Posted on September 3, 2025 under Wednesday’s Words of Wisdom with no comments yet

Trails and tales

Watching paint dry. Part 2

After a long day of travel, I arrived in Victoria. Metchosin to be more precise. My son, Peter, lives on a very unique property in the country. The land is very rugged surrounded by old growth forests and only a drive and a 5-iron from the marina at Pedder Bay. It was once a farm owned by a legendary woman who raised animals and had large gardens. She was called “The Cougar Lady”, as she hunted cougars who were killing cattle and other livestock at other farms in the region.

By the time I crawled into bed, I had been on the go for 22 hours. Just before I turned in, Peter asked me if I would like to go salmon fishing very early the following morning as conditions in the Juan de Fuca Strait were supposed to be ideal. To be honest, I wasn’t totally enamored with the thought of an early morning wakeup call.

As promised, it was a spectacular morning. As we pulled out into the strait, the fog was lifting over snowcapped mountains across the water in Washington state. There were dozens of other boats plying the waters, many of them very expensive with the best of modern equipment. Peter’s boat was a modest 18-footer.

We arrived at Beechy Head, one of the most popular spots in this part of the strait. You could tell that there was a lot of action as other boats were landing fish. Suddenly, one of Pete’s rods started to bend precipitously. “Dad. Grab the wheel.” I was now the skipper. After a healthy battle, Pete landed a 12-pound chinook salmon. His wide grin said it all. Not long after, he landed another chinook, this one larger than the first. Sadly, chinook #1, was lying lifeless at the back of the boat and with a one fish limit of this particular species, #2 was returned to the briny ocean tossed.

Five hours later, we returned to port with one chinook and three pink salmon. Pete said it was one of his most successful outings. I think it had something to do with the skipper! Pete prepared a delicious salmon dinner that evening.

I spent the rest of my time on the west coast going for long walks and having my morning coffee at the Pedder Bay marina.

After a week in paradise, I was heading for Northern Alberta. In 1978-79, I was the principal of a small, rural school in Whitelaw. The village was about to celebrate its 100 anniversary of incorporation and some of my former students had reached out to see if I might come up for the festivities. These students were 11- and 12-year-olds back then and many are now grandparents. Tempus fugit.

There was a lot of chatter in the media about a possible work stoppage at Air Canada. I was booked on that airline to go to Calgary and then Grande Prairie where I was to be picked up by a former student. I made it to Calgary and as I was waiting to board, I received a notification from AC that a strike was likely and anyone having flights booked in the next four days would have to decide what they were going to do. My return flight from the north to Halifax was on the 4^th day.

If the strike happened and there was a prolonged stoppage, I thought that getting out of the north would be a challenge. Thirty minutes before my flight boarded, I rushed down to Westjet to see what a ticket would cost if the AC strike went ahead. They were asking $1700 for a one-way flight from Grande Prairie and that was if I could get a ticket 4 days hence.

I went up to the Air Canada agent at my gate and asked if there was any way that they could get me home that day. A very pleasant agent was on the phone to a colleague and 15 minutes before getting on my flight to G.P., I pulled the plug when I secured a seat on the red eye that night.

I flew to Toronto overnight and boarded my flight to Halifax the next morning. Several Air Canada flights were already cancelled. A mechanical problem (they had to replace the front tire) had us on the tarmac for 2 hours. I had my fingers crossed that we would get in the air before a strike was called, which it was later that day. During that 2-hour hiatus, the attendants worked very hard trying to keep customers happy. One of them leaned into our aisle and whispered, “This is why we’re going on strike. We don’t get paid for these two hours.”

I was a pretty happy camper to get back home.

However, the story doesn’t end here.

To be continued.

The paint is almost dry!

Have a great weekend.

Posted on September 1, 2025 under Storytelling with one comment

 

L to R : John Melanson, Dan O’Connell, Len MacDonald, Rick Berry – Fairview, Alberta 1977

 

Arms and Legs

I met Dan in the schoolyard 67 years ago.

He was the tallest kid in the school yard.

The first thing I noticed was that he was all arms and legs.

This gangly kid would become a lifelong friend.

