Summarize the following writing, highlighting key points and creating insightful questions for the author:

MEDIA ME
Official Draft 11a
 

  









“Go with what you know…”
                                                                                                                -Unknown 
         







“I am what I am and that’s all that I am.”
                                                                                                                -Popeye the Sailor Man 
I’m just a guy. No one special. So, why would I believe that tales from my life would be of interest to anyone…anywhere? 
Naturally, I gave that question thorough consideration before I committed to writing this all down. Here’s what I concluded. My stories describe an unbelievably broad range of experiences cast across an equally broad range of media, and for me, the media is the key.
In my life and in my professional career, I have performed on stage, acted in feature films, modelled for advertising, appeared in TV sit-coms, written an educational television series, impersonated a Prime Minister, worked with two Academy award winning directors, sold commercial art and, well, the list goes on and on. Then it goes on some more.  
If you find the media to be as fascinating as I do, what I’ll share with you will entertain, surprise and might even amaze you. You see, my hope is that you will be able to relate to my stories on a personal level because I’ve never been a “star,” a “personality” or an “A-lister.” 
I am simply a freelance media generalist working to make a living. 
Just a guy. No one special.   
Welcome to Media Me.












In the beginning…
I was born on Tuesday, December 13th, 1955, in Ontario, Canada. It was on the northwest coast of Lake Superior in the old fur trading town of Fort William. Today the town is part of the city known as Thunder Bay. I was the sixth batter-up in the lineup of an eventual ‘baseball team’ of nine siblings. Since there were five lads and 4 lassies, the gender split was acceptably inclusive.   
On the morning of the day I was born, my father brought home the first television our family would ever battle over. And there was a method to his madness. This amazing new technology would free him to escape from the chaos of our home to the chaos of the maternity ward. After having powered it up and waggled the antenna in all directions like some psychotic diviner, he locked in on a signal filtering in from America. 
I’ve always thought of this historic family milestone as my dad’s particularly considerate gesture toward a babysitter in whose care he would now leave five excitable youngsters, all under the age of eight. It was also prophetic. The still fresh medium of television would quickly evolve to become the most profound and reliable babysitter in human history, at least until the invention of the video game console.   
My siblings were quickly entranced by the folksy goofiness of the classic children’s show called ‘Howdy Doody.’ The pioneer children’s programming icon was beamed to our new family television all the way from Duluth, Minnesota. Meanwhile, my dad arrived at the hospital around about 4 pm. He was just in time to witness my first ever vocal performance. 
How apt it seems to me now that I had arrived during a program that, within its very title, offered a colloquial and whimsical greeting to the world on my behalf. I like to imagine that I emerged from the tranquil warmth of the womb, amidst much ballyhoo and excitement, while fedora wearing paparazzi madly scribbled their notes as flashbulbs popped. This while I smacked Hollywood kisses and Marilyn Munroe waves to all in the delivery room, before gurgling a loud and cheery “Howdy Doody!” 
I imagine myself having done this to avoid the whack to the backside from the steady hand of one Dr. David Burnford. Alas, I can’t claim my entrance was anything like that. 
As it happens, the talented wife of Dr. Burnford, the very fellow who delivered me to this planet, was a writer by the name of Sheila Burnford. She was the author of the international bestselling children’s novel called ‘The Incredible Journey.’ The multiple award-winning tale of family pets included a cat and a couple of dogs on a challenging quest to be reunited with their owners. It became a Disney movie in 1963 and was reproduced in 1993 as ‘Homeward Bound: The Incredible Journey.’ 
So, here I was, in my first minutes on earth. I could already claim a symbiotic attachment within my family to the brand-new medium of television and to children’s programming. What’s more, in a ‘Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon’ kind of way I was already just one degree away from the ancient medium of novel-writing and arguably just two degrees away from filmmaking from no less than the most renowned children’s film maker of them all, Walt Disney! What a day. I must have been exhausted. No doubt I slept well that night. I was instantaneously surrounded by popular media from the very minute I was born. Or so I thought. In truth, the influence of the media on me had begun some nine months before.
