WHAT I DID ON MY SUMMER VACATION

If anyone ever tells you they intend to buy a house, pack, move, and get married all within one month, send them to me.  I will be happy to set them straight.

On June 14^th my fiancé and I took possession of our new house; on June 27^th we packed up our respective former homes and moved way across town; on July 12^th we got married. All this happened as we both continued working and undertook renovations (don’t get me started on installing the kitchen floor). Between the real estate agents, banks, lawyers, mortgage companies and movers, I think the least stressful part of the entire summer was our actual wedding day.

            My fate was sealed back in 2009 when I was asked to run a singing class with a voice teacher. The moment we met I knew she was something special, although it seemed to take her a little longer to realize what a treasure I was.

              We got engaged last Christmas Eve 2012. On Boxing Day we drove to Quebec, just in time for that province to be hit with the biggest winter storm in 40 years, breaking the previous record from 1971.

Now some might call this a bad omen, but I chose to see it as the weather gods’ way of celebrating our engagement. Clearly I don’t put much stock in portents because we then chose July 12^th as our wedding day. As any Irishman can attest, The Glorious Twelfth, or Orangemen’s Day, is historically one of the most contentious dates in the calendar. Again I chose to put things in a positive light by considering this the ideal opportunity to encourage peace between Protestants (me) and Catholics (my fiancé).

We chose a beautiful Victorian era building in Toronto for both the wedding and reception. Thankfully this time the weather gods favoured us with a gorgeous, sunny day; not too hot so we could take lots of photos out in the gardens without any relatives suffering sunstroke.

            I work in music and comedy and my wife is a classically trained opera singer; between us we have an abundance of amazing friends who are professional singers, actors, musicians, writers and comedians. We corralled many of them to be part of our wedding celebration, starting with our church accompanist who has been a composer and producer for everyone from Tommy Hunter to Roger Whittaker to The Muppets.

It was a beautiful ceremony full of wonderful music that included our hand-picked choir and Daniel Giverin on violin. The entire thing seemed to fly by in an instant, marred only by the fact that, much to the priest’s amusement, I accidentally signed the Marriage Register on the line for “Officiant.”  

The reception was hosted by David Gale, one of my oldest friends and performing partners, with Mark Kersey on piano. It was a joyous event that culminated in an hour of outstanding entertainment provided by more of our cherished friends. In our speech we joked that we were happy we knew so many entertainers who were willing to work in exchange for food and an open bar. My only regret that day was that my dad could not be with us to share in the celebration.

            My father spent a good part of his life as a columnist and author. His humourous stories and poems seemed to resonate with readers everywhere, a fact of which I am reminded each time I deal with another reprint request for his work from around the world.  Most recently I have enjoyed numerous phone conversations with American singing legend Connie Francis, who has just recorded a spoken word version of my father’s well-known poem “Just A Common Soldier (A Soldier Died Today).”

            Although my fiancé never had the chance to meet my dad, she knew how much he meant to me so I was extremely touched when she suggested that we choose one of his poems to be read at our reception. While browsing through some of his published collections she came upon a work that seemed ideal. The words so moved her that she immediately burst into tears…which would have been less awkward if she hadn’t been riding the bus at the time.

The moment she showed it to me I knew it was the perfect way to make my dad a part of our special day. It only seemed fitting to ask another dear friend, himself a popular columnist and television actor, to read the poem at our reception. Between his moving rendition and the subsequent fiddle duet performed by one of my childhood friends and my new father-in-law, we knew Dad was right there with us. 

Now if only I had been able to actually taste a piece of our wedding cake…

www.randyvancourt.com

            

ADVICE TO A SON

By A. Lawrence Vaincourt

You say you need no one, that you are a man 

and can make it quite well on your own,

But you have a long route ahead of you, son – 

much too far to travel alone.

From the home of your parents to one of your own, 

and the knowledge that you are a man,

To the freedom you have from the love you have known, 

is sometimes a terrible span.

No man is an island, so goes the old saw, 

and those who have lived know it’s true,

And life’s heavy burdens, which now weigh you down, 

are lighter, divided by two.

If it’s only a hand you can clasp in the dark, 

or a warm, loving voice on the phone,

Which says you’re important and that you have worth, 

it surely beats being alone.

Don’t punish yourself for mistakes in your past, 

don’t say you can never go home,

But look for that someone who’ll share your long path, 

for it’s too lonesome walking alone.

The star that you follow, you may never reach, 

but you’ll know at life’s end that you tried;

And that on your way, you’d the love and support 

of the person who walked by your side.

