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.

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

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

THE CHRISTMAS TREE PAGEANT

In honor of the holiday season, I hope you enjoy one of my father's well-loved Christmas stories.

Whoever was responsible for stoking up the fire in the little church that afternoon had miscalculated. They hadn't taken into account the fact that the church would be packed that night from front to back. As I sat there in my winter clothes, the heat was stifling.

My nostrils were assailed by a variety of scents: candle wax, the odor of kerosene lamps, the spicy smell of the freshly-cut Christmas tree in the corner; the kid on my right had a foot-odor problem which his heavy, woolen socks and winter boots were unable to mask and the elderly lady behind me had overdone it with the cheap perfume. The little boy in the next row had done something unmentionable and now sat, shoulders shaking with silent laughter while the kids on either side leaned as far away as possible.

We kids occupied the front rows, while behind us the church was packed to capacity with parents, grandparents, elder siblings and neighbors. This was "The Christmas Tree," the event for which we had been rehearsing these many weeks. The event that was, to us at least, the most important of the year.

Two little one-room schoolhouses, only a couple of miles apart but separated by the county line, had combined forces and their entire enrollment of 40 or thereabouts had come together at the little church that stood midway between, to provide a Christmas entertainment.

Behind me, the sound of many low voices blended into a wordless hum, reminding me of a hive full of bees; while we kids poked, giggled and did all the other devilment that kids do within the anonymity of a group. Wherever the teachers directed a stern look, the commotion would die down, only to break out at a fresh point.

Finally, a hush fell over the little church. The minister had stepped onto the improvised stage, a paper in his hand. Tonight he would be our Master of Ceremonies. We kids leaned forward expectantly; the show was about to begin. The teachers had done their work well. Every child, from the eldest to the youngest, had one or more parts to perform: a song, a recitation, a part in a skit - perhaps all three. There was a certain rivalry here. We were each of us watching for the kids from the other school to make a mistake.

Starting the show off with the smallest child was probably an error. The first little girl up, a first grader, stood before her audience, head hanging, toes turned in, twisting the front of her skirt, and refused to say a word. From behind the stage curtain, the teacher prompted her first line. The head hung lower, the skirt twisted higher, then suddenly she burst into tears and ran off the stage. The kid with the smelly feet snickered, "I'll bet she wet her pants." The second little girl did better, reciting her lines flawlessly, although with a few lisps and whistles, caused, no doubt, by her lack of two front teeth.

The show went on, some kids performing well, others poorly. The church organist accompanied the singing on the church's little foot-powered organ. She sat at the organ, back ramrod straight, hair drawn back in a severe bun, hat held atop it by a large hatpin; she could have been a model for a Norman Rockwell painting.

The asthmatic wheezing of the organ's bellows provided a counterpoint to the music and also much merriment to us kids. It was discovered at the last moment that both schools planned to sing "Away in a Manger," so it was decided that we would do it together - the end result was slightly less than melodic.

Finally we kids were finished. Now, we sat back to enjoy the performance of the older teenagers and the adults. A tall young man, who was later to become a lifelong friend of mine, played his guitar and sang. My stepfather brought a roar of laughter when, at a point in the script where he was supposed to wipe his fountain pen on his handkerchief, he hauled an indescribably filthy bandana from his pocket and adlibbed to the audience, "Maw didn't know I had this."

The show was winding down now and we were waiting for the big event of the evening - the arrival of Santa Claus. Just prior to this event each year, a half dozen men at the back of the church would slip quietly out the door, while everyone's attention was fixed upon the stage. When Santa arrived a few moments later, we were never quite certain whose father or brother was beneath that red suit and all the padding. Nor were we ever certain whether it was true that Santa Claus was usually fortified with a couple of pulls from a bottle before making his entrance.

That night as applause for the last performance died down, we heard the jingle of sleigh bells outside and we swiveled round in our seats. The doors burst open with a crash and Santa, bag over his shoulder, came bounding down the aisle with a resounding HO, HO, HO. Had the pull from the bottle affected his judgement? Did the bag over his shoulder upset his balance? We will never know the reason, but as Santa attempted to gain the stage with one great leap, his foot hit the edge and he rebounded from it and landed on his back, with a crash that shook the little church.

The smaller children looked on in horror and we older ones howled with uncontrollable laughter. The minister and one teacher rushed forward and helped Santa to his feet. Apparently unhurt, he went about his duties of unloading the Christmas tree and presenting the gifts to the children. Then wishing us all a Merry Christmas, he left in a more sedate manner.

That night, as we gathered after the show in groups, the white expanse of the little churchyard, surrounded by snowladen evergreens and lit by a brilliant full moon, looked like a picture on a Christmas card. Young people slipped off quietly to dark spots, in pairs. Our elders went about shaking hands and wishing each other a Merry Christmas. We kids gathered together, arguing loudly as to whose father it had been inside the Santa Claus costume. I took no part in the discussion, although I knew whose father I had seen rubbing his backside tenderly, when he thought no one was looking.

www.randyvancourt.com