Capture their imaginations and touch their hearts
The letter I never wanted to write
That familiar ping rang through the speakers of my computer. I opened the message and read it, and then read it again. I stared at the screen as I felt tears come to my eyes and then roll slowly down my face.
His cancer was back and they had given him three months to live. Three months. Just three damn months.
Over the years I’ve written far too many columns memorializing friends. Each piece is a brutal emotional rollercoaster. You sob, you blubber, you smile and maybe you even laugh as you pound the keys and remember what they meant to you, what memories they helped create, what they brought to your existence, what they did for you and how they changed you.
As the years tumble by and pick up speed, there seems to be more and more time spent on that roller coaster along with more tears and not near enough laughter.
This time, for the first time, I wasn’t going to let that happen. I was going to write a letter and tell this person how I felt about them and what they meant to me.
Easier said than done.
I kept putting it off.
Last week I found those words and I wrote the letter.
I kept telling myself that I had three months to steel myself, to suck it up, dig deep and find the words.
Last week I found those words and I wrote the letter.
“He’s amazed that he had such an impact on [the] people around him,” read a message from his daughter Karen.
“ … it really picked up his spirits on a day when he needed it the most. Take care of yourself, and I will keep in touch.”
The next message I got from Karen was days later. He was gone. Just days after reading the letter, he had left this world.
They say the date someone is born and the date they die doesn’t matter. What matters is the dash between those dates and what they do in that space.
I hope the below letter gives you an idea about how Brent dwelled within that space.
******
Brent,
When Karen told me the news, I was stunned. And yes, Brent, I cried.
I know guys from your generation and their sons aren’t supposed to cry, but I just couldn’t hold back these tears.
We don’t live forever, but I guess I just figured some people would, and you were one of those people. It’s hard to fathom a world without your corny jokes, infectious laugh and mischievous grin.
To this day, I rarely make a plan.
As I struggled with the news and what to do, I figured I’d do what I’m told I do best – write. So this, my dear friend, is my love letter to you. And before you make any jokes about the weight of my loafers, the love I have for you is that of a son.
So many of the most pivotal moments in my life were spent with you, Pat and your children. The summers by the pools and the winters at the cottage. The hours upon hours spent in rented RVs as we travelled through the US and the days as I watched you and the crew build decks without a plan that somehow, some way always seemed to turn out perfect.
One day as the rain poured down and in a bid to get the job done, the crew used power tools to cut the top of the fence that you built around our pool. I looked on in awe. My heroes were a crazy bunch. Beyond the insanity of using power tools in the rain, there was no plan and everything was done by eye and on the fly. The cut, however, turned out just right.
There was almost never a plan, but it almost always turned out perfect. And that was almost like the time we spent together as families, there was never a plan, but it almost always turned out perfect.
To this day, I rarely make a plan.
There were times when the lines between the families were so blurred it was hard to know where one family began and the other ended.
The first person I ever rode motorcycle with was your son, Kevin. I’ve been riding ever since and still do. It’s remains one of the greatest joys of my life, and he was a big part of that.
Our families shared everything. There were times when the lines between the families were so blurred it was hard to know where one family began and the other ended. We were that close.
To me, you were the funniest man in the world. And you still are. No one has, or ever will, make me laugh as hard. They say laughter is the greatest gift. And if that’s true, then you may be a greater gift giver than Santa Claus.
I will never forget sitting under the carport at your place in Crystal Beach and how you would tell a joke as a mischievous grin would flash across your face and your eyes would twinkle with impish glee. Pat and Terry would sigh at the more questionable jokes and my dad would try to keep up, but he was more often your straight man than anything else.
Life is a crazy ride, and I’m glad I was on the same ride as you.
I’ve written many columns over the years after a friend or relative was lost, but I didn’t want to do that this time. Before you left this world, I wanted you to know how much you meant to me. How much impact you had on my young life.
I don’t know how Pat will survive without that laughter in her life and seeing the mischievous twinkle in those eyes on a daily basis, but I know that Karen, Kathy and Kevin will make sure she is well looked after and well loved.
Life is a crazy ride, and I’m glad I was on the same ride as you.