So don’t try to do it, son, all on your own, 

for that path should be trodden by two;

And somewhere out there is a person who’ll share – 

that someone who’s just right for you.

BESIDES THAT, HOW WAS THE CRUISE?

Now that 2012 is in the past we can finally put behind us the multitude of documentaries, special reports and TV miniseries about the 100^th anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic. It was a horrible tragedy and 1,514 passengers lost their lives that night of April 14-15, 1912, so it’s understandable that our fascination with the story seems to keep growing with each passing year.           

Of course I share an interest in the story of the Titanic and its passengers; who perished, who didn’t, and the various reasons why. But the people who really fascinate me are the ones who survived by missing the boat that day. The famous people who, for one reason or another, didn’t get on board that infamous voyage and no doubt lived to be very thankful.

Inventor Guglielmo Marconi, chocolate mogul Milton Hershey, financier J. Pierpont Morgan and Goodyear Tire founder Frank Seiberling, had all booked passage on the Titanic. For various reasons each one cancelled or postponed their voyage, thereby ensuring the safe future of candy, radio and rubber tires. Just think about that the next time you’re driving along the highway while listening to the traffic report and chomping on a chocolate bar.

One of the reasons I am captivated by their stories is that I had a similar experience back in 2007.  It also involved a cruise ship, an iceberg and a sinking, and I too survived by not being on board.

I had been offered a job playing piano aboard a tourist ship. Many of my friends have made great money entertaining aboard cruise ships, spending their winters sailing through warmer climes, playing in piano bars or performing in musical reviews common on such trips. However the M/S Explorer, nicknamed the Little Red Ship, was by no definition a luxury cruise liner.

Designed for sailing the waters of the Arctic and Antarctic, the boat looked more like a low-rent ferry than the Pacific Princess. To be fair it was intended for adventure tourism, taking a small group of 100 passengers across the Drake Passage and on to the South Pole.

As I contemplated accepting the contract, I had visions of experiencing the thrilling voyage of a lifetime. Me, a modern day Roald Amundsen or Robert Scott, albeit one who had to spend each evening entertaining passengers with sing-along versions of American Pie and Piano Man.

But think of the adventure! I planned to keep a journal and turn my experiences into a book. I even had the title ready: “Playing At The Bottom Of The World.”

A month before we were to set sail, my brother casually pointed out that the ship would have to cross the Drake Passage, the body of water that separates the southern tip of Chile from Antarctica, twice each journey. I was scheduled to make 8 trips, for a total of 16 attempts to navigate what is known as one of the roughest stretches of water on the planet.

I am not what one would call a good sailor. I get queasy on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disney World, so needless to say I was a bit concerned about tackling such an infamous expanse of ocean – particularly 16 times. I decided to do a bit of research and was horrified at what I discovered.

Articles with names like, “Waves Of Terror” and “Horror On The High Seas” did nothing to dispel my fears, but when I eventually stumbled upon video clips taken by other adventure tourists, my stomach started to do flips. Waves of up to 30 metres (almost 100 ft) tossed ships back and forth at 45-degree angles. And the trip can take up to 2 days!

My mind was made up – I couldn’t accept the contract. Let some other poor guy be squashed behind a rolling piano. Every musician knows the story of how the orchestra played “Nearer My God To Thee” as the Titanic sank. Call me a coward but my Musician Union card makes no mention of going down with the ship; that’s the Captain’s job. First to the buffet and first to the lifeboats - that’s the musician’s motto.

November 11, 2007 the M/S Explorer set sail from Argentina, without me, on a 19-day trip that was meant trace the route of famed British explorer Ernest Shackleton.

Saturday, November 24th I sat down with my morning newspaper and noticed to my surprise the M/S Explorer was on the front page. The headline blared, “CRUISE SHIP SINKS OFF ANTARCTICA.”

Apparently the ship had hit an iceberg that tore a 25 X 10 cm (10 X 4 inch) gash in the hull. While the initial damage was being examined it then drifted into a second iceberg. Its fate was sealed, certainly better than the supposedly watertight compartments in its hull. Thankfully all the passengers and crew made it safely off the sinking ship and into the lifeboats, where they drifted for 5 hours until a Norwegian vessel came to their rescue.

There were some subsequent reports that the story of the sinking didn’t make sense, as the M/S Explorer was specifically designed for navigating through ice. Of course the Titanic was also unsinkable, so it’s difficult to cast aspersions. The whole affair was eventually ruled an accident following an investigation by the good folks at the Liberian Bureau of Maritime Affairs.