You see, later in my life, I learned something fascinating. It was during the kind of conversation that a mother might have with her children on a lazy summer afternoon, perhaps while enjoying lemonade or a popsicle around a backyard picnic table. Some of my older siblings were curiously quizzing Mum about which of our uncles, aunts or other ancestors they had been named after. They wanted to know about both first and second names. With five older siblings, each with at least two names, that added up to quite a few. I was curious too. But when she got down the list to me, my mother shared that they had run out of names by the time I was born and so I had been named ‘Patrick.’ It seems that she and Dr. Burnford had consulted a calendar to calculate that I had been conceived on St. Patrick’s Day, in March of 1955. It happened to be an historic date in Canada. It was the very day of the infamous ‘Richard Riot’ in Montreal, Quebec.  I swear I had nothing to do with that.  
Recent ancestral DNA testing done within my family seems to confirm that I have more than enough Irish blood coursing through my veins to have been named Patrick for traditional reasons. However, I was named because of the coincidence of a date on a calendar and the celebration of an historical figure.   
I chose to overlook the ‘too much information’ details of the equation in favour of a focus on the historical and media implications. The calendar is by far one of the oldest forms of media there is. According to some archeologists, we’re talking perhaps ten thousand years of influence beginning in neolithic times. 
My mother did not look to the calendar specifically to choose my name. Her choice was as the result of using the media to look for other information she needed, and the utility that the calendar provided. She then chose to use that same information to choose the name that would identify me for a lifetime. Thus, the influence of media on my life clearly began with the timing of my very conception. Now, in a digital world, I believe we can conclude that the residue of our lives will linger through a broad variety of media long after were gone.     


Psychologists will posit that a person’s name can be a significant factor in the development of their personality. I tend to believe this. I guess I should be thankful that they didn’t work things back to March 18th just one day later. In that case my name would surely be ‘Cyril’ in honour of St. Cyril who is recognized on that date. I’m certain he was a tremendous person and a worthy saint, but in our culture, the familiar short form of my name would have been Cy Fry. 
Hmm. I’ll consider that a bullet dodged.      
Paddy Whacks
I suspect those of us who had the good fortune to live their formative years within a typical western family could name a ‘family tradition’ or two. 
If, like me, you are from a big family, you could probably remember more than one or three. 
You could call it ‘family culture.’ It’s the dynamics of everyday family life. It can focus on one family member or include everyone. Most family traditions are inane, such as reciting an idiom when some event, like dropping a fork, calls for it, or wearing themed costumes to celebrate a special occasion or perhaps enjoying a family recipe together.    
In this case I’m speaking more specifically of those everyday rituals that you feel are particular to your family alone. I was convinced for decades that the idiosyncrasy I share now, must have been unique to my family. It turns out it has a history that extends back a few centuries.   
It’s when I hear the children’s song “This Old Man” that the memory of this inexplicable family foible re-acquaints feelings of torment, confusion and helplessness within my soul. Woe is me. 
It’s a song that you will very likely recognize. 
Thankfully, as I can no longer rationally deny that I have reached senior citizenship those residual instincts are little more than an incohesive vapor, a mist alighting upon my hardened and battle weary exterior emotional shell. In short, I got over it.
As a child I never really liked the name ‘Patrick.’ There was no other Patrick in my grade in school. I knew of no famous personalities named Patrick other than Saint Patrick. With just a single black and white television set in the house, featuring an extremely limited number of channels, and over which I had no control whatsoever, I felt quite alone as a Patrick. My three older brothers were named Bill, John and Chris. There were many famous people with those names, and other students with those names at school. Alas, I didn’t feel unique. I felt like a target.   
In our family the genders were divided as evenly as possible between nine siblings. I had four brothers and four sisters. I was sixth born.
From my earliest inclinations to learn and impersonate them, my three older brothers indoctrinated me to disdain girls, particularly my sisters. For the most part I liked my sisters. However, when called upon to make a stand for the boys of the family, I would do so versus the girls every time. 
I preferred people to call me Pat. I was painfully aware that ‘Pat’ was also a short form for female persons named Patricia or Patsy. That fact always made me feel squeamish because I knew it meant I would be teased.
I often wondered why I couldn’t have the more masculine name of ‘Rick.’ The name Patrick is made up of two parts. Pat and Rick. If I could be called Pat, then why could I not be called Rick? The ‘Rick’ in my grade was the best baseball pitcher. How I envied him. 
I worked up the courage to posit the concept to my grade three teacher. She made it quite clear that it was a very silly idea. So, Pat it was. But it wasn’t always that way.
As a toddler, I was known as ‘Paddy.’ As a four-year-old I believed that Paddy was my actual name. It stuck with me in some form until I was perhaps twice or three times that age. 
