, and perhaps with enough commitment and practice, some day I will play as well as this strange man on the bus.

http://newhorizonsbandtoronto.ca/index.html

September 20: The French have a well deserved reputation for loving their dogs. While pooches are pampered and taken everywhere, sadly, cats don’t seem to enjoy the same privilege.

Many of the small towns I visited had groups of feral cats. I am sure that for every cat I saw on the street, there are many more safely at home behind closed doors, yet it was surprising to me that there were so many strays. Some, like this guy, seemed to have figured out how to live reasonably comfortably. They seemed to be fed (if not well-fed), but they would mostly scramble away if I tried to approach them.

I stayed in a small hotel in Entraygues.  There was a small grey and white male in the lobby when I entered. He was very scrawny and had obviously suffered some sort of injury to his hind quarters, yet he hung around the fringes of the action, never far from the owner. She told me that he had been “her first customer every day for three years”. He was at the door every morning expecting breakfast – which he got –  and then he wandered around for the day. She then said to me that, in all that time, she had never been able to pat him or touch him in any way. In spite of her care and attention, here was an animal so damaged that he could not bring himself to trust someone who obviously loved him.

Like humans, cats are social animals. They need to interact with other cats to have a full and rewarding life. It broke my heart to think of this poor guy being so alone and isolated because he could not overcome the fear created by circumstances that were, in all likelihood, not of his making. And it was not lost on me that I too lived alone. Like many others of my demographic, I ran the risk of diminishing  personal support and contact with others. It was something of which I was mindful, but had pretty much accepted as being part of my future.

And so it is somewhat ironic that I am now paterfamilias and chief caretaker of my Mum’s cat Duster. To be honest, before my Mum died, I had often thought that I would wind up with her; everyone else had kids, cats or allergies, so I was the logical recipient.

There has been a period of acclimation. Places have been found for feeding, sleeping and the litter box. The 3 AM yowling has (mostly) subsided, and we have settled into a routine of feedings and pettings and cleaning up that seems to work for us. I am perhaps less lonely, but that benefit has to be balanced against the commitment of having an animal in my care. An invite to my Sister’s cottage is now followed with a question of what to do with Duster. Still, she has wormed her way into my affections, and I may just have to accept that this small animal will make my life richer and more fulfilling. And hopefully, I hers.

September 6: The time around Labour Day always reminds me of a somewhat unhappy period in my life. In September 1964, I began attending North Toronto Collegiate (NT). I had been at Deer Park Public School where I was a pretty good student. I was happy and involved with friends, I got good (enough) grades, took part in extra-curricular activity, and found the whole experience enjoyable. As the time approached to make the transition to high school, I began to experience a certain amount of uncertainty about leaving this comfortable place behind.

One evening I rode my bicycle up to NT to have a look around. I peeked in the windows and saw the usual rows of desks, yet it did nothing to calm my anxiety. On the first day I was singled out and reprimanded because I had worn shorts, which was against school policy. The friendly faces of Deer Park disappeared in a torrent of much older and more mature students. Instead of the “Archie and Veronica at the Malt Shop” scenario I had imagined, I suddenly felt like a little kid again, and completely out of my depth.

For reasons I have never understood, I started in class 9A, a music form full of very bright kids. Although it was never acknowledged explicitly, the classes seemed to be “sorted” by academic choice (music or art) and by ability. So 9A was pretty competitive. My progress in that environment can be divined by my telling you that I was asked not to play my instrument at the year-end concert. I was in 10F the following year. Then 11H and 12G. Throughout those years I felt quite intimidated and had little motivation to apply myself and try to improve my performance. I really couldn’t understand how declining Latin verbs, learning differential calculus or analyzing the Merchant of Venice was going to help me in later life. I doubt they have. There were long periods when I was deeply unhappy and had effectively given up.

Then came Grade 13. As I have written elsewhere, I was sent, against my wishes and in spite of my feelings for North Toronto, to the Canadian Junior College in Lausanne, Switzerland. The College modelled itself on the Neuchatel Junior College and allegedly had set high standards for its’ students. Since I got in with a solid 60% average, I suspect there was a certain amount of “putting bums in seats” during that first year. Call me “cash flow”.

We arrived at the school in early September, and I remember very clearly waking up the first morning in the house where I was billeted and looking out the window to see cows (with large bells around their necks) grazing around a wooden chalet. I was clearly not in Moore Park anymore.

In any event, in what was an even more intimidating environment than North Toronto, I blossomed. I signed up for the yearbook committee, I wrote a humour column for the weekly student newspaper*, I found new friends, I played and sang in a band and – lo and behold – my grades improved. Perhaps it was the implicit understanding that nobody knew much about my awkwardness at North Toronto that gave me “permission” to just be myself, have fun, work hard(er) and try new things. The experience truly changed my life.