Thank you, Brent. You helped make me the person I am today. The person, who for years, fought the good fight as a journalist and righted wrongs – you helped make him. And now the person who is teaching the next generation of journalists, you helped make him, too.
Thank you for the love and most of all, the laughter.
He disappeared into the distance and the rumble faded
(Please consider donating to help Craig’s family via the link at the bottom. Thank you.)
Chad Pitcher was an imposing figure. He was a big boy, but I never heard him raise his voice to any degree. Even his rants were tempered.
His demeanour was laid back and his laugh had this gentle jolliness to it.
He’d often direct that laugh at me and make fun of the fact that, at the time, I rode a Sportster. The memes would pop up in my messages needling my little yellow Sportster as not a real Harley-Davidson, but a girl’s bike. Cute, but not the Harley real men ride. He would send me the memes with a message apologizing for sending the meme in the first place. It was typical of the Chad I knew.
I’ve been riding since I was 18 and never have met someone who was as hardcore as Chad. He lived to ride that bike of his. The only thing more important than riding was his family.
The scene of him sitting on his bike at that light with a smirk on his face because he was out on that bike, that’s a vision that’s been running through my head since I heard the news. Whether he saw that car coming in his mirrors or if he heard the wildly revving engine, we will never know. It was, however, all over in the briefest of moments.
Part of me wishes that if this had to happen if would have happened differently – on a corner leaned right over, teeth gritted, with the wind tearing at his face until the tires could offer no more grip or he simply ran out of road. Sitting at a light and being rundown just doesn’t seem right. There seems to be an emptiness to it that leaves me struggling, grasping for an answer that will never come into reach.
When you see pictures of a car accident, it hits you as a human and you bemoan the fragility of life. But when a biker sees pictures of a motorcycle accident, it rips at their two-wheeled soul. We don’t wave at other bikers we pass because we’re simply being polite. There is a respect and kinship that we share and the wave is a symbol of that. It can’t be put into words. You have to experience it.
As I write this, my keyboard looks like it’s been left out in a gentle rain. My emotions rise and fall. At times there are smiles as a welcome memory floats by. But when I think of his wife and three young children left to survive this world without him, the glue lets go and everything falls apart.
A year or so ago I helped Chad and his family move. I spent a good part of the afternoon clowning around with his three kids and trying to make the move as fun as possible. I made fun of his wife, Hollie, and the seemingly unending supply of boxes containing decorations for every conceivable holiday. With every box, I’d announce the holiday and the number of boxes required to celebrate said holiday. Christmas, as one might imagine, was a double-digit holiday. The parade of boxes stuffed with trinkets celebrating Santa seemed endless.
It had been a while since we rode together. We had met in a riding club and I eventually left it. Like so many things, politics got in the way of our friendship. But it wasn’t Chad who allowed our friendship to lapse because of politics, it was me. It was all me. It will take a long, long time before I stop berating myself for that fact, if ever.
Just last week I heard that familiar rumble coming my way. It wasn’t a warm day and most riders weren’t out, but Chad wasn’t most riders. There was nothing fair weather about this big bear of a man. With the V-twin roaring, he came up the hill and around the corner wearing his trademark grin.
As he disappeared into the distance and the rumble faded, I cursed myself for not flagging him down and showing him my new bike. His face would have lit up at the sight of it. He would have thrown his leg over it, sat down and offered a nod of approval punctuated by some well-chosen four-letter words.
His mood would have changed, however, when he realized the days of him chastising me for owning a girl’s bike were over.
– Jeff Ducharme
Thank you for taking the time to read this. I hope it helped you learn a tiny bit about the man we lost and why this world is now a lesser place. Please consider helping Chad’s family by clicking on the below link.
It’s likely she knew exactly how ridiculous the man of her dreams appeared
As we struggle with our current isolation, thoughts come and go. Memories play and then pause. Emotions rise, and then fall.
Some of those thoughts and memories are random, while others are poignant. Some of those emotions are complex, while others are simple.
If you live alone, you spend a lot of time with those thoughts and memories.
The other day Lou Rawls popped up in my music feed. He is one of the most soulful people to ever pick up a microphone. His dulcet tones are so unique and he makes even the most spastic of us want to dance.
And while I’m listening, I’m seeing my dad and mom glide across the parquet wood dance floor. They never sat when Lou was on. Lou was their guy.
