LIFE IS A CABERNET

        Life is too short to drink homemade wine; at least according to my lovely wife, who told me this when I suggested that we finally sample the 5 gallon jug of cabernet that has been percolating in my basement for the past several years.

        For the record, I am not a novice winemaker. During my single years my brother and I spent a great deal of time manufacturing homemade hooch. It all started, as these things usually do, over a refreshing beverage. We were poor young students, so the discussion inevitably turned to how we could continue getting the necessary supply of alcohol required to complete our college degrees.

        By the next morning my initial suggestion of robbing liquor stores didn’t seem as brilliant an idea as it had the night before, so we decided instead to purchase a beer making kit at the local grocery.

        There are several steps involved in good beer production, all of which unfortunately require time, effort and cleanliness, the sworn enemies of the thirsty student. Our initial results ran the gamut from skunky odor to exploding bottles, but with time and experience we finally managed to manufacture a passable beer. If your standards aren’t particularly high.

        This experience didn’t really help me develop a refined palate, but it certainly taught me to control my gag reflex. Eventually we came to the conclusion that there had to be a better, and by that I mean easier, way to make alcohol in one’s home. Ideally without going blind.

        We soon discovered the glory of homemade wine. We simply poured juice into a bucket, tossed in some yeast and stuck on the lid. A couple of weeks later we poured it into bottles. A few more weeks of aging and we had an excellent product, at least in comparison to our beer. When anyone asked its vintage I would proudly respond, “Tuesday.”

        The inherent problem was that it took over a month to manufacture. Clearly if you’re consuming say, a few bottles every day (which I believe is the recommended quantity for schoolchildren in France) you have to keep well ahead of schedule in order to ensure a steady supply. We set up a regular timetable to make sure we always had wine available, a process that involved using our entire kitchen and basement. When it came to assembly line manufacturing, the Ford plant had nothing on our house.

        For some reason not everyone shared our love of this fine vintage. Admittedly, most of our wine did seem to taste the same, which is to say not particularly good. No matter the variety of  grape, it all shared a certain pronounced flavor and bouquet which refused to dissipate regardless of the amount of time we let it “breath,” or as some more accurately put it, “air out.”

        On the positive side after the first few sips your tongue usually turned pretty numb, making the rest of the bottle quite passable and subsequent bottles even better.    

        Sadly my career as a vintner came to a crashing halt when I met my wife. Although she enjoys wine, she was terribly biased against anything that wasn’t made – how shall I put this – hygienically. I tried the Biblical approach (even Jesus made wine at someone’s house) but to no avail; she simply couldn’t overcome her irrational suspicion of booze made in a bucket in my basement.

        I begrudgingly returned to the far more fiscally painful method of actually paying for alcohol, and we still haven’t got around to tasting my 5 gallons of well-aged “cellar sauvignon.” 

        Life probably is too short to drink homemade wine, but I have a sneaking suspicion that if I drank what’s in that jug, it might be even shorter.

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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

 

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