It turns out that ‘Paddy’ is an ethnic slur. The British used it to identify an Irishman. It was a derivative of the afore-mentioned, St. Patrick. I didn’t know any of that. I did know that I had a grandmother who used to call me ‘pork chop’, so I surmise that, in the long run, Paddy seemed a better option.     
I think that my siblings kept a mental inventory of the right buttons to push on other siblings to initiate entertainment. Just flick the appropriate switch then sit back to watch the emotional fireworks burst forth. 
Or they might choose to participate. 
My siblings, particularly the biggest and most brutish of them, knew that to call me Patsy, a ‘girl’s name’ would set me off like a Roman candle. At four years younger and a foot shorter than him, I was like a hapless Jack Russell terrier attacking a belligerent grizzly. I always lost the battle. Worse, I could be prodded to shriek words that were absolutely forbidden in ‘my mother’s house!’ I would be banished to my room for hours to think things over.
For the record, I would have loved the name ‘Jack Russell.’ My dad’s nickname was Jack. He was a true gentleman.
So, here’s how a family ritual could have been so upsetting to me that even decades later, when I hear the children’s song “This Old man” I shudder a bit inside. 
The offending lyrics are “with a knick knack, paddy whack, give the dog a bone…”
Researchers believe the old ditty describes how the oppressive English would dispatch Irish persons, knocking at their door looking for work or handouts. They would literally give the ‘paddy’ a damn good whack and send him on his way. At the time this was acceptable behavior among the English.
I can’t imagine how it came to be, but in our home, if the song “This Old Man” was played on the record player, radio or television, it was a tradition, a family ritual, to ‘whack’ Paddy. And that was me.
My parents didn’t participate but they didn’t intercede either. After all it was a unique family tradition, right? 
Anytime they were cued by the song, and with much laughter and merriment, my siblings would joyfully surround and capture me, until each had delivered at least one good whack upon my person! Only when I eventually grew strong enough to successfully deliver reciprocal physical damage, did the ‘tradition’ abruptly end. 
In that instant, I was no longer Paddy, and I quickly became known amongst my siblings as ‘the Rebel.’ Cool.
A model child
For most of the first four years of my life I owned the esteemed position of the ‘Baby of the Family.’ I was the favorite of all, enjoying the usual perks of attention, treats and instant forgiveness that are the culturally designated ingredients of successful child-spoiling. I could argue that certain of my siblings had never received the memo.
My earliest memories are set in and around 1959 during which time my family was living in the quaint clapboard village of Stanstead in the Eastern Townships of Quebec. Stanstead is the self-proclaimed ‘Granite Capital of Canada.’ It was there that the first automobile manufactured in Canada was assembled. Stanstead’s most notable feature is that it is located cheek-by-jowl with the American border town of Derby Line, Vermont via the neighbourhood of Rock Island. The Haskell Free Library and Opera House is a cultural centre and tourist attraction that features a painted line that bisects the wooden floor. It indicates the border between Canada and the USA.   
When I was three months away from my fourth birthday, my third sister was born south of the border in Vermont, USA. The small American town of Newport offered the nearest birthing facility. 

It was probably fortunate that I had not yet reached a point where I could speculate about how the presence of a new sister would dissolve my ‘most favoured’ status and affect my life, so I was okay with it. I likely acted out a little, without realizing why. I remember some overwrought floor-pounding tantrums that led to isolation, followed by the kind of deep sleep that follows a good howl.          
By the age of four I would have been familiar with television, radio, record players and books which were the big-ticket items the modern media used to present material for children to consume.  
It was around this time that I obtained my first, very limited hands-on experience with the power of media as I painted my way to a photo of my future.
As much as my mother could possibly even have a hobby, with now seven children, all under the age of 11, she very much wished to paint. She was fully outfitted with an easel, canvasses, oil paints, brushes and ideas but almost no time to follow her muse. She had also become fast friends with a lady of similar age and creative panache who conveniently lived in the tidy home on the other side of our big side lawn.
With my third eldest brother now five years old and in kindergarten and the older four sibs all in school, I had daytime alone to begin to sort out what life was all about. I was too young to have any responsibility for my infant sister, so it was about playing with toys, begging for cookies and being careful not to hurt myself.  I remember my mom and the lady getting together almost every day to play with the baby, to drink coffee, smoke cigarettes and watch soap operas after the children’s TV programming had ended for the day. I was dispatched to play quietly with my toys where they could keep an eye on me. 