Why Liberia, you may ask? A huge number of the cruise ships that rake in millions of tourist dollars annually are actually registered in Liberia, a small West African country where there is no minimum wage and less-stringent labour laws.  “Flags of Convenience” is what the industry calls it, which anyone thinking of booking a cruise might want to consider.

Even though I never got to write my book or play piano at the bottom of the world, I don’t regret my decision to decline the trip any more than Messrs. Hershey or Marconi probably did. For 5 hours in 2007 the terrified passengers of the M/S Explorer no doubt wondered if they would survive. If I want to experience that sort of terror, all I have to do is go on stage without rehearsing.

www.randyvancourt.com

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

INTERNATIONALLY ACCLAIMED CANADIAN VETERAN’S POEM REACHES 25

    As November arrives so does the annual flood of reprint requests for my father’s poem, JUST A COMMON SOLDIER (A Soldier Died Today). 2012 marks the 25 Anniversary of this poem’s original publication.          

     A. Lawrence Vaincourt was a Royal Canadian Air Force veteran of WW II, who spent his later years writing a popular Quebec-based column. Rushing to meet a deadline for his 1987 Remembrance Day edition, he composed the words that would go on to become his defining work. His poem 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) reprinted 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 that year, it crashed the server. These requests have grown with each passing year and to date the poem has been reprinted in publications throughout Canada, the US, Britain, Australia, New Zealand, India, South Africa and Singapore.

     For years the poem has been broadcast nationally every Memorial Day on U.S. radio. The American Legion has posted it throughout their many branches, the Australian Legion included it in their video tribute, “Victory in the Pacific,” and it was a central part of the 2009 Royal British Legion Poppy Appeal.  In 2008 it was carved into marble for an American Veteran’s Memorial.
 
     It has appeared in thousands of newspapers, magazines and websites around the world. 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.     
 
     Most movingly it has served as a eulogy at hundreds of funerals over the years, including my father’s own in 2009.  Although we miss him terribly, what greater gift could he have left his family than the knowledge that his poem, the words of a Canadian veteran, live on and continue to inspire people around the world.

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 honour 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

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

THE MOST WONDERFUL TIME

“Sumer Is Icumen In.” So starts one of the oldest songs in the English language, a medieval round that simply means, Summer Has Arrived. And sorry Christmas, but summer is really the most wonderful time of the year.

I remember the final days of school each June, sitting in classrooms that baked in the heat, counting the minutes until the day was over. Back then the June heat was such that you could barely focus on schoolwork. I can only imagine how today’s kids must suffer now that the sweltering summer temperatures seem to start in May.

A few years back an Ontario PC government floated the idea of year-round schools, never giving any consideration to the fact that most of these buildings have no air conditioning. Thankfully, for this and many other reasons, that idea was a non-starter. I would hate to imagine anyone enduring a childhood bereft of the magic of summer vacation.

Not only was summer the most miraculous of times, it truly seemed endless – at least at the beginning. The 2 months stretching out before us offered a series of endless possibilities. We could sleep in (although what kid would ever do that), spend mornings down by the lake, or wander through the woods at the top of our street – as long as you were careful to avoid the mythical farmer and his rock salt shotgun.

For me the highlight of summer was always the family camping trip. As we were a family of seven, no doubt it was the most affordable kind of vacation we could take. My parents were not prone to leaving the kids behind and going somewhere on their own, most likely because they anticipated the kind of havoc 5 boys could create in their absence.

So we’d pack up the big 8-cylinder Pontiac, hook up our tent trailer and head off on an adventure. We travelled around Ontario, Quebec, the Maritimes and the northern U.S. on those trips. We loved the woods and the mountains, although I recall my mother saying that the only time she was ever warm was the year we went to the beach at Atlantic City.

Campgrounds back then were always a gamble. Without the benefit of the internet one never knew what to expect upon arrival. You might bask in the splendour of the most glorious U.S. National Park or end up at a private place in Cape Breton run by a fellow (and here I speak from experience) who was usually drunk by breakfast. Some locations were idyllic, while others we took to referring to as, “Cow Pasture Camping.”

One Quebec campground had a converted chicken coop for a washroom. Only after our stay did we discover that the provincial government had long since condemned the site and deemed the water there unfit for either drinking or swimming.