We both came from large, Catholic family and were expected to be faithful followers. When we were approximately 10 years of age, we were enlisted in the John Boscoe society. I sent this little blurb to Dan about that experience:

“When was the last time you saw someone under the age of forty go to church?  It is as rare as someone doing the dishes by hand.  I haven’t dusted off the old Baltimore Catechism lately and I haven’t attended a meeting of the John Bosco society in over sixty years.  I never quite understood why I used to go to the local elementary school on Saturdays, in the heat of the summer, with several of my pals, including Dan O’Connell to attend meetings of this society.  A little research shows me that John Bosco was a 19^th century priest, educator and writer.  One of his missions in life was dedication to the betterment and education of juvenile delinquents.  Now I understand.”

Both of us remembered the time that we were the only two to show up one hot, humid Saturday afternoon. I guess we didn’t get the memo that it had been cancelled.

We stumbled around St.F.X. for a few years in the early 1970’s. By then he was an accomplished musician. We played in a band called Fungus. Our motto: “We grow on you”.

I was living in Victoria after graduation and at one time, lived on an old country estate. That summer, Dan had hitchhiked across Canada. I can still see him walking up the long laneway to my brother’s house on Noble Road after a long and at times discouraging adventure.

We both returned to our alma mater in the fall of 1975 to pursue a teaching degree. We were both enrolled in the secondary program with an emphasis on English. Our English methods instructor was a short, imperious man from Tasmania. He was a scholar. We were not. He asked us to submit a piece of writing as our first assignment. A few days later, he returned with the carnage. Everyone in the class received a failing grade with the exception of Dan and one other person. He went on to humiliate two female students. Later in the year, we staged a walkout of his class and convened at the O’Connell house at 28 West Street.

There were no job opportunities for teachers in Nova Scotia in the mid-seventies, especially new graduates. Alberta was clamoring for teachers. Even before we finished our school year, most of us had secured work out west.

I accepted a position in Fairview, Alberta as did Dan… in the same school. Little did we know that four other STFX grads were on their way. One of them was teaching in the next town. I was the only one who had secured an apartment. Lo and behold, my two-bedroom apartment was inhabited with 6 newly minted teachers.

All six of us were in relationships in various states of disarray. My telephone was getting a serious workout. I had a rotary phone attached to the wall. The first phone bill arrived early in October. Back then, the phone companies listed all the calls, the duration and the charges. My statement was 14 pages long and the bill was $739.92. That was a lot of money in 1976. It’s a lot of money in 2025.

That evening, we convened to go over the bill to figure out who owed what. There was alcohol at this gathering and well into the proceedings, one of the guys went over to the wall and ripped it from its moorings. The following Monday, John Melanson and Dan arrived in the staffroom, pulling the phone along the ground, whistling to it as if it was a dog. Most of the staff were still getting used to “the five wise men from the east” and this display left many of our ultra conservative colleagues slack jawed.

I saw a lot of Dan over the next few years. He taught grade 9 English and he certainly left his mark on his students. Besides being an excellent teacher, he introduced them to Dylan (not Dylan Thomas!), Led Zeppelin and several other artists. I have kept in touch with a few of his former students and they still talk about Dan and how he influenced their musical tastes.

There are so many Fairview stories, many of them that I shouldn’t repeat. One that I CAN share involved the NDP. Our vice-principal was a huge N-Dipper. Our MLA was NDP leader, Grant Notley. Yes. Rachel’s dad. With an impending election, the boys were asked to go to several rallies throughout the riding to perform music prior to Grant speaking. This region of Alberta was heavily populated with German and Ukrainian farmers – a very serious, hardworking lot. Of course, we always had a few brew before our performances. The farmers sat stony faced trying to interpret Little Feat and John Prine.

Our paths crossed many times over the ensuing decades. Inevitably the guitars would come out. And as sure as the sun rises in the east, Dan would turn to me and say, “Leonard. Bring us down”. That was my cue to sing Neil Young’s mournful version of “Oh Lonesome me”.

On July 28^th. I had my last long chat with Dan at The Maples. I hadn’t seen him in a while and hadn’t realized he was suffering from COPD. I did most of the talking but Dan had that sly grin on his face as I regaled him with stories, including his one day of employment at McDonald’s bakery in Victoria. Little did I know that it would be our last visit.

Other than my siblings, I have known Dan longer than anyone else.

We were good friends.

Arms and legs.

Heart and soul.

Wit and wisdom.

I’ll miss him as will those of you gathered here today.

P.S. Dan. It’s Sunday in Victoria and it grieves me not to be at your celebration. However, I want you to know that I’m sitting with the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle.

Peter and I will sing “Oh Lonesome Me”.