However, on one curious spring day things went a little differently. I was led outside into the glorious sunshine. My mother’s easel had been placed upon an old highchair in the middle of our broad lawn. With much excitement and enthusiasm, they told me that they were going to dress me up as an artist and take a ‘special’ photograph. It would be so much fun! I had posed for typical family photos before. I understood the details of what was happening, I just didn’t know why. I never have. I could speculate that on this day their coffee mugs may have contained wine, but I don’t judge.
The ladies swirled a scarf around my neck and knotted it with the familiar flourish of a typical French master. Next, they perched a powder blue beret precariously on my very blonde head. To complete the costume, they slipped my feet into my sister’s ‘saddle shoes.’ They’re the white oxfords with black mid-panels that were popular at the time. The shoes were so oversized for me that there was no way I could have walked in them. 
When I complained about the ignominy of wearing ‘girls’ shoes, I was easily bribed with a chocolate chip cookie, no doubt handy for just such a negotiation.       
With much encouragement and the reassurance that all of this was normal for models, I accepted “just a little” women’s face make-up and even a swipe of lipstick. The ‘pièce de résistance’ was the thin French moustache penciled in a curved line under my nose and finished with a flourishing curl up onto each of my cheeks. This rather macho adornment made me feel a little better about wearing feminine footwear.   
While all of this was going on, the ladies were giggling together excitedly and paying a great deal of attention to yours truly. Without really understanding how it could affect my development as a child and what it might mean to my career, this event introduced me to what it is to be treated as ‘the talent.’ 
In professional media, talent is generally (but not always) treated with kid gloves. They are very often fawned over, waited on hand and foot, and even worshipped. If I had been craving attention since I lost my crown upon the arrival of my newest sister some months ago, this might have been a dangerous overdose, but I liked it.  
Finally, it was time for the props department to do their job. I was instructed on exactly how to hold an artist’s pallet in one hand and a paint brush in the other to make it look like I was creating my next masterpiece. Merriment, mirth and massive attention continued from the ladies toward me for a few moments until the final click of the camera. Then it all ended. I was quickly restored to being me again. My face was washed, I was hugged by each of the ladies and then dispatched to play with my toys. Presumably, the ladies clamored into the kitchen for some more…coffee.
The results were not optimum. You could tell that it was a lovely, sunny day, but beyond that the black and white photos were amateurish, not effectively framed and lacked sharp detail. The moustache wasn’t discernable at all. It was a black and white photo, so the saddle shoes were reduced to a non-descript gray. I felt good about that. 
I now must think back more than six decades to tune my mind to the memories of that day. It was my first participation in a specific project designed to create a consumable media product. I had become a model, costumed, made-up and posed to create an image of a young child as a French painter. Ultimately, it didn’t really matter very much that the model was me. The consumers were my mother, her family and her friends. 


I imagine the two photographers simply thought it would be a ‘cute’ thing to do…that I would look adorable if they decorated me in this way. It’s unlikely that was their entire motivation. I think it was just one of those spontaneous moments in life where inspiration or creative impulse between buddies rises to the level of “Let’s do it. It’ll be fun!”          
What did four-year-old me get from this tease of stardom? Well, I received a lot of attention in a new and exciting way. I would want that again. I also learned that I could contribute to the creativity and joy of others just by being me, and I enjoyed that too. I would also want that again! Also, I would get both things and so much more in ways I could never have imagined. Years later, I would model again and get paid for it. And not just in cookies.  
I was such an angel
Weren’t we all angels? Perhaps, in the annual Christmas play, we were one of the three Wise Men, or if tall and masculine it would be Joseph, or if pretty and well behaved…Mary. Naturally, the class clown was always the ass. 
I occasionally reminisce about my first ever appearance in a performing role for an assembled audience. It took place in the historic hamlet of St. Andrews West, Ontario. The crossroads village is located about 7 kilometers north of Cornwall, and 100 klicks southeast of our gorgeous national capital city of Ottawa. My father had accepted a new job at a Cornwall Hospital, and the family moved to a hobby farm in the countryside, about 5 kilometers from St. Andrew’s West, on the old Post Road.  
It was Christmas time. As part of a festive early evening event, each grade from St. Joseph’s Elementary School would enact a short scene and sing a carol. I was in the first grade. I had turned 6 years old just a few days before what became a somewhat calamitous but enlightening theatrical debut.
It had been about 18 months since my exclusive photography modelling assignment. I had not yet forgotten the vibe that goes with being in “show biz!”