When Gib and Terry took the floor, everyone else would move to the outside edges of the floor or just stop and watch. They would look at these two souls so much in love and smile gently in their direction.
Mom’s elegance could not be understated. She was Grace Kelly to dad’s Great Rootbear. He did this boogaloo thing on the dance floor that only someone in a cartoon bear suit could equal. To this day there are family members who still believe that Gib was the actual A&W Great Rootbear.
Mom was class. Absolute class. Her silver hair was always perfectly set when she knew there would be dancing. Her gowns accentuated every glide and every twirl. Gib, on the other hand, was colour blind and his taste in clothing proved it. Each morning Gib would come downstairs dressed for work and if mom didn’t like the colour coordination, she sent him back up stairs to change. A few times he snuck out of the house without her approval and it was nothing short of fashion homicide. The man actually owned a tangerine sports coat. Tangerine does not go with anything other than tangerine.
He owned two tuxes. One was a baby blue tux that had a white doily pattern on it. His other tux looked like the interior of a 1970s van – pale yellow with brown crushed velvet collars and trim.
When they danced, mom always had a sheepish little grin on her face. It’s likely she knew exactly how ridiculous the man of her dreams appeared. While mom glided and twirled, dad kind of gyrated like a bowl of Jello in zero gravity. He had rhythm, he just didn’t know how to use it.
I look back on those moments when my parents hit that dance floor and I find myself missing them. As a teen and I was terribly embarrassed by my folks owning the dance floor, but they were purely charming moments that I’d give anything to see again. When we’re young we often let such moments slip by and we don’t cherish them until the people involved are gone.
When mom died, my father would call me crying. He spent that last 10 years of his life living with a heart that wasn’t just broken, it had been shattered into tiny pieces. Alone they were lovely people, but together they were special souls.
One day he called me. He likely started crying as he was dialing my number.
He told me he was going crazy. He heard one of their songs on the radio, one of those songs that allowed them to own the dance floor. He saw my mom’s picture and took it down off the wall and danced with it.
That wasn’t crazy, I told him, that was desperately and perfectly romantic.
I don’t know if it was a Lou Rawls’ song. I never asked, but I’d like to imagine it was.
Your oasis
This is an open letter to a friend who lost a cherished friend recently. Some of you will wonder how anyone could get so upset over the loss of a cat, but then you likely never knew a cat who saved your life.
Everywhere you look right now you see Len and reminders of Len. You loved her and she loved you unconditionally. She saved your life, but you couldn’t save her’s. You tried to move heaven and Earth to make that happen, but you are a mere mortal. It’s said that the universe unfolds as it should, but the cruelty the universe can display is often a burden too heavy to bear.
You will always miss Len. Your life will always seem that much more empty for her not being in it. When the world around you begins to crumble, Len’s unconditional and life-saving cuddles will only be a memory. But you had the privilege of knowing her, having her in your life, even if it was only for what seems like the briefest of moments. And she had the privilege of having you in her life. We meet people and creatures for a reason. They come and go for a reason.
Len’s reason for finding you was to save your life. Len found you and she stayed on this Earth long enough to get you to this moment in time.
The depth of such a loss is hard to recover from, but you will. There has been and will be dark moments when you think that’s a lie, but it’s not.
The tears that roll down your cheeks now will eventually become twinkles as you recall the things you did together – the adventures and misadventures, the struggles and triumphs you shared.
While Len was ill, for months I sent you a daily message asking how Len was doing. When Len left this place, that daily message became about you.
I stayed on the periphery because I knew you were surrounded by closer friends and they were taking good care of you. Having gone through this many times, one of the most overwhelming things can be the people offering to help. Such mass generosity can put your emotions on overload.
It’s something that’s far too familiar.
My mom died of a brain tumor. I recall sitting on the couch and wailing, feeling like someone had thrust their hand into my stomach and ripped out my insides – the pain was that intense. I had tried to hide behind my camera by doing a photo essay on the surgery and her eventual death, but there was nothing to hide behind at the wake. No lens could protect me from the onslaught of hugs and handshakes that awaited me. There were hundreds and hundreds of people. The room was always packed. I recall standing in the centre of this mass of people and seeing all these hands reaching for me – an overwhelming attack of kindness. I thought I was going to pass out. And that’s when my cousin grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and hauled me out of that room. He sensed the impending meltdown. I’ve forgotten a lot about that day, but I will never forget that moment.
