JUST A COMMON SOLDIER (A Soldier Died Today)

As November arrives so does the annual flood of reprint requests for my father’s poem, JUST A COMMON SOLDIER, also known as A SOLDIER DIED TODAY.   Like many men of his generation, when the Nazi war machine was raging my father enlisted in the Armed Forces and went off to serve his country.  Then he came home and wrote a poem about it.  It went on to become his defining work.

For several decades my father was a columnist for Quebec-based newspapers and a national magazine.  His writing was a mixture of nostalgic stories, original poems, and the occasional political viewpoint. Rushing to meet a deadline, he wrote this poem for his 1987 Remembrance Day column. It was published then relegated to his ever-expanding collection of scrapbooks. 

A few years later Ann Landers (who had contributed a blurb for the back cover of my father’s first book) published a portion of his poem in her syndicated column; that’s when the floodgates opened.  We started receiving requests to reprint from all over the world.  Our website received so many hits it crashed the server. These requests grew with each passing year and to date the poem has been published as far afield as the U.S, Britain, Australia, New Zealand, India, South Africa and Singapore.

For years it has been broadcast every Memorial Day on U.S. national radio, and in 2008 was carved into marble for a Nebraska Veteran’s Memorial.  The American Legion has posted it throughout their many branches, the Australian RSL included it in their video tribute, “Victory in the Pacific,” and it was a central part of the 2009 Royal British Legion Poppy Appeal.

A composer and writer myself, I used it as a central part of “Born Lucky,” a stage musical I wrote and toured in 2008-09.
The poem has been reprinted thousands of times in newspapers, magazines and websites around the world. It is ironic that Canada, the country of the author's birth, has consistently shown the least interest in his work.

Most movingly it has served as a eulogy at hundreds of funerals over the years, including the author’s own in 2009.  Although we miss him terribly, what greater gift could he have left his family than the knowledge that his words, those of a Canadian veteran, live on and continue to inspire people around the globe.

JUST A COMMON SOLDIER

(A Soldier Died Today)

by A. Lawrence Vaincourt

He was getting old and paunchy and his hair was falling fast,

And he sat around the Legion, telling stories of the past.

Of a war that he had fought in and the deeds that he had done,

In his exploits with his buddies; they were heroes, every one.

And tho’ sometimes, to his neighbors, his tales became a joke,

All his Legion buddies listened, for they knew whereof he spoke.

But we’ll hear his tales no longer for old Bill has passed away,

And the world’s a little poorer, for a soldier died today.

He will not be mourned by many, just his children and his wife,

For he lived an ordinary and quite uneventful life.

Held a job and raised a family, quietly going his own way,

And the world won’t note his passing, though a soldier died today.

When politicians leave this earth, their bodies lie in state,

While thousands note their passing and proclaim that they were great.

Papers tell their whole life stories, from the time that they were young,

But the passing of a soldier goes unnoticed and unsung.

Is the greatest contribution to the welfare of our land,

A guy who breaks his promises and cons his fellow man?

Or the ordinary fellow who, in times of war and strife,

Goes off to serve his Country and offers up his life?

A politician’s stipend and the style in which he lives,

Are sometimes disproportionate to the service that he gives.

While the ordinary soldier, who offered up his all,

Is paid off with a medal and perhaps, a pension small.

It’s so easy to forget them for it was so long ago,

That the old Bills of our Country went to battle, but we know

It was not the politicians, with their compromise and ploys,

Who won for us the freedom that our Country now enjoys.

Should you find yourself in danger, with your enemies at hand,

Would you want a politician with his ever-shifting stand?

Or would you prefer a soldier, who has sworn to defend

His home, his kin and Country and would fight until the end?

He was just a common soldier and his ranks are growing thin,

But his presence should remind us we may need his like again.

For when countries are in conflict, then we find the soldier’s part

Is to clean up all the troubles that the politicians start.

If we cannot do him honor while he’s here to hear the praise,

Then at least let’s give him homage at the ending of his days.