We usually split our time between enjoying the outdoors and visiting various attractions, some noticeably better than others. Of course sometimes the cheaper attractions were the most enjoyable. One of my favourites was an absurd place in northern New England called “Mystery Crater.” It claimed to be the landing spot of a mysterious meteor that left behind strange forces that caused all manner of unusual events to occur.

Most of these “mysterious” happenings were obviously accomplished through tricks and optical illusion, plus we never really did see any crater. The final insult came as we were leaving and discovered they’d stuck a bumper sticker on our car, apparently with some sort of non-removable super glue. In spite of many valiant efforts it was still there when my folks sold the car a few years later.

Ontario’s African Lion Safari allows visitors to drive through an actual game reserve full of exotic animals that roam free. This might be a fun experience in today’s vehicles, but back then many cars did not yet have the luxury of air conditioning. I recall feeling like I was going to pass out, while witnessing the sight of baboons snapping off our car’s antenna and displaying their backsides to us through the windshield. To be fair, perhaps the heat stroke has clouded my memory.

The end of each afternoon found us back at camp, preparing dinner then enjoying the evening’s fire. I can’t count how many nights we sat around those campfires, revelling in (or choking on) the fragrant smoke of our crackling fire. I learned the basics of campfire building back then: how to stack the wood, the proper use of kindling, and that no matter where you sit the smoke will always blow in your face.

Then those dark nights sleeping in the tent trailer, hoping you wouldn’t have to get up in the middle of the night for a trip outside. The strange noises in the night that caused me to tell my mom there was a bear in the tent, which thankfully turned out to be my dad snoring. Waking up to the absolute peace and quiet of the woods – all part of those magical summer trips.

Unfortunately the allure of camping has lessened a bit for me in recent years. In Oregon I found myself wrapping plastic bags around my feet to avoid succumbing to hypothermia in the night; a trip through Pennsylvania’s Allegheny Mountains alternated between freezing temperatures and torrential rain; and did I mention the tornado?

So this summer I’m leaning towards enjoying the outdoors from the relative comfort of a cottage. I know it’s not quite the same experience, but I’m certain it will be preferable when the inevitable tsunami hits.

www.randyvancourt.com

 

RETURN TO SENDER

“Philately: the study of stamps, postal history and other related items.”

I may be wrong, but I’m fairly certain most people have never given the subject of philately much thought. I have always been aware that it had something to do with stamp collecting but one summer day in 2007 I was destined to discover much, much more.

As a performer I spend quite a bit of time on the road. I’ve always enjoyed greeting audience members after my shows; I run around the building and appear at the exit to shake hands with people as they’re leaving. Of course saying hello to so many people every evening means that eventually many of their faces blur together.

This particular July had taken me, for two and a half weeks, to a beautiful town on the shores of Lake Huron. It was my first Sunday off, following a week of performances where we had shaken lots of hands and exchanged pleasantries with many people.

This afternoon I was walking along the beach by myself, just enjoying the peace and tranquility. I came to a small road that wound its way through a few rows of small cottages, so I decided to wander along and have a look at them.

Suddenly a jovial fellow appeared from the front door of one of the cottages, smiling and waving. He shouted to me, “How great to see you! What are you doing here?”

Based on his immediate familiarity I assumed he had been at my show the previous evening. In fact I was so sure of this that I convinced myself I recognized his face.

“Why don’t you come around back, “ he continued. “My wife and a few friends are there and you can say hello.” 

Secure in the belief that I’d also met his wife at my show, I gladly accepted. His backyard was set up with a BBQ, lots of folding chairs and a cooler of drinks. Clearly they were settling in for a relaxing afternoon. I was more than happy to be a part of the festivities, and immediately went to introduce myself to everyone. Fortunately my host got there ahead of me, and quickly shouted out to everyone there.

“This is Kevin Leblanc. We met at the philately convention in New Jersey about a year ago.”

I froze. I now realized that this fellow had not been at my show. My name is not Kevin Leblanc  and as I was fairly certain I had never been to a philately convention in New Jersey, the obvious fact was that we were two complete strangers. I knew I had a few brief seconds to make a very important decision. 

Should I tell him he’s mistaken and cause the poor fellow embarrassment, or should I simply play along? The answer became clear when he turned to me and said, “Kevin, can I get you a beer?”

It was hot and sunny, and if he wanted Kevin the Philatelist to have a beer and perhaps partake of a few snacks, then it seemed cruel to deny him that pleasure. After all, I’ve played lots of different characters on stage; how much harder could this be?

Within a few minutes “Kevin” was sitting on a lawn chair, happily enjoying a drink and pleasant conversation. The job of being a phony philatelist wasn’t that difficult after all. Until...