It taught me that being there for someone needs to be tempered with giving them space. On that day people gave me no space. They were only trying to be kind, but on that day their kindness was suffocating.
You needed that space whether you realized or not.
After losing many people and animals who were often my whole world, you’d think that I’d have answers for you. But I have none. Not a damn one.
“Philosophers have written about it; however, I am not too sure that anyone has ever, ever captured what it is all about.”
I can’t tell you when those tears will turn to twinkles. I can only assure you that it will happen. You will just wake up one day and there will be twinkles. The tears will never dry completely, but the twinkles will eventually outnumber the tears.
Years ago, after a dear family member died, a mentor and talented wordsmith sent me this message:
“Sorry to hear about your cousin. It is an admirable thing that you were
strong for her, simply in the fact that you stayed on the path with her to
the end. And, I guess, that is what the pure flow of life is all about.
Fortunate are we that we have those moments; we meet, there is the chemistry of life – something that arises from the crucible of human existence. It is that something that keeps us connected, here or after. Philosophers have written about it; however, I am not too sure that anyone has ever, ever captured what it is all about. I guess we push ourselves to have thoughts and express things, outward manifestations of that inward flow. Obviously, you and Cathy found an oasis where and when you could enjoy and celebrate your existence. That is a beautiful experience.”
Len was, and will always be, your oasis.
A brief moment of Christmas magic
At some point in November, my dad would demand that I help him put up Christmas decorations. He had all the gear – the plastic molded candles with the flickering bulbs, boxes and boxes of lights with the fabric-covered wires and these life-size Santa and reindeer plywood cutouts. I think he got them, like just about everything else in our house, at Canadian Tire. You would trace them on plywood, cut out the plywood forms and then apply the stickers.
Well, Gib wouldn’t cut them out. He wasn’t the least bit handy. There was nothing safe about Gib and power tools. He came from a family of master electricians and engineers, but the handy gene blew right by him.
There were many Christmas Eves where I would stay awake waiting for Santa only to hear my old man cursing because Tab A and Tab B didn’t fit where he was convinced they should. Meanwhile, mom could be heard lamenting: Gib, read the instructions. Why don’t you just read the instructions?
These life-sized Norman Rockwell-like stickers on plywood reminded dad of simpler times. Maybe it was the ‘frew in the Ottawa Valley where he was born or maybe it was the gentler, kinder decade of the 40s when his bright red hair was still decades away from turning grey.
I never asked, but I wish I had.
Standing on the front lawn and wearing a real imitation bear-skin coat, Gib would look up at our modest black and white house that sat atop a small hill in Ottawa’s west end. His hands rested on his hips in a Patton-like pose surveying the battleground before him as he ran various decorating strategies through his mind.
While he envisioned what only a true Christmas-light visionary could see, I would spend hours and hours untangling and checking lights. Hours and hours were spent grumbling while Gib orchestrated this Yuletide production of coloured and twinkling joy. By the end of it, we were both froze and had shared more than a few choice words between us.
I never understood the whole saga. It seemed like an awful lot of effort for a few weeks of twinkling joy.
One of the Ottawa papers ran a Christmas decorating competition each year. They came by a few times and took pictures of Gib’s work. He would tell everyone the Ducharme house was surely to be one of the big winners that year. The edition with the pictures of the contest winners would land on our front step and the little black and white house on the hill would never make the cut. While dad was devastated, mom was thrilled. She thought his decorating skills were absolutely gaudy.
When I saw people selling modern versions of the plywood Christmas cutouts, I knew recreating Gib’s Christmas world on my front lawn was something I had to do. Not because I wanted to reclaim some childhood memory but because I wanted to feel what he felt.
So this year I went full-on traditional and got some multi-coloured lights, some plywood figures and decorated the house.
The lights have been doing their thing for weeks now. Each night I find myself sitting on the couch, looking out the window like a big kid and watching the lights perform for passing motorists.