Perhaps just a simple headline in a paper that would say,

Our Country is in mourning, for a soldier died today.

©1987 A. Lawrence Vaincourt

http://vaincourt.homestead.com

www.randyvancourt.com


 

SUMMER THEATER JOYS

Another summer dawns warm and pleasant…or stiflingly hot and humid, depending on your point of view. So far in the Toronto area we have had several days of record-breaking heat, interspersed with massive thunderstorms and a tornado warning in nearby Hamilton. Still, it’s summer!

Since the 1980’s this time of year has usually found me working in what is known as Summer Stock Theatre. Once called the Straw Hat circuit and plentiful all across the country, many of these theatres eventually fell prey to television, video and more recently the Internet. It seems to be a tougher job every year to get people out of their cottages, away from other forms of entertainment, and into one of the charming little theatres that still dot our country, mostly in rural areas.

Many of these theatres are situated in small opera houses, under large tents or in converted barns. In fact ever since Mickey and Judy exclaimed, “Let’s put on a show! My dad’s got a barn,” the combination of barns and theatre has formed an integral part of the summer experience.

What sets barn theatres apart from other venues is that they are invariably situated in a bucolic setting, far from the city, surrounded by peace and tranquility. The downside is they often smell of former occupants, and are usually not air-conditioned.

The Red Barn Theatre in Ontario was known as the oldest summer theatre in Canada. Its rafters rang with the memory of all the entertainers who had performed there, from Harry Belafonte to Jason Robards to Wayne and Shuster. My first performance there was as part of the Second City comedy show, and many a hot, sweaty evening was subsequently spent on that stage, hoping we’d complete our performance before the raccoons dropped any surprises on us from the rafters (which on several occasions, they did).

The final show I did there was the classic Canadian musical, Anne Of Green Gables. We had a stellar cast, a terrific band, beautiful costumes shipped in from the Charlottetown Festival…and 45-degree temperatures on the stage. Stage lights tend to add a good 10 degrees to the ambient temperature, and mixed with that summer’s overwhelming heat and the actors’ heavy costumes, people were passing out long before we got to the Act One finale, “Ice Cream.”

Oh, the “Ice Cream” song. At the end of the song our heroine Anne accidentally gets her delicious ice cream cone mashed against the front of her dress. Well, you can’t use real ice cream on stage, as it would melt too quickly, so usually shaving cream is substituted. Our production used whipped cream instead.

The management of the theatre at that time was what could charitably be described as “thrifty,” and they had no intention of spending any money to dry clean the costumes during our entire summer run. Eight shows a week for ten weeks, Anne had whipped cream spread across her wool dress, then quickly wiped off with a wet towel during intermission.

As anyone who has ever left cream out in the sun can attest, heat is not its friend. The mixture of dairy product, intense heat and lack of cleaning eventually caused our beloved Anne to…let’s just say her presence was felt long before she walked onstage.

During one performance as she danced across the stage in her aromatic outfit, I heard a voice in the front row plaintively cry, “Oh my god, what’s that smell?” I wanted to shout out, “Canadian theatre!”

The indignities didn’t stop there. The thrifty management decided to save the cost of hiring a set designer, so they took the plans from another production and scaled down the two-storey set to fit on their stage. It was a wonderful cost-saving measure, except they forgot to tell the carpenters of this plan so they built it full size. Anne’s second-storey bedroom was so high in the air that when she stood up her beautiful red hair was six inches from those hot stage lights.

I can’t say for sure but I’m fairly certain there has never been another production of this show where the local townsfolk had to extinguish Anne’s wig. For a brief moment we actually hoped that the raccoons would pay us an early visit.

The success of ANNE allowed the theatre to finally, after 50 years, install air conditioning. Sadly, this iconic theatre was consumed by fire two years ago, and the beautiful Red Barn Theatre was lost forever.