I have really mixed feelings when I look back to those first early-September days at North Toronto. Those were not happy times for me, and I often wonder how different my life might be today if I had been able to more fully seize the opportunity the following four years presented, as I did in Switzerland. Looking back, they feel pretty much lost and wasted.

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* If you look closely at this picture of the Expatriate gang, you will notice that one of the staff has a subversive finger raised which just happens to line up with the chair leg. The Yearbook editor didn’t realize it was part of the picture until I pointed it out to him – after the Yearbook (from which this picture is taken) – had been distributed to everyone at the school. Panic ensued….

September 1: Although I never met him, Skip Prokop was a recurring presence in my life, surfacing at some significant moments, only to disappear and reappear after a while.

Prokop was a drummer and a founder of the Toronto rock band The Paupers. I first encountered them when I attended my “first concert” at the North Toronto Community Centre. It was probably 1966, and in the age of bell-bottom pants, I remember Prokop having to roll up his pant legs so that they wouldn’t get caught in the kick drum or high hat. It was a small room, and the volume must have been roughly equivalent to a 747 idling in a basement rec-room, but I remember the speed and flash of Prokop’s playing. In an age when the human metronomes of Ringo Starr and Charlie Watts were considered “great drummers”, Prokop was in a different league. Like others I have found subsequently (Neil Peart, Keith Moon, Steve Gadd, Buddy Rich to name a few), he brought texture and punctuation and rhythms not usually heard in a rock and roll format. To my then 16 year old self, he was the drummer I had always wanted to be, as I pounded away on the couch cushions with my Mother’s knitting needles.

When The Paupers folded, Prokop did studio work with Al Kooper, Carlos Santana, Janis Joplin and others, before returning to Toronto and forming Lighthouse, a 13-piece band which included keyboards, drums, guitars and a brass line, along with an amplified string section. Early members included Howard Shore and Russ Little who have both gone on to be stars in their own right. I first saw Lighthouse in the early 70’s at the Electric Circus on Queen Street East. It was a big venue and it was packed that night. I remember it as a rabbit warren of halls and rooms and windows and doors looking onto the stage where they performed under the de rigeuer “psychedelic” light show. It all felt very subversive. There may have been some form of recreational narcotics involved…

I saw Lighthouse many times including a gig at Convocation Hall in Toronto, a club on the docks in Port Carling (the Surf Club ?) and a dance at Vic Park Secondary School. I loved their music since it was essentially an evolution of the big band music that my parents played at home. There was something very appealing about the big band format, playing loud enough to part your hair, while allowing for improvisation and solos from everyone. I loved watching Prokop’s energetic contributions. It’s a jazz format I still enjoy today.

Lighthouse re-emerged from time to time in different formats in subsequent years, and Prokop went on to do some work in radio. He died on August 30 of a heart condition. I will not remember that date the way I remember hearing that John Lennon had been shot. Still, it feels like the loss of a presence that played a role at significant moments in my life. I’ll miss that.

https://beta.theglobeandmail.com/arts/music/lighthouse-co-founder-skip-prokop-made-rock-history/article36218827

August 24: I’ve been home for a week now, and the introverted, contemplative, analytical person that I am has done some calculating and assessing. Herewith, some conclusions:

The trip lasted 60 days (June15 to August 15), excluding August 15 which I spent getting home. I include June 16, the day of arrival, as a full day because I did travel to the first hotel, and spend time in the afternoon doing various things to try and stay awake, including this sketch. I had 52 days with the bike, and I actually rode 42 days. Total mileage on the bike was 7,600 km or roughly 180 km per day. Of those days, I only had 3 days of real rain and unfortunately, one was the last day back to Heidelberg. It rained all day in 12C temperatures, so not a really pleasant way to end that part of the trip.

Total cost for everything was roughly $17,500 (excluding the motorcycle). This includes airfare ($610), shipping the bike ($1400), travel connections like renting the car and taking the train four times, renting the house in Sablet ($900), all fuel, food and accommodation. This works out to be roughly $290 a day all in. Some things are obviously more expensive – gas was roughly 1.45 Euro a litre, and I probably bought a tank of fuel every other day – while others are comparable with Toronto prices. I found Switzerland most expensive, but not by a wide margin over Germany. Food and fuel were most expensive, but that might be a reflection of staying in a bigger city like Lausanne with a preponderance of Swiss bankers.

In the end though, the cost is almost irrelevant; if you want to do certain things, you have to pay for the privilege. I will still look for better value in things like hotel prices (since I see them as essentially places to sleep and little else), but I’m more ready now to spend a bit more for a good meal, another glass of really good wine, or the efficiency of a taxi rather than walking. As I have said before: “Why not…?”

