RAMBLINGS...

HEROES

2020-05-15T15:45:00.023-04:00

We hear the term “hero” a lot lately, and with good cause. Recent events have revealed that a great number of undetected heroes have been quietly living amongst us for a long time. We have always used that word to describe people we greatly admire, whether famous sports figures, rock stars or especially our brave men and women in uniform. But now we have learned the word can be equally applied to many other job descriptions.

First and foremost no doubt are the amazing people in the medical profession. Of course they have been heroes throughout history, just the sort that most people forget to admire as much as we should. Banting and Best, Jonas Salk, Pierre and Marie Curie, and thousands more like them have made our lives better, safer and healthier in countless ways. Now we see these brave and brilliant individuals once again risking their own lives to benefit, and no doubt save, ours.

Of course all the usual frontline workers are included amongst our heroes: police, fire and ambulance workers have always deserved veneration, never more so than now.

For me the most amazing addition to our list of heroes has been the more mundane jobs, the sort one doesn’t normally associate with danger. We have all become much more aware of grocery store employees, farmers and workers in food processing plants, which just proves how fortunate we have all been for so long.

We are in unchartered territory now. Suddenly we are faced with food shortages like we haven’t seen since the last World War, combined with the economic downturn and job losses of the Depression and a potentially fatal, virulent illness not unlike the 1918 Influenza Pandemic. Any one of these problems would be difficult enough to overcome but dealing with all of them at once is changing our way of life forever.

Every time I venture inside a grocery store now I marvel at the people stocking the shelves or ringing up my groceries. I have always been the sort who talks to clerks and employees I encounter, but now I make a point of saying thank you, and letting them know how much I appreciate their effort and risk.

The past few months have underlined just how fortunate we are to live in this country. Watching our political leaders work together in spite of their differences has been inspiring, more so because we get daily evidence of the country to our south imploding under the weight of its federal government’s unbelievable, historic incompetence. If ever we needed a reminder of the apocryphal lesson of King Canute and the tide, we are watching it unfold in real time there.

My own industry is feeling the ground shifting beneath it as well. Every day my Facebook feed is full of my friends - actors, musicians, writers, technicians, designers, comedians, and so many others - all trying to deal with the sudden disappearance of their jobs now and for the foreseeable future.

Many of them have turned to online performances and videos that are meant to brighten our cloistered lives, as well as allow them to continue creating. I have comedian friends who share their meal preparation as a daily live feed, and musicians who perform nightly concerts to entertain anyone who is watching. One friend was wondering if what he was doing really mattered, then recently received a message from someone in Buenos Aires that said, “I’m a nurse on guard for these days. Thanks for your music.” Another note from Chile read, “I wait for your concert daily, it has been your music that helps me to cope with the quarantine.”

Mister Rogers famously used to tell the story about a lesson he learned from his mother. When he was a boy and saw scary things in the news, she would tell him, “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.”

Conversely of course, we will always see the ones who are doing the exact opposite, whether protesting against their own safety and interests, or actively working to harm us all.

The best thing we can do right now is to keep looking for the helpers wherever we may find them, the ones who are actively making life better for us all, and say thanks.

LIFE IS A CABERNET

2017-02-23T10:11:00.000-05:00

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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BRING THE PIANO

2016-04-27T20:30:00.001-04:00

On January 30th 1969, The Beatles shocked the city of London and the world when they climbed up on the roof of Apple headquarters at Number 3 Savile Row, and performed an impromptu concert. Ever since that day, musicians everywhere have aspired to repeat this act. Nobody really knows why but the urge to drag instruments up several stories to the top of a building seems to be irresistible to musicians.

Not that playing on roofs was unknown before the Beatles. There is a long history of rooftop dance halls all over the world, and most famous dance bands and jazz musicians performed there during their careers. The main difference however, is that those venues were indoors.

I’m not completely clear on the attraction of hauling musical equipment up to the top of a building, then standing precariously hundreds of metres above the ground, wind whistling in your face, and attempting to perform a concert. Still, The Beatles iconic moment remains a touchstone for musicians everywhere.