This summer I’m fortunate to have 2 of my musicals on the road. BOARDWALK! The Doo Wop Show, is in Brockville, Ontario in July, and THE ROCKY ROAD TO DUBLIN will be bringing Irish music and comedy to The Piggery, a beautiful barn theatre in North Hatley, Quebec, in August. Happily, both venues are air-conditioned.

And I promise to clean the costumes.

www.randyvancourt.com

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

Every November my brother and I head down to the southern U.S. on our annual adventure, part business and part fun.  We’ve hiked the Grand Canyon, explored the Alamo in Texas and spent time with cowboys in Tombstone.  This year we ended up is St. Augustine, Florida, the “oldest continuously occupied European-established city in America,” which upon consideration seems to be a rather large amount of variables.

Founded in 1565 by Spanish explorer Pedro Menéndez de Avilés, its primary claim to fame actually goes back a few years before that.  In 1513, Juan Ponce de Léon, the first Governor of Puerto Rico, went looking for the fabled Fountain of Youth; according to ancient legend anyone who drank from the Fountain would remain perpetually young.  Although he had heard the Fountain was located in Bimini, his voyage ultimately took him to the area now known as St. Augustine. 

Sadly, Ponce de Léon never mentioned discovering the Fountain in any of his writings and even though his name has traditionally been attached to the story, in reality the two became connected only after his death.

Jump ahead to 1904, when a local St. Augustine character known as Dr. Luella Day McConnell ("Diamond Lil" to her friends, due to the diamond in her front tooth, a sure sign of elegance and gentility, then as now), claimed to have conveniently discovered an official document from the King of Spain on her property stating that this was the actual site of the Fountain of Youth.  Not only that, she also uncovered a crucifix that Ponce de Léon had apparently constructed while there.

There were a few small problems with Diamond Lil’s claims; the supposed Spanish document remained hidden in the possession of a family member (although one can see a copy of it at the location) and the crucifix was manufactured out of coquina, a limestone consisting of seashells and corral, a popular building material in Diamond Lil’s day but one that Ponce de Léon most likely had no access to during his short stay there. 

Although her evidence was what some might call questionable, Diamond Lil managed to turn her Fountain of Youth into a major tourist attraction where thousands lined up to pay for a drink of the fabled water.  Ironically more recent excavations have provided proof that this very property was also most likely the site of Pedro Menéndez’s first colony in 1565.  Apparently Diamond Lil actually did own a truly historic site without even knowing it; but I imagine her aim was not so much history as profit.

To this day it remains a featured attraction in the city, and why not?  Although no one is likely to admit it, the thought of regaining one’s youth by simply drinking a cup of water is an intoxicating draw.

As we lined up to taste this miracle elixir, I noticed that the suspicious Spanish document described the water from the Fountain as “sweet.”   Now I don’t know about your definition of sweet but for anyone who grew up drinking well water, the pungent aroma of sulfur is instantly recognizable.  Perhaps Ponce’s water back home was even worse but if he thought this stuff was sweet OR magical, he had clearly set the bar pretty low.

However, never let it be said that I turned down the possibility of eternal youth through blind stubbornness.  If millions had trekked to this location over the decades just to drink the water and stay forever young, who was I to disagree? 

As I tossed back my third glass of the magical water, I pondered the fact that Diamond Lil died in 1927 at the age of 57.  Fountain of Youth? Call me suspicious, but something seemed a little off here, and it wasn’t just the sulfur.

www.randyvancourt.com

SHE MADE RUDOLPH GLOW

   Her name was Billie Mae Richards, but to the world she will always be Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.  That's right, the voice of Rudolph on the classic 1964 Christmas TV special was really a girl; but unlike the famous outcast reindeer, everyone who met Billie loved her immediately.

    We lost Billie on September 10th  of this year, at the age of 88.  When I heard the news of her death on CBC Radio I was surprised the report didn’t mention her extensive work history at the Mother Corp.  She provided voices for dozens of radio shows throughout the 1950’s, most famously giving voice to The Kid on “Jake And The Kid.”  Yes, she was playing a boy long before Rudolph came along.