My entrance would take place on the stage of one of the oldest stone buildings in the province. The sturdy old structure had been erected as a Roman Catholic Church in 1801. It doubled briefly as a hospital during the war of 1812 and eventually took on several different roles after a new church was built to replace it in 1860. It has since been designated as ‘Heritage’, complete with a plaque.
Now, a full century later, it was Christmas season 1961. By this time the building was colloquially identified as “The Hall” and it served as a community cultural centre. It featured a stage and folding chairs. It served well as a typical catch-all utility space. 
At the height of the winter solstice, the early hours of darkness can offer surprising charm. With each Yuletide season the deep blue dusk enters an enchanting partnership with whimsical webs of Christmas lights. To a small lad it can all be quite wonderful but also somewhat confusing, even disorienting. From deep in my gray matter, my mind still teases out glimpses of memory. 
I recall both the buzz and bewilderment of climbing out of our car into the chilly December air, hand firmly grasped in my mother’s hand as I was dragged and directed across the wide country road toward the brightly illuminated entrance to the hall.   
I had never been inside this old building before, but I was now quite curious. I wanted to escape my parents and snoop around the big room where all the people were. Alas, before I could slip out of the grip, I was abruptly directed to a stairway leading to the basement. As high school students harnessed us into our costumes, each new thing to look at removed my mind further and further from the details of what I was supposed to do on stage. 
We had rehearsed our presentation for days amidst giddy glee and with tiny percussive instruments in hand. The audience was made up mostly of parents, grandparents, siblings and friends, but it was open to the public. I remember the frustration of having to endure boring speeches from unfamiliar grown-ups who were babbling on about things that meant absolutely nothing to me. 
I and my classmates were now all cute, costumed cast members. We were lined up in our proper order at the base of a narrow staircase that rose to a tiny backstage area. Every colour, sound, smell, shared smile and innocent distraction served to elevate the excitement. We all competed intensely to shush each other. This inevitably resulted in a cacophony of giggles, whispered reprimands from the nearby nun and comically timed incidental triangle dings. I couldn’t concentrate. I was unable to even hear the final instructions being loudly whispered to us from our teacher perched at the front of the line. Between me and that indiscernible information were about 30 stifled squirming tykes. Having not been able to make out what was said, and since I couldn’t remember one thing about what I was supposed to do, I decided to simply follow the others and do whatever they did.
My costume was simple, at least in theory. I was to portray an angel. I was wearing my whitest white shirt, my tidiest navy-blue corduroy trousers and my Sunday shoes. My angel costume consisted of a couple of unrecognizable metal coat hangers that, I was assured, had been shape-shifted into a halo and wings. 
The hangers were loosely wrapped in golden tinsel secured with scotch tape. This was all tied around my chest and shoulders with string, leaving the ring jauntily hovering over my head. As soon as the contraption had been attached to me, I knew there was something wrong. 
I could feel the thing slipping toward my belt loops. The halo was falling backwards. I tried to bring my dilemma to the attention of a nearby grown-up, but I was instantly shushed into oblivion. 
For a moment we were packed like cherubic sardines between heavy stage curtains. They seemed to lean on us and grasp at our tiny beings like old forgotten aunts wanting to give us a hug. This did not help me with my wing thing. 
Then suddenly, and without a warning (that I could hear) we were ushered onto the stage. I was feeling very disoriented and nervous. So, sticking with the plan, I simply followed the rest of the kids. I would be last. The audience, to my left, had welcomed us with warm applause. I stood entranced as I watched each of my fellow urchins skip through the spotlight at centre stage as flash bulbs from proud parents provided added special effects. I was so focused that it took a gentle push from a ‘kid wrangler’ behind me to force my big entrance.  
By the time I stumbled into the lights, my halo and wings had seriously loosened and were hanging from my waist behind me like a racoon’s tail. Not knowing what to do with my hands I had tucked my elbows in close to my body with forearms held high leaving my fingers to dangle. I was every bit the juvenile T-rex. I stared out into the mysterious darkness as I tip toed with exaggerated cartoon steps across the stage hoping I wouldn’t be noticed. I was able to see that some people seemed to be taking an interest in me, gesturing toward me, smiling broadly and even laughing.
Suddenly, I felt the firm hand of Sister St. Jerome, on my right shoulder. She jerked me out of the spotlight to the security of the curtains behind the proscenium arch. As the frenzied nun desperately tried to get me straightened-out and the tinsel rewound, I wondered if the people ‘out there’ had thought I was somehow funny. 
