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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I’M DREAMING OF A WARM CHRISTMAS

            One of these Christmases I plan on spending the holiday season down south. Somewhere warm – Cuba, the Dominican Republic, Florida...it doesn’t matter, just so long as I can attend Christmas Eve service in short pants.

            It seems that whenever I mention my dream to people, someone feels the need to offer a bit of wisdom along the lines of, “It won’t feel like Christmas without snow.” Let me offer a simple rebuttal. This is a fallacy.

            All those classic holiday specials where Bing and Perry sang Christmas carols in the falling snow were actually filmed in California studios where nobody ever suffered so much as a cool breeze. Irving Berlin wrote his classic song “White Christmas” while enjoying life in his Hollywood mansion. And don’t get me started on his other lyric from the White Christmas movie, “I want to wash my hands, my face and hair with snow.”

            I often speculate that our need to idealize the wonders of snow is probably some sort of defense mechanism. Holiday songs extolling its wonders, and picturesque cottage scenes by Thomas Kinkade, have combined with our very human sense of self-preservation to convince us that sub-zero temperatures and snarled up traffic somehow constitute a winter wonderland. Just because Santa Claus chooses to live in a frigid climate, do we all have to suffer?

            It feels like I have spent almost every Christmas of my adult life either struggling though snowstorms to get home for the holidays, or shoveling myself out once I got there. One year a raging blizzard managed to make my return drive from Montreal to Toronto into an 11-hour trip.  Another time a storm knocked out the electricity on Christmas Day, making dinner preparations a bit challenging. Last Boxing Day Montreal was pounded with the largest snowstorm ever recorded in that city’s history. 

            Before I come across sounding too Grinch-like, let me say that I do have fond memories of many Christmases; walking to midnight service in a light snowfall, tobogganing down snow-covered hills, enjoying the warmth of a fireplace and the twinkle of a brightly lit tree as I watched the flakes cascade gently past the window. 

            Magical moments, one and all; but strangely conspicuous by its absence is the memory of how unpleasantly cold the weather no doubt was. It’s almost like my brain discarded that information in order to make the recollection more festive.

            I am not speaking purely hypothetically here; rest assured I have actually experienced warm weather during the holiday season. A few years back I found myself wandering along the streets of Fort Lauderdale one late November evening, dressed in a t-shirt and shorts, admiring all the houses beautifully decorated in anticipation of Christmas.

            It was dark, the colored lights were magical, and I did not miss the cold and snow for one second. If anything, the warm weather enhanced the experience by allowing me to marvel at the wondrous lighting displays at my leisure. I didn’t need to enjoy them through a frost-covered windshield or be forced to retreat into a heated car seconds before hypothermia set in.

            In short, it made me realize that I could quite happily spend my entire holiday by the side of a pool, sipping a tropical Christmas cocktail. In fact I believe Christmas morning would be just as festive if the exchanging of gifts was followed up with a trip to the beach, and I am positive that the aroma of turkey wafting through the house is equally compelling when the temperature outdoors is 30 above rather than 30 below.

            I got married this past July, so Christmas trips must now be divided between my family in Quebec and hers in Manitoba. That’s right, I married someone who comes from an even colder province than I do. Why she could not have been raised in some tropical climate is beyond me, but rest assured I intend to bring up the topic the next we find ourselves digging out of the inevitable Christmas blizzard.

            So for this year at least I will relinquish my dream of a tropical Christmas and instead pretend that the holiday just wouldn’t be the same without bitter cold, icy roads and howling blizzards. However I will continue to promote my theory that everyone should head south next December. After all, it only makes sense. There must be some reason that the traditional choice to add to eggnog is tropical rum.

            Merry Christmas…or should I say Mele Kalikimaka!

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 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

MEASURE YOUR LIFE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

www.randyvancourt.com