    I knew Billie and had the good fortune to work with her on several occasions.  Although I stood over a foot taller, I soon learned she had an unfair advantage in any performance.  You could labour like crazy to win over the audience, then all she had to do was walk onstage and say, “Clarice thinks I'm cuuute!” and she’d steal the show.

    Canada was not alone in feeling her loss; her death was covered in People Magazine, Variety, The Los Angeles Times – she was even eulogized by Brian Williams on the NBC Nightly News.  Quite a feat for a Canadian entertainer.  Oddly (but not surprisingly) she received far more attention from the American press than she did here in Canada. This will be our first Christmas without her, so it seems an ideal time to remember this wonderful actress whose voice came to define the season.

    A child singer, dancer and accordion player in Toronto vaudeville of the 1920's, by the time she was 6 she was performing in a variety show called “The Merry Makers” alongside those Canadian icons of World War I, The Dumbells.  During World War II Billie decided to join the navy, and it wasn't long before she was asked to put her talents to use by becoming part of the “Meet The Navy” show, touring Canada and playing throughout Europe.

    After the War she embarked on a highly successful radio career at the CBC, specializing in providing voices for young male characters.   I doubt she ever imagined that her years of experience playing boys would ultimately lead to becoming the world’s most famous reindeer.

    Although the beloved holiday special was an American production, the producers came to Canada to record the voices.  Our radio drama industry was busy back then, and our voice artists were considered superior to their US counterparts.  With the exception of Burl Ives, the entire cast of Rudolph came from Toronto and included many popular (and still active) Canadian actors such as Paul Soles (Hermey the Elf, and the original voice of Spider-Man), Carl Banas (Elf Boss), Larry Mann (Yukon Cornelius) and the late Paul Kligman (Donner).  Soles in particular remained close friends with Billie and they later appeared together as husband and wife in the 1998 horror movie “Shadow Builder” where his character attacked her with an axe.  Yup, Hermey killed Rudolph.  Let that one sink in for awhile.

    Unfortunately “Rudolph” was produced prior to the days when actors began receiving residuals for their work, meaning they got paid a one-time fee for performing the voices.  In spite of the show’s continued success over the past four decades and the millions of dollars it has generated, the actors never saw another penny for their contributions.

    Billie provided Rudolph's voice for two subsequent animated specials, and went on to create voices for many other cartoons series including “Spider-Man,” “Captain Nemo” and “The Care Bears.”  She continued to be active in voice, film and TV work well into her 80's, only slowing down in the past few years due to ill health. 

    This Christmas as I indulge in my annual ritual of watching “Rudolph,” Billie will be front and centre in my thoughts.  She spent 80 years as a proud Canadian performer and left a legacy few can match, setting the bar pretty high for all the rest of us.

    So Billie, on behalf of everyone whose lives you touched with your friendship, humour and talent, you'll live on in our hearts always.  And oh yes, “I think you're cuuute!”

www.randyvancourt.com

A CHILLY RECEPTION

“We’ll think no more of Inco on a Sudbury Saturday Night.” The classic Stompin’ Tom Connors song echoed in my ears as I flew into Sudbury, Ontario a few months ago, prepared to take on a conducting job at the local theatre.

The show was The Full Monty. Some may recall the 1997 British film of the same name, which told the story of a group of striking steel miners in northern England who decide to become male strippers. A subsequent Broadway musical transplanted this story to Buffalo, New York, and went on to win numerous awards.

I was on my way to Sudbury to conduct the music for this production. Our timing coincided with an extended miner’s strike against the very same Inco (now Vale Inco) that Stompin’ Tom sang about. The timing could not have been more fortuitous.

Now I’ve worked on many shows where the set design required the musicians be on stage rather than in a pit. This rarely proves to be a good idea, for surrounding musicians, instruments, chairs, music stands and a conductor, with dancers, actors, singers, technicians and set pieces flying in and out, is usually a recipe for total havoc.

