LET IT SNOW!

Winter in Canada; there’s nothing like it. Although it does come around each year with some regularity, it always amazes me that it seems to be an annual surprise to so many. The first snowfall inevitably leads to careening cars and multiple crashes on our roads, as if people are experiencing these conditions for the first time.

Canadians have a history of helping each other out in times of bad weather. We push stranger’s cars out of snowbanks, shovel neighbour’s walkways and offer shelter when the electricity inevitably fails.

I grew up in a small town near Montreal and well remember the Storm Of The Century in March 1971, when we got pounded with 43 cm (17 in) of snow in one day. It was the largest single-day snowfall on record in the Montreal area up to that point; conditions were so bad that for the first time in history the Montreal Canadiens actually cancelled a hockey game!

That winter we went on to receive 380 cm (152 in) of snow and I recall walking along the streets in my hometown, unable to see the houses for the snowbanks. It made for a terrific winter of sledding, and we even spent some time jumping off the roof of our house – which to be fair wasn’t much higher than the snow.

I happened to be back home this past December when we broke that single-day record. Between 45-50 cm fell on December 27th, which made me very happy that I had traveled there on the 25th. Of course as I was leaving the province a few days later I still saw cars driving into ditches and sliding into poles, as if totally oblivious to the poor road conditions.

Coincidentally (and now I’m beginning to suspect I may somehow be to blame) I was also in Quebec for the holidays just before the Great Ice Storm of 1998 walloped that province, Eastern Ontario and New Brunswick. Thankfully I had the great good fortune of leaving town on that fateful morning of January 4th, and missed being stranded there by a mere few hours. That storm eventually required calling in the army, making it the largest deployment of Canadian military personnel since the Korean War.

Yes, that’s right. Toronto is not the only place in Canada, or even the first, that ever called in the army to help out in cases of extreme weather, although one wouldn’t know that by the mockery it has had to endure ever since the storm of 2000.

I must confess that I have lived in Toronto for many years, so I got to enjoy first-hand our very own “Snow-mageddon” when this city was pummeled by 80 cm. Yes, 80 cm of snow...almost twice the amount of Montreal’s largest single-day snowfall in history. Traditionally not a city that has had much experience with such large storms, Toronto had less snow clearing equipment, and budgets a good deal smaller, than some other Canadian locations.

The city came to a standstill. The limited equipment (which had been loaned to Quebec two years earlier when that province needed help) just wasn’t up to the task. Closing down the economic engine of our country for any length of time could have been a financial disaster, so the mayor made a difficult decision.

Granted, that particular mayor was a bit of a buffoon (hmmm – I’m sensing a pattern with Toronto mayors) but as someone who lived through the experience I still believe it was the right thing to do. A paramedic friend of mine told me at the time that if it had not been for the army vehicles helping ambulances move through the clogged streets, several of his patients would have died before reaching a hospital. I imagine those folks, and their relatives, never regretted the mayor’s decision.

Coming from Quebec I understand that many Canadians need to dislike Toronto. In fact before I moved here I had assumed Montreal and Toronto had some sort of bitter, long-standing rivalry. Or so The Montreal Gazette always led me to believe.

Imagine my surprise to find that this rivalry is entirely one-sided. In my 30 years here I have yet to meet one Toronto native who doesn’t speak excitedly about taking a weekend trip to Montreal, visiting Vancouver or traveling our eastern coast.

So to the Quebec driver who, as I was pushing his car from the snowbank into which he had inexplicably driven, asked where I was from. I responded, “Toronto,” and he laughed, “Have you called in the army lately?”

I trust he’s still in that snowbank.

www.randyvancourt.com

A MERRIER CHRISTMAS

“It’s the most wonderful time of the year.” With those words the late Andy Williams introduced what would become one of the most famous songs of his career, and created a holiday classic into the bargain. Written for his Christmas 1963 television special, it went on to appear on every one of his holiday shows and albums thereafter.