“Would you like to see my postcards?” my newfound friend asked.

“Why not?” I thought, feeling more than a little relieved. I had been a bit worried that we were going to spend the afternoon looking through hundreds of stamps. Thankfully his area of interest seemed to be stamps that arrive on interesting cards from exotic locations.

 It was at this point that I discovered what separates the true fan from the mere dilettante. My expectation of a handful of postcards was shattered when he instead produced a dozen scrapbooks, each one jam packed with hundreds of cards, all with their own captivating, extremely lengthy, story.

I wasn’t sure what surprised me the most; the fact that he maintained such a massive collection of postcards, or that he felt the need to bring them to his cottage. Still, as I hadn’t yet finished my drink I felt I owed him my feigned interest, so we proceeded to discuss, in great detail, the various histories of each postcard.

When I say “discuss” of course I mean that he chatted away excitedly while I, with absolutely no knowledge of the subject, soon discovered that a few head nods and the occasional, “Oh yes,” or “Fascinating!” convinced him that we shared the same burning passion.

After what felt like hours, although it was probably only 30 minutes, he asked, “So Kevin, will you be at the next convention in Kingston?” As I had clearly made a real commitment to this charade, of course I agreed.

“Great!” he enthused. I’ll email you tonight and we can arrange a time to meet up.” Not wanting Kevin to overstay his welcome I figured this was my exit cue, so I thanked him for the drink, promised to see him at the next convention, and left.

I laughed to myself about what was eventually going to happen when he contacted the real Kevin and mentioned that they’d shared a drink in his backyard. I really wanted to hear that exchange as Kevin denied being there, followed by utter confusion as both men tried to figure out exactly who the interloper had been.

As I walked back up the hill to the place I was staying, something started bothering me. Was this a pang of conscience at having misled an innocent group of people?

No. I suddenly realized I was still here for another week and a half. How was I going to leave the house each day without running the risk of bumping into a potentially irate philatelist?

www.randyvancourt.com

 

THE FAREWELL TOUR

“Like a Rhinestone Cowboy…”

The well-known lyric rang out over the warm late August evening as we all stood, hundreds of us, listening to Glen Campbell perform the kick-off to his Farewell Tour. The 2011 Canadian National Exhibition in Toronto was the beginning of his final international tour, one that will see him perform dozens of dates throughout several countries.

Earlier in 2011 Campbell announced to the world that he had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. Although otherwise in good health, his memory is fading, which is a terrible thing to happen to anyone, including folks who make their living remembering lyrics.

When you watch Glen Campbell pick a guitar you know you’re seeing a master at work. Every note placed exactly right, his hands fly across the fret board at lightning speed with an ease and grace that almost makes the instrument an extension of his body.

50 years in show business and over 70 albums have seen him take 74 trips up the charts, with 27 songs hitting the Top 10. Add in the hundreds of songs on which he performed early in his career as a session musician (everything from “Tequila” to “The Unicorn”) and toss in his time touring as a member of the Beach Boys, and his talent has been a major part of the soundtrack of the past half-century.

I recall watching “The Glen Campbell Goodtime Hour” on television, listening to his countless records, and seeing him in the original film version of “True Grit.” During his concert he joked that it was probably his acting skills that helped win the Best Actor Oscar for John Wayne.

I noticed the other day that Tommy Hunter is also on a Farewell Tour. Canada’s Country Gentleman is taking one last opportunity to tour the country and perform for the thousands of people who love and remember his music.

What a great idea. Farewell Tours offer the chance to share memories one more time with people who love you. It doesn’t necessarily have to suggest that you’re getting ready to leave anytime soon. I mean, how many times did Frank Sinatra retire?

Everyone dreams about leaving behind a legacy, something for which they’ll be remembered long after they’re gone. Artists are in a great position for this sort of thing, as the act of producing a painting, song, poem or novel automatically means you’ve given a small piece of yourself over to immortality. Whether anyone enjoys what you’ve left behind is, of course, another matter altogether.

We have a natural need to feel that we’ve left that footprint, something that shouts to the world, “I was here. I made a difference.” Most of us barrel thorough our lives, never thinking of keeping a record of who we are or what we did. But nothing is more important, or easier, than leaving a legacy.

One example we have in Canada is an amazing effort called The Memory Project (www.thememoryproject.com). The goal of this project is to create a record of Canada’s participation in WWII and the Korean War, as seen through the eyes of thousands of veterans. If you are a vet, or know one who hasn’t heard about this endeavor, I urge you to check it out and share your memories.