In this production sets did fly overhead, and crew members ran around under cover of darkness making magical things occur for the audience. As the band was situated on stage under a staircase, behind a half-wall and next to a sliding platform with a bed on it, they had to run around us as well. Conducting an orchestra while your lead trombonist helps straighten the sheets on the prop bed can be a little distracting. However in this case the process worked and the production was amazing.

One of the things I enjoy most about traveling is getting to know the people in each town. I knew I had made an impact in Sudbury around week number three when I walked into the local “Stuff for a Dollar” store and the sales clerk looked up at me and hollered, “What the heck are you still doing in town?”

Privacy is cherished when you’re on the road with a show, and I had the good fortune to be staying in my own little apartment. The area I was living in could best be described as colourful; in the morning I would walk past people sitting on their front porches clad in nothing but their underwear, enjoying what I came to refer to as their “breakfast beer.”

For the most part my Sudbury neighbours were fine. The exception was the family next door who seemed to look upon me with suspicion, like I was some sort of “revenooer” sent to confiscate their moonshine. They enjoyed late night bonfires and drunkenly screaming off-color jokes while sitting around the abandoned freezer on their front lawn. One evening I was treated to a 1:30 a.m. performance that involved some irate individual shouting death threats at the owner of the house. In great detail. Including names, locations and exactly how he was going to commit this act. I felt certain the old freezer would play a role.

I’m no criminal mastermind but I assume that if you’re enraged enough to do another person bodily harm, screaming out that information for the neighbours to hear is probably a bad plan. I did take comfort in the almost certain knowledge that these particular folks would probably never be part of my theatre-going audience.

Our production was a success, and the show was extended two times. Six weeks later I was finally ready to return to my Toronto home. As the taxi arrived at my house to take me to the airport I waved a final goodbye to my neighbour, who responded with his usual suspicious scowl. I threw my bags in the back, hopped in and off we went.

As we drove away the taxi driver looked in his rear view mirror and asked with surprise, “What’s that guy doing?”

Suppressing visions of our vehicle being pelted with empty beer cans, I turned around. There stood my neighbour on his front lawn, reaching down inside the old battered freezer to remove something. The “something” turned out to be his infant son; apparently he was using the freezer as some sort of makeshift playpen.

I saw many amazing sights while in Sudbury, from the rugged terrain to the mines to the iconic Big Nickel. I feel fairly certain that even though I didn’t have the time to take a photo of that final moment, it will nonetheless join all the other highlights forever etched in my memory.

www.randyvancourt.com

PAGING MR. KHAN

     Air travel has become increasingly unpleasant over the past few years.  While we all understand the reality of terrorist threats, it seems to me that the air transport industry has become bogged down in surreal attempts to protect us.  I don’t pretend to understand how their decisions work, but I will dutifully carry five 100ml bottles of liquid on board rather than one 500ml bottle, and refrain from using the washroom for the last hour of flight.  I can only assume that our safety mavens have figured out a way to keep potential terrorists from a) mixing together said liquids, or b) using the washroom for their nefarious activities prior to the last hour.

     I recently found myself boarding a small plane at Toronto’s Pearson Airport.  My brother Scott and I were on our way to Savannah, Georgia, with a stopover in Atlanta.  We’d already cleared US Customs prior to boarding, so now all we had to do was enjoy the trip.

     As we sat on the tarmac watching the minutes tick by, we began to wonder why we were late for takeoff.  The answer suddenly arrived in the form of blaring sirens, flashing lights and several cars full of severe looking authorities swarming out little plane.  The plane door swung open and numerous determined officials piled aboard.  Their leader opened his mouth and uttered the words every air traveler wants to hear just prior to takeoff.

     “Is there a Mohammad Khan on board?” he inquired.  Silence on the plane.   Before anyone thinks our cause for alarm was simply because the person they sought was named Mohammad Khan, let me say that a quick internet check located 1,063 similarly named individuals in Ontario alone, all of them no doubt fine people. 

     However in my experience sirens, flashing lights and authorities banging your door open are rarely the result of anything good, like your table being ready at a restaurant.