Giving up, she shoved me back out onto the stage to a fresh ripple of applause. This startled me and I stopped in my tracks looking out to find the faces so that I could get an idea of their mood. Some found this to be amusing. The giggles grew to laughter. It sounded…tremendous to my ears. It was a beautiful thing. It was like eating cotton candy while wrapped in a blanket straight from the dryer. I also thought it was funny and nodded and laughed right back at them.
At that moment, I understood the ‘thing’ that an audience is. You can make it laugh and when it does, you feel a wave of warmth! I felt a powerful communication between myself and this new thing I’d discovered. I didn’t understand precisely why or what was happening, but it became quiet and suddenly I was feeling quite conspicuous. 
I darted haphazardly over to join my mates in song, leaving a trail of unwinding tinsel and eventually the entire hanger frame in my wake…along with another wave of laughter and applause from my new friend, the audience! 
After singing, ringing and dinging, we were hustled into the basement. There, a small bag of Christmas candy was dropped into our welcoming hands, and we were released to the Christmas holidays. 
Once again, under simple and innocent circumstances, I felt the teasing nibble of the entertainment bug. I had received a juicy jolt of magic from the Genie of audience energy.
Might I be a ‘class clown?’ Next Christmas would I be joining the sheep and the cow in the role of the…donkey? 
Indeed, I would return to that stage one more time, in a new role and a better costume.
 The Student Prince           
In St. Andrew’s West, a lovely 18th century red brick convent was the centerpiece of the local school grounds. Admiring the layout from the street, on the left you would see a modern elementary school, in the middle was the spired old convent, and on the right a three-story box shaped, forties style brick high school. Grand oak trees and maples decorated the grounds. The trees were the perfect frames for the many softball diamonds and play areas. Much of the school property was surrounded by the Raisin River, flowing lazily through the village. 
From the street, the driveway lined directly to the foot of the long convent lawn where it split to circumnavigate the building. I happened to be standing just there as I waited out a nippy recess in late January. I was now seven years old and in grade two. I had learned that standing on one side of a particular oak tree could provide shelter against a sharp west wind. It would also position me well to get to the front of the re-entry line when the bell rang to end our blustery recess torture. Also, as I was in direct view of any nuns lurking about up in the convent, none of the usual playground pests or bullies seemed to bother me.  
It was there that I was approached by two High School girls who I recognized as Pamela and Anna Lee. Coming directly to the point, Pamela asked me if I would like to be the ‘Prince of the St. Andrew’s Winter Carnival.’ It was happening on Sunday.
They explained that it was not a school event but rather a community event. I would wear a Prince costume that they would provide. I would spend part of the day with the rest of ‘The Royal Family,’ which would be made up of a Carnival King, Queen, Princess and Prince. The day would end with a community banquet in ‘The Hall.’
A carnival. A banquet. A prince. A costume. Hmm. It all sounded very intriguing to me. The girls were very enthusiastic about me being the prince. They didn’t say why exactly. Might it have had to do with my blonde hair, blue eyes and dimpled smile? Probably not. It’s more likely that I was simply the smallest kid around and so I was most likely to fit the costume. There was one problem, however. I couldn’t skate and the royal family was supposed to skate together during ceremonies and presentations on the local outdoor hockey rink. I didn’t even own ice skates. 
What kind of Canadian boy was I that, by my seventh birthday, I still lacked the ability to glide effortlessly across a frozen pond while chasing a bouncing piece of horse dung with a twisted tree branch? Truthfully, I’d never before given that question much thought.               
I admitted my glaring lack of pertinent skill to the royal headhunters before me. They briefly consulted between themselves and then insisted to me that it wouldn’t matter. I could wear my boots. Problem solved; but not quite. 
The next hurdle was getting permission from my parents. Since we lived out in the countryside, just further than a long walk, we were encouraged to avoid getting involved with things that would require scheduling. There were six of us between the ages of 7 and 15. We only had one car and only my dad drove at the time. Extra-curricular activities complicate life for large families. 
My father was employed in the administration of the Catholic hospital in Cornwall. One, and only one, of his kids had been invited to be featured in the winter carnival as royalty. To him it would have been an honour and should result in at least one brownie point at work. On the other hand, my parents were very wary of any one of their brood getting ‘special attention’ because that could lead to increased parenting challenges with some of the others. Some might feel they were more deserving of said honour or would covet any swag that might come with the gig. 