For the rest of us who didn’t fight Hitler, this website can be an inspiration. Wouldn’t it be nice if we all started writing down our memories, our personal histories, our unique recollections of events we’ve lived and people we’ve known? If writing is too difficult turn on a recorder or video camera and recount your stories in your own words. This way our personal histories won’t be left to others to interpret, because only we can relate our own story first-hand.

The stories don’t have to be amazing; they don’t have to be about curing diseases or ending wars. Just share the simple tales, the funny anecdotes and family histories.

Anyone who has ever lost a loved one knows the feeling of wishing we could have just one more conversation together. Leaving behind our unique lives in our own words is the greatest gift we can offer.

Glen Campbell knows his memory is fading, so he’s making the gargantuan effort of touring one last time, to share his music with his fans. Tommy Hunter has decided it’s time to hang up his guitar but also wants one more opportunity to perform for his audience. Most of us don’t have the knowledge of when we’re going to leave this world, which makes it all the more important to tell our own story while we can.

This could be a good New Year’s resolution, to take the time to write or record the story of your life so far. Think of it as your own Memory Project because, let’s face it, none of us wants to think that we’re taking a Farewell Tour anytime soon.

And take inspiration from the words Tommy Hunter used each week for almost three decades to close his show, “And be the Good Lord willing, we’ll see you again real soon.”

www.randyvancourt.com

A CHRISTMAS REVEILLON

A CHRISTMAS REVEILLON

by A. Lawrence Vaincourt

'Twas the night before Christmas back home on the farm

And the wood stove was roaring to keep the house warm.

Papa in his nightshirt and Maman in her hat

Had just wound up the clock and had put out the cat.

I had turned down the covers and was just sliding under

When someone knocked on the door and it sounded like thunder.

Papa looked out the window and I heard him swear,

Well "Sacre maudit, it's your big brother, Pierre."

"Should we let him in?" he asked of Maman.

"He's carrying gifts and some good whiskey blanc."

She opened the door up, but then Maman said,

"It's very late, Pierre, we're just going to bed."

Well uncle Pierre laughed and he said, "Yes, I know

But it's your turn this year to hold Reveillon.

"We would have held it but our house is small

While your house is big and there's room for us all.

Aunt Denise has the turkey, Maman the tortiere

And you'd better get dressed 'cause they're all coming here."

Well the first to arrive was our fat cousin, Rose

And she kissed all the family before wiping her nose.

She had the twins with her, which was not at all strange,

I could tell by the smell they both needed a change.

Then cousin Jean-Paul, who is just five foot two,

He brought the beer and it was all he could do

To carry two cases from the truck to the door,

He said, "If that's not enough I can go back for more."

Aunt Denise then came in with a turkey so big

That Papa remarked t'was the size of a pig.

She laughed, "We'll have time for some drinking and fun

Then we'll all eat well when the turkey is done."

Theophile had his fiddle, Aunt Claire had some spoons

And we knew we were in or some old-fashioned tunes.

Then came uncle Paul and his daughter, Celine

And I stopped feeling grouchy and started to grin.

She kissed all the family and that was real nice

And I felt pretty good, because me she kissed twice.

Theophile took his fiddle and started a tune

While Aunt Claire joined in with a couple of spoons.

Then uncle Pierre said, "That makes me want to dance,"

So he jumped to his feet and he started to prance.

Uncle Pierre's a big man and he has a large belly

That shook when he danced like a bowl full of jelly.

Then Maman cried out, "You know Pierre, you're not small

And you're shaking the pictures all down off the wall,"

Old Joe, he got drunk (he's the family disgrace)

Sneaked into the kitchen with a grin on his face

And Grandmere remarked, "A good thing I went in

He was basting the turkey with a bottle of gin."

Grandpere was playing with the kids, in the hall,

They were shouting and laughing and having a ball.

They were getting real noisy when I heard Maman yell

"What are you kids up to, what's that awful smell?"

I was going to tell her but before I could start

One kid laughed, "It's Grandpere, he just made a big fart."

It was a fine party, of that there's no doubt,

Because nobody left, although several passed out.

And we sang the old songs that we all knew so well,

We drank and we danced and raised all sorts of Hell.

We ate up the turkey and drank all the beer,

Wished each other "Bonne Fete,"

and said, "We'll see you next year."

And Celine remarked as she gave me a kiss,

"What a shame Les Anglais don't have parties like this."

www.randyvancourt.com