      Eyes began darting suspiciously around the plane.  Everyone knew the drill, and began digging for their passports.  Our Inquisitor repeated his request.

     “Is there a Mohammad Khan on board?”  Still no reply.  My brother and I reached for our passports as well, assuming the entire plane would be searched.  Unfortunately such an extreme line of defense was not deemed necessary, because at this point the authorities simply exited the plane, apparently satisfied that if their prey had indeed been on board, their simplistic attempt at Soviet-era interrogation techniques would certainly have rooted him out.

     A palpable sense of fear settled over our little plane family.  A few minutes passed and the pilot’s voice came over the intercom.

     “Now that we’ve averted that crisis, we’ll be taking off.”

      Averted? Crisis? A perceived threat to our safety was thought to be aboard our plane and they decided to track him down using the honour system?  I’ve experienced more intense I.D. requirements when entering a nightclub.  Our subsequent flight to Atlanta, while comfortable and trouble free, was rather tense.

     Once on the tarmac in Atlanta we were informed that the American authorities would now be paying our merry little band of travelers an on-board visit.  In spite of our Canadian officials’ intense application of safety measures (show of hands, please) the Americans felt they needed to apply even more extreme methods. 

     “Please have your passports ready as you leave the plane.”  Apparently their terrorist identification training is a notch above ours, for unlike their Canadian counterparts they understood the value of actually requesting identification. 

     Although I would have preferred that this action been taken prior to heading 30,000 feet in the air, I showed them my passport and quickly proceeded up the ramp towards the terminal.  A few seconds later, I heard my brother’s voice behind me.

     “They took my passport!” he shouted as an official pushed him up against the wall.  It only took a split second for the magnitude of this situation to fully sink in.  How could I have been so blind?  It was all so clear now.  My brother was Mohammad Khan!  I was astonished; how had he hidden this fact from me all these years?  Did our parents know?

     Suddenly the real issue at stake became apparent.  Guantanamo Bay aside, I was more concerned with missing our connecting flight.  I briefly considered waving goodbye and yelling, “See you in Savannah!” but apparently I was raised better than that.  By parents who neglected to tell me my brother was a terrorist, but nonetheless...

      Strangely, the officials soon identified another suspect, then another; apparently there were numerous dubious characters on board, as within a few minutes more than 20 individuals were lined up against the wall, passports confiscated.  Men, women, children, people of every ethnic persuasion; it was a United Nations of Mohammad Khans. 

     A phone call to Toronto soon revealed the problem.  In spite of intensely rigid border regulations, the US Customs officials at the Toronto Airport hadn’t bothered stamping half the passports that morning.  If your passport isn’t stamped upon inspection, you are assumed to have entered illegally.  Our plane had been a flying galleon of potential security threats, all thanks to border officials who seemed confused as to the proper use of a rubber stamp.

     One by one each person was checked and cleared.  Sadly, no amount of shoe x-rays and full body scans can ever make up for the sheer inept attention to detail shown by the US Customs officials that morning.

     I’ve always thought that the worst part of any trip is the traveling.  I love visiting places, I just don’t enjoy the process of getting there; so kudos to the US Customs officials for providing a thrilling way to make an otherwise boring plane trip memorable. 

     However as each and every passenger on our plane was eventually cleared, one question continued burning in my mind.  Who the heck was Mohammad Khan?

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

GUNFIGHT AT THE T.O. CORRAL

As I turn onto Allen Street, the main drag of Tombstone, Arizona, I’m struck by how authentic it appears. Sure, the buildings have a “theme park” air about them, but still there’s something very real about this place. It could be that the busted up road and strong winds give the place a messy, dusty appearance. It might also be that I watch as a real-life lawman physically throws a drunken cowboy out of a local saloon. The cowboy staggers to his feet, swears loudly in a way you’d never hear from a Disney World Cast Member, climbs onto his horse and rides away.

I’ve only been here minutes and I’ve already seen an Old West dust-up. This town is crawling with cowboys, dance hall girls and stagecoaches. Many are simply locals playing the part for tourists, but don’t be fooled. Real cowboys still walk these streets.