Television was an ideal medium for Christmas entertainment and the 1960’s and 70’s were the heyday of TV holiday specials. Charlie Brown, Rudolph, Frosty and the Grinch all made their TV debuts back then, and they clearly have no intention of leaving us any time soon.

Sadly the same can’t be said for the live variety specials that also used to air every year. No December was complete without a festive visit from Andy Williams, Perry Como and Bing Crosby; add in the occasional Dean Martin or Frank Sinatra show, and you had hours of the most wonderful seasonal entertainment readily available. Crooners all, they each had a style and sensibility that lent itself to wonderful spectacles of music, dance and the occasional weak attempt at comedy.

There was something about those specials that just radiated Christmas. Sure they could be hokey, with lots of twinkling lights, fake snow, happy family dinners and bizarre guest stars – I for one never believed for a second that David Bowie would drop by Bing Crosby’s house to sing a duet. And for sheer holiday hilarity nothing can top the year Dean Martin performed his opening number with opera great Beverly Sills, country star Mel Tillis, pop singer Andy Gibb and CHIPS actor Erik Estrada.

But these shows were enveloped in the warmth and charm of a perfect Christmas, the kind of holiday we all long for. An unrealistic expectation perhaps, but beloved songs, traditional carols and beautiful arrangements all combined to show us a Christmas we could aspire to.

How sad that by the 1980’s these annual shows had fallen into disfavor, with most networks echoing the sentiment that, “Variety is dead.” Ironic, given the fact that these shows achieved a level of viewership that any network executive would sell their soul to accomplish today.

Perhaps television networks no longer see the value in paying star entertainers to perform. Of course the concept of “star” has changed, with precious few of the celebrities appearing on today’s multitude of reality shows truly qualifying for that title.

Or maybe the mixture of abilities these performers shared, singing, dancing, telling jokes, all performed with a knowing wink that tells us we’re all in on the fun, just seems old fashioned.

Still, New York’s Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular sells out months in advance; Andy Williams’ own 2,000-seat Moon River Theater in Branson, Missouri continues to pack in audiences 7 shows a week for its Christmas show. Clearly it’s television, not the audience, which deserted seasonal variety shows.

For two years I was fortunate to be part of the holiday specials for my friend David Gale’s popular TV series, “Loving Spoonfuls.” As most TV shows are produced months in advance of airing, we shot these shows in the middle of the summer. The audience might have thought it was it was a cold, wintry day but in reality we were sweating in the 35 degree Celsius July heat.

In some small way these episodes made me feel connected to all the wonderful shows that I watched while growing up. I kept hoping that Bob Hope or Jack Benny would walk through the door and join the fun.

Although Christmas music has pretty much been banished from television, radio stations are still awash in holiday songs each December. Unfortunately many modern Christmas songs seem sadly devoid of much joy. Lyrics about dying parents, broken relationships and holiday traffic jams have taken the place of snowfalls, horse-drawn carriages and candlelight. It’s as if “the most wonderful time of the year” has morphed into the most depressing.

I used to think “The Little Drummer Boy” was a sad Christmas song until I heard “The Christmas Shoes,” a morbid ballad about a little boy’s dying mother. It seems we’re no longer dreaming of a White Christmas; we’re now in a contest to see which holiday sentiment can be the most tragic.

Thankfully we live in a time of easy access to virtually every recording and TV show ever produced via CD and DVD, with many just a click away online. Enjoying the songs and specials of Andy, Perry, Bing and so many others couldn’t be simpler, so they can forever remain a joyful part of a Merry Christmas.

Just as Dickens made us all believe in the redemptive magic of the Christmas spirit, those TV specials gave us the hope that in spite of crowded malls, overcooked turkey and soused relatives, maybe a perfect holiday really was within our grasp. They simply made Christmas merrier.

www.randyvancourt.com

IT'S NOT SUCH A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL

I have come to the conclusion that the world is basically divided into two camps: those who love Disney theme parks and those who hate them and everything they stand for. Ever since I was seven years old and my mother brought home the 45 rpm record of IT’S A SMALL WORLD, I dreamed of visiting this magical place called Disneyland.