Ironically they weren’t even the first band to do this. That honour goes to Jefferson Airplane, who on December 7^th, 1968 climbed up to the roof of New York’s Schuyler Hotel, shouted obscenities at the crowd below, and performed a couple of their hits. And get this – their 7-minute concert was caught on film by none other than Jean-Luc Godard, the famous French film director.

Surely their performance, which inevitably ended in their arrest by the NYPD, would have been the one to go down in history, if not for the fact that about one month later the most famous band in the world at the time copied their stunt. I guarantee that if the second concert had been by a lesser band, say The Monkees, Jefferson Airplane’s 2-song set would be the one we would all recall.

Still The Beatles remain the rooftop concert to emulate. Whether its U2’s 1987 show on the roof of an L.A liquor store, Homer Simpson and the B Sharps atop Moe’s Tavern, or even Paul McCartney himself performing on top of the Ed Sullivan Theatre, it’s fair to say every one of these performances was compared to that windy day in 1969 London.

What do all these rooftop concerts have in common, besides exposing valuable instruments and sound equipment to the harsh elements? None of these musicians played the piano. Sure some of them used electric keyboards but nobody was dragging a baby grand up to the roof to serenade the city.

There was a time when every theatre, concert hall or restaurant had its own piano, and the professional musician’s job was to show up and play. Somehow over the past 30 years or so, this has morphed into the expectation that pianists bring along their own fully tuned Steinway.

You may think the very concept sounds ridiculous but I guarantee it doesn’t matter where I’m playing or how much I am getting paid, at some point I will hear the question, “Are you going to bring the piano?”

And before you assume they mean a nice lightweight electric version, I can assure you that I have shown up with just such an instrument on many occasions only to be greeted with, “Oh – I thought you were bringing a real piano.”

I have always envied the guitarist, sax player or violinist, who shows up, perhaps via public transit, instrument case in one hand and a coffee in the other, warms up for a few minutes and is ready to play. Meanwhile the keyboardist loads hundreds of pounds of equipment into a vehicle, drives to the gig, spends an hour unloading and setting up, only to repeat the process in reverse a few hours later.

Don’t get me wrong – I know I am very fortunate to be able to make my living as a performer. I’m not so much complaining as pointing out the absurdity of the situation. Whether in Toronto, Montreal or Vancouver, up in the wilds of the Yukon or on the roof of a small town motel, I count the seconds until I hear the words, “Did you bring the piano?”

There was one memorable time I recall not being asked this; I was offered a contract playing aboard an adventure cruise ship that took tourists to the South Pole. Sadly it sank on its second trip – hopefully not due to the excessive weight of their real piano.

I’M DREAMING OF A WARM CHRISTMAS

2013-12-22T10:31:00.000-05:00

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

WHAT I DID ON MY SUMMER VACATION

2013-09-02T09:01:00.000-04:00

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?

2013-02-15T16:36:00.000-05:00

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!

2013-01-03T15:02:00.000-05:00

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

2012-12-01T15:07:00.000-05:00

“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

2012-11-08T15:44:00.001-05:00

    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.

www.randyvancourt.com

IT'S NOT SUCH A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL

2012-08-14T22:08:00.001-04:00

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

2012-06-30T19:47:00.000-04:00

“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

2012-02-15T11:46:00.000-05:00

“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

2012-01-12T10:12:00.001-05:00

“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

2011-12-15T12:29:00.001-05:00

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

2011-12-08T20:41:00.001-05:00

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

THE TURKEY TRAGEDY

2011-12-02T13:00:00.000-05:00

Of all the months in the calendar December has always been my favourite. As a child it meant the imminent arrival of absolutely the best day of the year: Christmas Day. I don’t remember how old I was when I first became aware of Christmas but I certainly recall my initial amazement at discovering that presents had somehow magically arrived as I slept.

I was so taken with this marvel that every morning for the next few weeks I would wake up and tiptoe into our living room, cautiously optimistic that whatever magic had worked this miracle during the early hours of December 25th would somehow repeat itself.