I enter a large saloon and meet the owner, an excited Brooklyn transplant who seems overjoyed to see me. Of course it is 11am Monday morning, so I’m one of a small group of people in town. He asks where I’m from and I tell him Toronto. Wouldn’t you know it, his first wife was Canadian and they lived in Toronto for ten years. It seems that his bartender has called in sick today and he needs some help. “You’re Canadian – you must know beer,” he informs me and then hands me a cowboy hat, kerchief and holster.

Suddenly I’m dressed up and standing behind the bar, pouring drinks and chatting with the locals. The lunch crowd soon arrives and as I’m pouring beer I mention to the owner that I’m a musician, so pretty soon I’m playing old tunes on their upright piano. I decide not to mention this to the Musician’s Union back home.

I’ve driven in from visiting Boot Hill, the famous cemetery just outside town. Its name is so well known from Hollywood movies that many don’t believe it’s a real location, but it is. There are other pretenders to the crown, but this is the real Boot Hill; the final resting place of names like Billy Clanton and the McLaury brothers, all killed at the famous Gunfight at the O.K. Corral.

Ah, the O.K Corral. Step back in time and experience one of the most amusing recreations I have ever attended. The O.K. Corral became famous for the gunfight that occurred on October 26, 1881, between the Earps and the Clantons. The Earp brothers and Doc Holliday have gone down as the “good guys” in this story, but there has always been considerable debate on this point.

Now I can make up my own mind as I visit the unintentionally hilarious re-enactment this afternoon. Local performers act out the entire gun battle with a “play-to-the-balcony” subtlety, then pose for photos with anyone who so desires. After the show you can go visit another area and watch the same story performed, this time by limited-motion (and I do mean limited) mannequins. I’m hard pressed to decide which performance has the best acting, as they’re both top-notch amusement for your entertainment dollar.

Right next door is the Historama; Tombstone’s history told in a multimedia presentation narrated by Vincent Price – or so the owner informs me. The audio is so poor that I can’t make out anything being said. I report this to the owner following the show, and we wind up in a half-hour conversation about guns. He shows me his collection and I discover that the story of our Canadian gun registry is well known, even in southern Arizona.

I’m walking along Allen Street about 5pm when a local fellow approaches and hands me a menu for a restaurant. He’s got a handlebar mustache and is wearing a cowboy hat and duster. He asks me where I hail from, and when I say Toronto his eyes widen. “I was born there,” he says in a thick Texan drawl. “My parents moved there from Italy.”

So an Italian-Canadian boy from Toronto boy ends up being a cowboy in the Old West. I’m learning you can’t judge a guy by his hat.

I finally decide on a cute little restaurant called Nellie Cashman's. As I sit and peruse the menu, the waitress asks me where I’m from. I’m starting to get a little nervous admitting it, but my reply brings a squeal of excitement from her. “I grew up in Scarborough!” This is becoming strange.

I begin to contemplate these odds. I traveled 3,600 km (2236 miles) to a small area of southern Arizona, only to bump into numerous folks from home. What’s going on here? Is Tombstone a Mecca for people from Toronto? Or is something more sinister at play? Is there some Sirens’ song that won’t allow us to leave this town once we arrive?

I decide to think about this later. I still have to work the late shift at the saloon.

www.randyvancourt.com

THREE MEN AND A CANYON

I find myself standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon at 7:30 AM, sunrise casting unbelievably stunning colors along its surface. I feel like I’ve already accomplished my goal of hiking the Canyon. Well, everything except the hiking part.

My brother Scott, our friend Rob and I drove into Grand Canyon National Park last night under cover of darkness, and I can now see that the road meanders directly along the ledge of the Canyon. Thankfully we made it to our South Rim lodge without realizing we were only two meters away from certain catastrophe.

Staying at one of the Canyon’s lodges allows you this early morning light show. We’ve all just rolled out of bed and come to the edge to gaze into the abyss; this sure beats a cup of coffee for getting the heart pounding.