And while those moments put a gentle smile on my face, I still didn’t have my answer.
And then one day last week there was a brief moment of magic. It was one of those magical moments that only seem to happen during the holiday season.
I was outside striking my best Gib pose, looking up at my little house on the hill adorned in twinkling lights when a car slowed down. The driver gave me the thumbs up, beamed this huge smile and mouthed the words thank you as they slowly rolled by.
Some 40 years later I finally get what Gib got all along.
The camera is not a shield, but it helps
This photo essay was all but gone and thanks to J. Barry, it was saved. He scanned and worked one of the last copies I had. The original newspaper reproduction quality was terrible. I still remember the day I first saw it. I almost cried at how flat and muddy the images were. These were intensely personal images, and they looked horrible. So horrible that I could barely bring myself to share them with my family.
It all began with a phone call from my sister and her telling me to get on a plane and come home. Once home for my mother’s surgery, I asked her if I could capture on film what she was going through, what my dad was going through, what we all were going through. Being my biggest fan, she didn’t hesitate. Mom was a tough city girl who grew up on Percy Street in Ottawa’s rough and tumble downtown, but I never knew my mother to be particularly brave. She went through the surgery like she was getting her hair done. No tears or even the slightest bit of fear was evident. Surely it was there, but she never let me see it.
There were no cameras allowed in the hospital without written permission and I wasn’t about to go through the process of asking permission. I snuck around with my camera stuffed in a rather innocuous satchel, but nurses tend to be stealthy creatures and I almost got busted a number of times.
The surgery went well, but things didn’t end well. The news came one morning not long after returning to Newfoundland. I sat on the arm of a chair and bawled. It was like someone had punched me in the guts and ripped out my spine. Again it was off to the airport and home.
The photo essay, I told myself, had to be finished. I summoned what courage remained and asked my father. He didn’t hesitate to say yes. He only asked that I not make any images of her close up in the coffin. She didn’t look anything like the woman who now lay there so still.
These are the last photos I have of my parents. They don’t capture the happiest of times, but they do capture the devotion of two special people. The camera helped me get through what was some of the toughest days I ever faced. The camera isn’t a shield, but sometimes it helps.
Mother remembers son as hero fighting for freedom
Jeff Ducharme
Telegraph-Journal
Published Tuesday April 10th, 2007
Appeared on page A1
Outside Pte. David Robert Greenslade’s home is a yellow ribbon with a Canadian flag attached to it, tied around a stately old tree. The branches devoid of leaves chattered in the crisp breeze while the wind whipped the Kenebecassis River into a heavy chop.
Under a drab sky and with David’s dog Colby by their side, Laurie and Donnie, David’s parents, stood outside their home and talked to solemn visitors.
Their only child, a member of Hotel Company, 2nd Battalion, of the Royal Canadian Regiment, was one the six Canadian soldiers killed Sunday when their LAV-3 armoured vehicle was rocked by a roadside bomb.
In an interview with the Telegraph-Journal, the Greenslade family spoke of a son who wanted to be a soldier before he even graduated high school. The Greenslades, the only New Brunswick family who gave interviews Monday, said their 20-year-old son wanted to make a difference. The other New Brunswick families issued prepared statements to the media.
“I saw three vehicles and then I saw a couple of people in green get out and come up the driveway,” Laurie Greenslade said. “I sort of thought it’s Easter, maybe they’re giving us a care package and then they called me by my given name”‰”…”‰”
Shock then took over.
“He’s a hero,” she said, clasping her hands, wringing them. “He believed in what they’re doing and wanted freedom for the Afghan children.
“He was everything we had and the army was everything he had,” she said.
He had been a member Canadian Armed Forces for the last three years, the last 17 months in the regular forces.
When she bid farewell to her son as he boarded the bus in Gagetown to begin his journey to Afghanistan in January, she said she knew he wouldn’t be coming home.
“I grieved before he left, I really did. My pastor even thinks I knew before he left. I had a hard fall and (hit) bottom”‰”…”‰. I was quite sure.”
Her eyes began to fill with tears as she spoke about the one thing she couldn’t do – stop him from going to war.
“It was torture because I was his mom, supposedly I could stop him, and when he left it was almost a relief because it was in God’s hands.