In any case, I knew that for situations like this I would need their permission.           
The scheduling as such wouldn’t be a problem as I would be with Carnival officials the entire time and neither parent would have to invest a Sunday as a chaperone. I like to think they just looked at each other and remembered that since I was cute in the painter’s outfit and I was cute again at the Christmas Concert, maybe I’d be cute again as a prince. 
And so, I was granted permission to become an ambassador of the St. Andrew’s West Community Winter Carnival as Prince! It was my first hands-on media experience as a mascot. I would be responsible for my share of the public relations at the event. There would be photos, blurbs in community newspapers and smiling at lots of people.          
The most memorable person I met was Sister Cornelius. She taught grade eight. She was an absolute authority figure whom I had managed to completely avoid up until that moment. She was short, wiry and grim looking. I always thought she looked like Popeye the Sailorman in a nun’s habit. I figured that she had to be at least 140 years old. What did I know about life expectancy? I was seven. She stepped in front of me as I entered the small change room in The Hall. In a stern voice she asked where my skates were. I didn’t know how to answer that question without receiving corporal punishment. I’d heard she used a ruler for that. So, hoping for rescue, I looked up at the carnival official with the most helpless eyes I could muster. 
The explanation was given that I simply couldn’t skate. Sister Cornelius looked at me crossly and spoke. “You shouldn’t be Prince if you can’t skate. I don’t know why they would choose you. It’s the winter carnival.” She walked away muttering, “You should know how to skate.” 
That last comment haunted me again a few years later when it was delivered by my coach during a peewee hockey game. I think it hurt more when he said it. I was wearing actual skates at the time. 
Sister Cornelius huffed, turned and left the room and nothing more was made of it, but it shook my confidence. I was then introduced to my costume. I was to wear my own trousers. I yanked a green and black striped waistcoat with tails over my sweater. A broad brimmed, floppy, black velveteen hat with a long feather was positioned on my head. 
While this was going on I noticed my friend Vince. I had forged friendships with many of the high school kids and knew them by name. They would stop and talk to me while I stood next to the tree near the convent. Vince was the king of the Carnival and I guessed, my dad for the day. He was tall and athletic with tight, curly red hair and a broad perpetual smile. He proudly strutted about in his Burger King styled apparel.  
The Queen was Margaret. Her name was not too surprising in a small Catholic countryside community. She appeared quite regal with her red cape, silver scepter and golden crown. I wondered if Margaret would marry Vince someday. The Princess was Kathleen.  She was from a grade higher than me and was taller than me. Dressed in a white figure skating tunic with a matching gown and a tiara topping off her long yellow tresses, she seemed the perfect princess to me. 
A volunteer from the lower high-school grades was assigned to each of us, to hold our coats when it was time for a photo or a break. I had no understanding of what an entourage was, but I knew this was starting to feel special. I spent the rest of the afternoon being treated like royalty and holding hands with a very pretty girl from a higher grade. I wondered where my older brothers’ eyes were, now that I needed them.
The carnival took place in the area behind the Hall. The parking lot had been appropriated for demonstrations and exhibits. We were led from place to place. At each one we would smile, pose and sample the wares of vendors. Even to this day, the hot chocolate I enjoyed that Sunday is the flavour standard to which I hold all others.  
The outdoor hockey rink on the far side of the parking lot was the center of attention for races, broomball, hockey and free skating. That’s where the closing ceremonies would take place. 
As the late afternoon shadows began to make promises of a good night’s sleep, it was finally time for prizes and speeches. Rows of yellow light bulbs enclosed in dangling wire cages, crisscrossed ten feet above the ice.
The crowd had gathered in the stands next to a small square shanty known as ‘The Shack.’ It was heated and was a place to sit while dealing with skates. 
It was in this peculiar smelling structure that seventy-five per cent of the royal family laced up their skates for the official introduction. Standing outside by myself I began to feel nervous and quite self-conscious. Perhaps Sister Cornelius was right. Maybe I shouldn’t have been the Prince of the Carnival. Before I could devise a plan to escape, the King, Queen and Princess emerged from the Shack. The queen wrapped her cape around the princess while I was similarly warmed by the king.  
Following an instrumental version of our national anthem that crackled through the hopeful PA system like shattered glass in a tin bucket, one of the village elders slid awkwardly to centre ice to begin the proceedings. First, the royal family was introduced to great applause. Vince led the way onto the ice, stopped and extended his hand to his queen. They skated out in front of the stands and waved. The princess stepped through next, so she extended her hand to me. The gate opening to the ice left a step of about 12 inches. As I reached up to take Kathleen’s hand, I took my eye off the step and tripped, sprawling out across the ice on my stomach to many gasps and much mirth from the crowd.