Each Christmas of my childhood came replete with its unique memories and anecdotes. The year our youngest brother was no more than 4 and decided to give us each the only present he could afford: a box of Chiclets. Or the year our dog apparently thought, “What a fabulous convenience! An indoor tree!” Thank goodness for store exchange policies or I never would have been able to wear that sweater from Mom.

Of all those holidays at home though, the one that immediately springs to mind was the year of the great “Turkey Tragedy.” As she had done so many times before, our mother purchased a huge, plump bird several weeks in advance and put it away carefully in the freezer. On Christmas Eve it was removed and allowed to defrost in anticipation of its ultimate roasting the next day.

First thing Christmas morning it was lovingly stuffed, seasoned and put into the oven. Ah, the aromas that we anticipated – the mouthwatering succulence of that first slice danced in our heads. Just like the goose eventually enjoyed by the Cratchit family in “A Christmas Carol,” our turkey would be something to remember for months to come. Off we went to frolic in the Christmas snow in joyful anticipation of our coming feast.

Now I may be wrong, but I don’t believe the overwhelming stench that greeted our noses upon returning from a walk in the crisp winter air was ever mentioned in Mr. Dickens’ book. At first we hoped that perhaps something had just fallen on the element inside the oven and the smell would soon vanish. Hours passed but no amount of evergreen, peppermint stick or wishful thinking could conceal the unfortunate truth that something was terribly wrong with Mr. Turkey.

We carefully extracted him from the oven, lifted the lid off the pan and tried in vain not to gag. Delicately a slice was cut off one side and offered up as a holiday treat to our dog, who took one sniff and refused to touch it. Undaunted (what do dogs know?) we cut off two more pieces and my father and I did what even the dog had the good sense not to do – we tasted the turkey.

Now nothing would give me greater joy than to tell you of the Christmas miracle that happened next; that the turkey was delicious and we all sat around the dinner table popping Christmas crackers and toasting the holiday. The unfortunate truth is the turkey was so rancid we had to throw it away, and Dad and I spent an hour driving around town trying to find an open store to buy something else for dinner.

At the beginning of “A Christmas Carol” we are supposed to feel pity for the Cratchit family because they have just a small goose to feed their household on Christmas Day. If only we had been so fortunate as to have that pathetic little bird on our table! It would have seemed like a feast compared to the one pound of sliced turkey loaf we eventually scrounged up to go along with our mashed potatoes and canned gravy that day.

Ultimately it didn’t matter; in fact it’s given us yet another story to tell every Christmas at the dinner table. For as we all know the holiday is about more than just a delicious dinner. It’s so easy to get caught up in all the rush and festivities that sometimes it’s a good idea to take a moment and recall the simplicity of the original event that inspired it all.

As long as you have friends and family gathered together in good cheer, nothing else is really important. But you might want to take a holiday tip from my mother who now keeps a backup roast in the freezer…just in case.

www.randyvancourt.com

THE CHRISTMAS TREE

2011-12-01T00:00:00.000-05:00

What would Christmas be without a tree? Although some of the modern artificial types come pretty close, there is just no substitute for the traditional evergreen. Along with the aroma of roasting turkey and the scent of cinnamon sticks, there is no fragrance that better defines the holiday season.

As I grew up we always had a real Christmas tree in our house, so for my first Christmas away from home I decided that I needed to continue the tradition. Although I had a good-sized apartment in Montreal with adequate space for a tree, my building did not allow real ones as they were considered a potential fire hazard.

This trifling matter presented no obstacle. I was certain the superintendent would appreciate my need for a real tree to properly celebrate the holidays; but just in case he didn’t I planned to sneak it into the building under cover of darkness.

I had no car so I recruited my brother to go to the tree lot with me and make my purchase. Now if Charlie Brown reruns have taught me anything, it’s that Christmas tree lots often contain many oddball evergreens that can only be called “trees” under the broadest of definitions. Part of the tradition of finding the perfect tree is the willingness to dig through some of these more dubious examples until you find the right pine needle in this haystack.