The last picture Laurie ever took of her son is her favourite – strong, vibrant and proud captured in the click of a camera and forever in a mother’s memories.
“The reason he was able to smile was because I was so tough,” she said, saying she had made a deal with her son before he left Gagetown. “He said, ‘Just promise me one thing, you won’t make a scene on the day of deployment,’ and I didn’t shed one tear – nothing. And he said that’s why he was able to be happy.”
The last she saw of her son was him waving from the window of a bus.
On the coffee table sat a picture of David and one of the other soldiers killed in the attack, Pte. Kevin Kennedy of St. Lawrence, N.L. Two brave soldiers arm-in-arm and off to battle, all smiles without a hint of the brutality they were to face. The pair had booked a trip to Thailand and Australia they planned to take in May.
“What a crazy kid. We just met him that day and I knew they’d have a ball,” she said. “He had a great sense of humour just like Dave. He loved to laugh and talk.”
To David, an only child, his fellow soldiers were his brothers and sisters, she said.
With the Rockwood Golf Course almost in the family’s backyard, she said when David wasn’t training as a soldier, he dreamt of being the next “Tiger Woods.”
Only when she read an article that was written about her son before he left on deployment did she lose her tight grip on her emotions and cry. The young man talks about missing the little things – spending time with his parents and his dog Colby.
“He was a homebody. He liked to hangout with us and he would kayak, and we had a boat and he waterskied and (swam).”
The Saint John High School graduate came home every weekend and revelled in the little things.
“And I remember weeks before he left he saw a little boy walking a dog and he said, ‘I wish back to that innocence to be that little boy walking a dog.'”
David’s dad, Donnie, said little, fierce but heartbreaking pride scrawled across his face.David, he said, was a comedian. Tom Hank’s portrayal as Forest Gump was one of his son’s favourite film moments.
“He had Tom Hanks right down, Forest Gump,” he said with a slight smile.
His mom said he was a student of people’s mannerisms and behaviours and it wasn’t long before he had most people thinking they were looking at their own reflection.
The family will be in Trenton, Ont., on Wednesday and Thursday, but they said few other details have been worked out yet. The one thing she said is non-negotiable is who will carry her son’s coffin off the plane after it makes its solemn landing in Trenton.
Pte. Pat LeBlanc and Pte. Chris Roy have to bring her son home, she said. The Saint John trio went through reserves and regular force training together. LeBlanc is currently out in the field and army officials have told the family they might not be able to send a vehicle out to retrieve LeBlanc, who heard the news about his friend crackle over an army radio.
“I said, ‘You’re getting him because they need each other,'”‰” she said, catching her emotions, fighting the tears.
“Oh, they have to come back. That’s the only thing we can do for Dave.”
She’s also asking people to wear red on Friday as a show of support for her son and those risking their lives a world away.
Outside the family’s house, the wind continued to rattle the bare branches and throw the river onto the gravel shore.
“It’s a raw wind,” said Donnie Greenslade.
I still have that little red knife
As long-term managing editor of the Robinson-Blackmore chain, Ron Ennis mentored many of the journalists who were the voices for the tiny outports that dot this island. Those journalists now telling stories right across this country are Ron’s greatest legacy.
Ron believed in community journalism. He believed that it could right wrongs and bring people together. And because he believed so strongly in the good journalism can do, he always treated those he worked with with respect and dignity, something you rarely experience in this business.
He taught his people to be empathetic, to care about their communities and their readers. He made them think about the words they wrote and the power behind them.
He taught me that, too.
I arrived in Clarenville in the midst of a February snowstorm as an editor at one of the papers Ron managed. When Ron came to the office to deal with an underperforming reporter, he treated the reporter with kid gloves.
“There’s no sense leaving a trail of bodies in your wake,” he told me in his trademark gentle tone.
I never forgot that as I moved around the country. And I always heard those words ringing in my ears when strangling an offending reporter seemed like the only option.
Ron was an imposing figure, but he was the most gentle of giants. Most of his hair had long ago vanished or turned white, either because of the business or maybe it was hereditary. He spoke in gentle tones and often used words that one only understood within the context of the sentence he placed them so thoughtfully in.