I actually found the eight week duration of the trip to be too long. The fairly constant moving, packing and being alone took a toll. As well, I realized early in the trip that my efforts to write in my journal every day; to sketch as often as I could; to run every other day (I managed to run 24 times); to update this page frequently; and, to deal with daily e-mail and messages from home was too much to expect, and I often took a day off from all of that. At times I felt that taking a day to rest in a hotel with the bike parked was “wasting time”, but of course it was a perfectly appropriate response and a way of preserving my focus and sanity.

I went where I had planned and saw most of the things I hoped to see. There were some rough patches – particularly at the early stages of the trip – but no disasters so I am happy about that. Highlights would include a seven-course gourmet meal in Waldau, Germany; celebrating my birthday in Lausanne; sitting on the patio of my room in Talloires with a glass of rose; the wine bar in Tain l’Hermitage; the Corniche des Cevennes at St Jean du Gard; and, the view off the top of the Col. Any Col.

Until next year, then.

August 14: As I near the end of this little adventure, I find myself once more in Paris. I do love this place and chose to begin and end the trip here. So far, it has been wonderful: I was fortunate enough to be given a room upgrade that means I can see (the towers of) Notre Dame, and (parts of) Sacre Coeur, la Tour Eiffel and Pantheon from the small balcon outside the window.

That said, I find it a bit of an odd situation. I am a visitor to the city; that much is pretty obvious. But I’m here to visit France, and to try and learn something new about the country and its’ people. I do speak some (lousy) French, and try to deal with people in that language if I can. Yet, whenever I approach a restaurant or store counter the staff usually start out speaking English. Most menus are translated into English, and often other languages, and the food on offer is largely the same generic boeuf bourguignon, soupe a l’oignon, and salads. Many now offer Fish and Chips. So it feels very much like the French are trying hard to water down their identity, to find favour with tourists.

The hordes of people around Notre Dame testify to the power of tourism to France and the money it generates. France is the most visited country in the world, so it’s meaningful. It became meaningful because it was a distinct culture, yet France, and other European countries, seem caught up in the race to “sameness”. My friend McCart and I were in Brampton when he made a very astute comment: “Look at this street. We could be anywhere…” He was pointing out that the whole streetscape was chain stores that were identical to the same stores in other cities. The banks, the gas stations, the Swiss Chalet, the Starbucks are the same whether they are in Toronto or Ottawa – or Paris. I passed two Starbucks on my run this morning. And there is a Subway directly opposite Notre Dame.

Granted, Paris is among the most-visited cities in the world, and this particular quartier is likely ground zero for those who visit, so it is not entirely representative of the entire country. Still, it’s a bit disappointing that I’m offered something I can get at home – whether in food or language – rather than the andouillette I had to hunt down at dinner last night. Strong, pungent, and worth every bite….

August 6: I have had the good fortune to see many cathedrals, forts, castles and chateaux on my visits to Europe. Many times, these are the most memorable highlights of the trip. It’s almost mandatory to visit a new city and visit the cathedral. Visit Paris, see Notre Dame.

So this is Notre Dame de Strasbourg. Some would say it is among the finest examples of high Gothic design, and I spent a very long time, along with dozens of others, admiring its’ beauty. I’ve seen a good number of cathedrals over the years, but this one is truly remarkable. The reddish stone is distinctive, but what really stood out for me was the feeling of “lightness” the façades convey. The columns and statues create a sense of openness and delicacy that make the whole building seem less ponderous than most of the other cathedrals I’ve seen. The astounding thing for me is that each of those statues and columns is solid stone and a product of human hands, a hammer, and a chisel. No wonder it took more than 400 hundred years to build.

This is Le Fort de Tournoux which I discovered just east of Barcelonnette. It’s absolutely unexpected and spectacular. Constructed over a 40-year period and completed in 1863, it was built in 4 stages which rise 700 metres up a rocky spur in the L’Ubaye valley. It was intended to guard against the incursions of those sneaky Italians from the south through the Col de Larche and the Col de Vars. It last saw action during the Second World War, was occupied by the German army during 1944, and was recaptured by the French in 1945. It was decommissioned in 1948.

These are both magnificent buildings in their own way. Both represent the culmination of decades of planning and work to achieve a specific purpose. Notre Dame is awe-inspiring because, in its’ day, it was intended to remind peasants of the power and authority of the church over their lives. The Fort was built at a time of increasing paranoia over military invasion by men on horse-back. In spite of the significance for those who built them, the context changed and even though they are both spectacular and worth visiting in their own right, they are now little more than artifacts from a time long past.

http://www.ubaye.com/le-fort-de-tournoux.html