Much laughter and many scrawny trees later, we finally found the ideal one. Seven feet tall, full, round and aromatic, it radiated the spirit of the season. Carrying the tree horizontally between the two of us we struggled down the street, every step either sending the trunk into my backside or the top of the tree into my brother’s face.

Like incompetent cat burglars we scoured the hallways of the building to make sure no one was around then made a hurried, if hilariously awkward, run for the apartment. If ever they make a Winter Olympic event out of clumsily running through hallways while carrying a 7-foot evergreen, I’m prepared.

I was so excited about this tree that I failed to notice, at least for the first few days, that it was expanding. Now all trees open up a bit once they’re indoors and in a container of water, so I didn’t pay much attention to this. However by Day 3 the branches were beginning to spread wide enough that they hit the sofa.

A day later the television was obstructed. Pretty soon we had to climb around the tree to get through the kitchen door; it was threatening to dominate the entire living room.

We nicknamed the tree “Audrey,” in honor of the evil plant in the musical Little Shop of Horrors that keeps getting bigger until it finally takes over the world.

Each morning I dutifully watered the ever-expanding Audrey, and gazed lovingly at her twinkling lights and tinsel. I’ve always believed that the tree should remain standing for the entire 12 Days of Christmas; I mean, we sing the song every year so why not respect the tradition?

However nature never intended trees to be cut off at the trunk, stuck in a pail of water and left inside a warm house for several weeks, so naturally the tree soon began to drop a rather large amount of needles on the floor. Suddenly the exhilaration we had felt while sneaking it into the building met with the realization that taking it OUT was going to be an entirely different, and potentially untidy, affair.

I knew that if we dragged this enormous tree through the hallway, down the stairs and out the lobby, we’d leave an obvious trail of dead needles throughout the building; it wouldn’t take Hansel and Gretel to find the path back to my door.

So when the day finally came to return Audrey to the outdoors, I came up with a brilliant solution. I figured if we simply pounded the tree up and down on the floor awhile, we could cause all the needles to shed right there in my living room, then we could simply take the bare tree out and no one would be any the wiser.

Half an hour later, as the mountain of needles grew to ankle-height, I began to suspect that I had not really thought this plan through completely. Clearly I was not going to be able to vacuum up this mess; we were heading into shovel territory here.

And before anyone decides to replicate this strategy, let me assure you that no matter how barren a tree appears, there are always 1,000 more needles just waiting to drop.

The near-naked tree was a truly pathetic sight to behold, yet there was still no way of getting it out of the building without drawing attention to its existence. So I did the only logical thing one could do in this situation – I threw the tree out the window.

Several stories down it fell, into the backyard. I assumed that it would eventually disintegrate and go back into the earth, and prided myself on being eco-friendly.

However two years later as I left that apartment for the final time, I looked out the window to see that stark tree, still covered with a small amount of needles, standing in the backyard like a lonely sentinel. I like to think that it stands there still, dreaming of its glory days as a Christmas tree.

www.randyvancourt.com

For more Christmas stories and poems, visit www.vaincourt.homestead.com/christmas.html

JUST A COMMON SOLDIER (A Soldier Died Today)

2011-11-01T00:00:00.000-04:00

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.

http://vaincourt.homestead.com

www.randyvancourt.com

SUMMER THEATER JOYS

2011-07-12T10:32:00.002-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I promise to clean the costumes.

www.randyvancourt.com

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

2011-04-12T13:37:00.001-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

www.randyvancourt.com

SHE MADE RUDOLPH GLOW

2010-12-24T13:18:00.005-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

www.randyvancourt.com

A CHILLY RECEPTION

2010-08-12T14:00:00.003-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

www.randyvancourt.com

PAGING MR. KHAN

2010-04-20T12:00:00.005-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

www.randyvancourt.com

MEASURE YOUR LIFE

2009-12-21T13:28:00.002-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

www.randyvancourt.com

GUNFIGHT AT THE T.O. CORRAL

2009-10-12T13:33:00.005-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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