I have yet to make it to Anaheim, but have been to Florida’s Disney World on three occasions. On one trip my brother and I stayed an entire week in a hotel within the park, completely immersing ourselves in the experience.


My first trip, however, was a different story. I had just played a New Year’s concert in Miami and had a few days free, so I decided to head north to Orlando. I recall the thrill I felt when I first saw the gates of the Magic Kingdom, and once inside I was determined to completely immerse myself in the glow of this wondrous place.


I felt a little conspicuous, a single man enjoying the Dumbo ride and the Country Bear Jamboree on my own, but I had been anticipating this visit since I was seven and was not going to miss the chance to fully enjoy the Disney experience. After several hours of glory I emerged from Cinderella’s Castle and heard, faintly in the distance, the siren’s song that had first ignited my burning desire to visit this place.


There it was; the “It’s A Small World” ride. Excitedly I joined the line of riders, noting that I was the oldest one there by a long shot, which I imagine was the reason the ride operator seated me by myself in the front row of the boat once we finally boarded.

For those who have never experienced this ride, let me paint a picture. A large boat with several rows, each seating numerous people, floats through various tableaux of what the 1950’s Disney designers assumed to represent the world’s many cultures. Creepy animatronic dolls, all of them frighteningly identical other than their skin colour, move around clumsily while the well-known Sherman Brothers’ song, “It’s A Small World After All” plays endlessly.

Of course this is magical to the average 7 year old, and I revelled in the memory of the hours I had spent playing that old 45. This ride might be old and outdated, but its very simplicity harkened back to a simpler time.

Then unexpectedly our journey came to a grinding halt. Something was clearly wrong with the mechanism that moved the boat, but I assumed it would soon be corrected. I then became acutely aware that I was the sole adult on the ride, sitting alone in the front row with dozens of small children behind me.

I turned around and found several kids already in tears, no doubt terrified that we would be stuck in this terrifying place forever. I attempted to talk to them but, as most kids today have rightly learned, one never talks to strangers - especially creepy guys sitting all by themselves on a children’s ride. I was beginning to feel like a Disney villain, kidnapping frightened children and spiriting them away to my evil island.

Miraculously the sound system had somehow managed to escape any breakdown, since the song continued to play. Incessantly. Relentlessly. The minutes ticked past. 10, 15, 20...all the while a chorus of hysterical children sobbed along with the mocking lyric, “It’s a world of laughter, a world of tears…”

How had I never realized how insipid this song was? The United Nations and the European Court of Human Rights have both banned the use of loud music in interrogations; the U.S. military even uses the term “music torture.” How had any evil-doer not yet discovered the power of this single recording?

Almost a full half hour into this ordeal, the boat finally jerked back into motion and headed toward the exit doors. As we emerged into the sunlight I dreaded what the mobs of panic-stricken parents were about to see. There I sat, front and centre, the evil Captain Hook with my crew of weeping children, waving feebly as we returned from Neverland.

Shortly thereafter Disney decided to revamp this ride. Perhaps they discovered that not everyone in the world looks the same, or that their song could far more easily be used for evil than good, or maybe they decided to no longer allow solitary adults to take a boatload of kids into a dark building for half an hour.

I’m not sure. All I do know is that, should I ever again visit It’s A Small World, I will be certain to take along two things. Another adult and earplugs.