He could only stay a moment. As usual, he was on his way to a newspaper office somewhere to deal with some sort of crisis.
Regularly, Ron would call me to vent. He spent his day’s fending off bean counters and myopic executives who couldn’t give a damn about doing the right thing – not unless it made them money. To Ron, it was all about doing the right thing. Every day was a battle for Ron. He fought each one with far more grace and dignity than those he battled with. Ron could have thrown his hands up and walked away. It would have been far easier for him to just acquiesce to the demands of the bean counters and the profiteers in St. John’s, but he didn’t.
“This is a brutal, brutal business,” he would say during each of those venting moments, while, at the same time, always trying to shield his young charges from that brutality.
On my final day with the chain, Ron drove four hours through a snowstorm to say goodbye. He didn’t have to make the trip. A few words over the phone would have sufficed, but this is what made Ron, Ron. He could only stay a moment. As usual, he was on his way to a newspaper office somewhere to deal with some sort of crisis. I met him outside by his truck that had crisscrossed the island hundreds of times. He handed me a Swiss Army knife, hugged me and told me to take care of myself. I still have that little red knife and I carry it with me everywhere.
It was only a few years ago that Ron retired. His plan was to spend his retirement at his cabin loving this place, loving his family. He talked about it often. And after fighting the good fight for so many years, after it almost killed him, he got to spend far too little time at that cabin.
Last year I called him to thank him for putting up with me, for standing beside me, for shaping me as a person and a reporter, for tempering the cocky young journalist who first walked into his office so many years ago. He took it all in stride. We laughed and told a few stories. It was the Ron I had always known.
But mostly, I thanked him for making me a better person.
Dance like no one is watching
By Jeff Ducharme
(Excuse the typos, sleep deprivation and writing do not mix)
Currently fighting off absolute exhaustion only because of 14 cups of coffee and unbridled enthusiasm, sleep should smack me upside the head any second now. But even in my sleep deprived state, what happened last night still makes me giddy.
Liberal supporters are celebrating their victory and Conservatives are licking their wounds. But what happened last night as the red wave rolled across the country was the least of it. There’s a bigger picture here and it’s one we all can, in fact, all should, revel in.
The overall voter turnout increased, just hovering above 68 per cent up from 61 per cent in 2011. Canadians, 17.5 million, went to the polls and stuffed ballot boxes – the biggest turnout in two decades. There were 25.6 million registered voters this time around. Even more exciting to a political junkie like me is the fact that those numbers do not include voters who registered on election day.
While the demographic breakdown is still being calculated, it would be safe to assume that there was a rise, if not a spike, in the numbers of youth and aboriginal voters. This is an element of the population who have become disenfranchised by the political process and disenchanted because of it.
The aboriginal vote and its positive impact should be obvious. Ten aboriginal MPs – eight Liberals and two NDP – will go to Ottawa and have their voices heard and issues ignored no more.
The youth vote, however, has even further reaching implications. For far too long youth numbers were low because they wondered what impact, if any, trudging to the polls would have. But now they have concrete evidence their vote matters, their vote can change the political picture and reshape a nation – their nation. For many young people, politics was the kingdom of middle-aged white men. With last night’s results, that kingdom is now a vestige of an outmoded political landscape that had become self-serving at best, and at worst corrupt.
It’s a cliché, but youth are the future and they have taken the first step in claiming a country that will eventually be theirs. I’m one of those middle-aged white men and nothing could make me happier than seeing the youth of Canada stand up and take what is rightfully theirs. They have begun to wrestle power from the hands of those who said they couldn’t handle it.
A generation has taken this nation and they will surely cherish it and nurture it.
Like Justin Trudeau or not, he will lead this demographic into the halls of power. His charisma, which is still unrealized, will entrance the youth.
In the moments leading up to Trudeau and his wife Sophie Grégoire taking the stage before the party faithful for the young leader’s victory speech, the pair danced. And they didn’t worry about what over-paid handlers whispered in their ears nor did they refer to talking points or worry if cameras were pointed their way. They just danced. And they danced like tomorrow would never come.
While some will never grasp it, mostly middle-aged white men, this is not about political affiliation or ideology. This is about something wondrous.
This is about a generation dancing like no one is watching and singing like no one is listening.
Savage journey 