Rob spent some years working for the National Park Service, and lived at the bottom of the Canyon doing scientific research. He knows the trails well and his continual sense of wonder is contagious. He tells a great story about getting swept up in the Colorado River during a seasonal monsoon and making a daring escape that involved throwing ropes across the rushing water. This is the kind of guy you want by your side as you first step onto the Bright Angel Trail and stare straight down into the 2 km (6,860 ft) expanse. Too be fair, that’s at its deepest point. We’re only about 1.5 km here; I could survive that fall, right?

My sense of adventure quickly turns into stomach-churning panic at the realization that there are no safety barriers of any kind protecting hikers from plunging straight down into the gorge. Granted the path is fairly wide and feels safe enough, other than when tourist-toting mules pass by, at which point hikers are expected to plaster themselves flat against the Canyon wall.

Perhaps climbing Mount Everest is easier; at least you don’t have to spend half your time avoiding the mules’ calling cards. I’m still feeling a little shaky when I notice a group of schoolchildren cheerfully hike right past us, so my trepidation seems a little misplaced. Now I just have to deal with my shame at being shown up by kids.

Hiking here is down to a fine science; posters everywhere advise how many liters of water and what amount of food to carry. Other posters tell the horrible story of hikers who ignored this advice and never made it out alive, including one woman who’d run the Boston Marathon. As I am no marathon runner, we take the advice and carry enough supplies that we probably won’t need to be Air Evac’d out.

We’re here in cooler weather; spring and autumn are wonderful times to visit the Canyon. The average temperature is far lower than during the summer when it can reach 40°C (104°F), therefore hiking is more endurable.

Some of the path is exposed to direct sunlight, and that can become debilitating during the hotter months. However at this time of year there is the double danger of icy patches, plus a sun that sets in what seems like 60 seconds flat.

We’re hiking in fleece sweaters and leather jackets; it’s so cool here than one park employee informs us, “You boys don’t know how to dress for the cold.” We proudly reply that we’re Canadian – this is July weather to us. I consider asking if they have an outdoor pool.

The blazing colors of the Canyon constantly change as the sun passes overhead. I’ve never seen such breathtaking scenery anywhere. We stop every few minutes to take photos and videos, and as we hike deeper my fear subsides...a little. We begin staging funny shots; laughter in the face of imminent peril. Plus we begin to write insulting little songs about the “Mule People.”

Rob is an excellent guide, pointing out various rock formations and buttes along the way. He tells us surreal stories about living in the Canyon and battling scorpions that got into his boots. Whenever I begin to feel tired, I see the schoolchildren in the distance and they inspire me. I realize it’s not a competition…but I’ll be darned if I’m turning back before them.

We have decided to do a day hike of about 30 km (18.5 miles), which allows us to return to our lodge by sundown. As the sun sinks in the sky the temperature plummets, it’s easy to understand why so many hikers get in trouble here. You can experience heat-induced dehydration and hypothermia, all within one day.

The evening is spent exchanging stories with other hikers and a park employee. It’s amazing how quickly every conversation returns to the tale of yet another hiker who had to be rescued. Not surprising, as over 250 people have to be pulled out of the Canyon each year. Since the 1870s there have been over 600 deaths at the Canyon; accidents, suicides, even an airplane collision in 1956.

Then the employee tells us the most fascinating tidbit yet. He claims that during the last Bush administration, park employees were advised not to discuss the age of the Canyon with tourists; suggesting it was any older than 5,000 years was not allowed, so they discouraged any discussion at all. This seems to fly in the face of the accepted 5-6 million year estimate, or the 2008 study that suggested 17 million years.

We turn in early as we have another hike planned for tomorrow. As I lie there in the total darkness and dead quiet, I contemplate this information. I suppose in the long run the Grand Canyon’s true age isn’t really important. It’s still our elder and it’s wise to show it respect. Plus I make a mental note to shake the scorpions out of my boots in the morning.

www.randyvancourt.com