Goofy and I share a tender moment.

www.randyvancourt.com

MEASURE YOUR LIFE

My father once wrote, “When I was a child I counted the years of my life not in birthdays, but in Christmases.” There’s a wonderful logic to that idea; birthdays are a solitary concept, whereas Christmas is meant to be shared with everyone. It’s a much more inclusive celebration and lasts far longer than just one day. In fact I’ve always maintained that it’s proper to celebrate the entire 12 Days of Christmas, and I have a real problem with friends who insist on taking down their tree on the 26th because, “Christmas is over.” I am proud of the fact that, should a friend of the Eastern Orthodox faith ever drop by my house in early January, my tree will still be there.

My parents both grew up on farms during the Depression. Neither of them ever mentioned anything about only receiving “a pencil and an orange” in their Christmas stocking, but I’ve heard others tell that story often enough over the years that I know Christmas was a bit different back then. Of course as the annual orgy of holiday spending seems to grow exponentially each year, telling today’s kids that for my generation the biggest Christmas decision was whether to ask Santa for Hot Wheels or a GI Joe with Kung Fu grip probably sounds rather quaint.

When I was a kid it always felt like Christmas couldn’t come soon enough. The annual ritual of selecting a tree, participating in the Christmas pageant, carolling; it was my favourite time of the entire year. The arrival of Santa at our local mall was always a memorable experience, because for some reason our Santa eschewed the traditional sleigh in favour of flying in by helicopter, which I always found odd. I suppose it could have been stranger – I have since seen him arrive, over the years, by parachute and surfboard.

Growing up in Quebec added an additional element to the Santa paradox, because I never quite understood why Santa always spoke with a heavy French accent. Of course no kid is going to worry about such inconsistencies very long when the guy’s handing out candy canes.

Each year the decorating of our home was a major undertaking. The job of stringing the lights on our tree always fell to the older members of our family. As we grew up, each of us would eventually take on part of the merciless task of untangling that mess of lights; but oh, the wonder of colours when they were plugged in! At some point far back, and for a reason I cannot remember, I began the annual custom of lying underneath our tree and looking up through the branches. The mixture of the wonderful evergreen fragrance and twinkling colours was intoxicating; I wanted to live in that magical world completely surrounded by branches, tinsel and decorations.

Back then Christmas lights glowed at a temperature that could actually burn your fingers. And our lights didn’t flash on and off in a long string; oh no, they twinkled, each one separately - some even bubbled. Today’s new LED versions just don’t seem to provide the same experience, although they no doubt create less of a fire hazard.

Each Christmas I try to do one thing that will make the holiday memorable; something that I can look back on and say, “That was the Christmas of...” For many years while growing up I read Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol” every December. As a teenager I dressed up in a Santa suit and visited younger kids in my neighbourhood. In my 20’s I recorded a selection of Christmas songs.

Then in 1993 I was hired to compose the score for a huge Christmas stage extravaganza in Toronto. Modelled on New York’s Radio City Christmas Spectacular, it was meant to be the first of an annual tradition. Unfortunately it went on to become an enormous financial disaster. I recall sitting in the theatre’s balcony with my brother, waiting to enjoy a matinee, when the entire orchestra suddenly walked out because their paycheques hadn’t arrived. Somehow the wonder of Christmas was a little less evident to me that day, even less so the next day when we had to sneak back into the theatre and rescue my sheet music from the orchestra pit. Memorable does not always equal good.

This year I will be enjoying Toronto’s wonderful Santa Claus parade from the comfort of a second story window in a 19th century mansion along the parade route, then watching a Christmas pageant complete with live camels and donkeys. Quite a distance from the farmhouses of my parents’ youth.

Each year my father gave the same toast at Christmas dinner; he was thankful that we were all able to celebrate one more holiday together. He was blessed to enjoy 85 Christmases, all of them (with the exception of his time overseas during the war) with family. For over two decades he only ever missed writing his Christmas column for these pages one time, when I filled in for him.

This year as we all raise a glass and toast Christmas, I’ll be reflecting on the past 12 months. Hopefully I’ve lived them well, but just to be sure I’m doing it right from now on I vow to measure my life not in birthdays, but in Christmases.

www.randyvancourt.com