It seems…I was back.
Vince opened his stance and skated directly over me. In an instant I felt myself being scooped up and righted onto my boots to the applause of an appreciative audience. He got down on one knee and like he was Aragorn to my Frodo he reassured me and asked if I was okay. I was too stunned by all of this to know for sure, but I didn’t feel any pain anywhere, so I nodded. The Princess unceremoniously plopped my hat back onto my head to even more chuckles from the crowd.  She took my hand and towed me over to the king and queen for photos and applause.                     
The speeches continued as we started to circuit along the boards of the rink, waving and stopping to pose for photographs. The King and Queen led the way. Princess Kathleen was not at all confident on her blades. The addition of her skates had added to our height difference and now she found holding my shoulder to be most comfortable and she was gripping me tightly. She appreciated the solidity provided by my boots and so I became a man on a mission. I concentrated intensely as I shuffled over the soft, slushy ice. I didn’t slip, stumble or fall and neither did the Princess.       
That evening there was a banquet in the Hall. The head table was situated at center stage for all to see. Citizens were accommodated down in the main area. It was the second time I had been on that stage. The first time I had been cherubic. This time I was royalty. We stood as the assemblage sang ‘God Save the Queen.’ Unfamiliar grown-ups mumbled stodgy speeches that were far too easy to ignore. Finally, Father Wylie harumphed trough the saying of grace and the chicken dinner was a winner. 
Once again, at an early age, I had found myself placed on a bit of a pedestal in a circumstance that was a taste of what was to come. I would serve as a public relations mascot again later in my media career. Just then, however, I was proud that my goofy winter boots had rescued the princess and made me feel like a prince. 
Where Were You When Your Heard…part one
In the fall of 1963, my parents had six school-aged children to wrangle and push out the door every day. Once in a while, for reasons most likely related to awkward timing, or a lack of bagged lunch inventory, my father would make the 10-minute drive from his work in Cornwall, northward to St. Andrew’s West. There, my sibs, and I would pile into the station wagon for the quick 5-kilometre jaunt to our house. My mother would welcome us to a set table featuring a pot of hot soup and a plate of buttered bread.      
On this particular day I was the first to finish slurping. With permission to be excused, I dashed to the family room to see if there was anything to watch on TV before I would have to return to the clutches of the school day. As I entered, I skipped between two easy chairs. As was my custom, I placed a hand on the outside arms of each chair so that I could propel myself through the air between them. This time I missed, only to land face first on the other side. There, I regurgitated my chicken noodles all over the rug. 
My sister Kathy, always in a panic that someone other than her might take control of the television, was hard on my heals. She arrived just in time to see the aftermath of my messy mishap. Constantly eager to report any scandalous behavior, she tattled my upsetting circumstances to my mother. Instantly, I realized that I might be able to turn the calamity to my advantage. I embellished my apparent disorientation with a claim that I was also feeling nauseous. My improvised acting performance won me the rest of the day off from school “just in case.”
As I watched the car pull out of the driveway to deliver my siblings back to the clutches of the classroom, I smiled at the wonderful bonus of an entire afternoon of unchallenged TV viewing. I selected a station that was airing a British comedy movie and then took my place in the big easy chair. Not long after settling in, my program was interrupted by a serious sounding man who seemed to be saying that President John F. Kennedy had gotten his shots. I remembered my vaccination shots. I knew that was not a pleasant thing. 
The man on screen continued to discuss the President’s situation, but I couldn’t grasp the gravity of what he was saying. I turned the dial to discover that other serious sounding men were talking about it on the few other channels available to us at the time. My mother was in the living room reading. I complained to her that a man had come on the TV to say that the President had gotten his shots and now people were talking about it on most of the other stations too, so I couldn’t watch my movie. 
A concerned look emerged upon her face. She hurried to the family room. After watching for just a few moments, she became emotional in a way I had never seen before. As sensitively as she could, she explained to me that a bad man had shot the President and that he was dead. She went off to weep quietly by herself. I continued to watch the live broadcast while trying to make sense of it all.
I couldn’t have known that on that day, November 22nd, 1963, I was viewing a media event of unprecedented proportions. It wasn’t just because the leader of the free world had been assassinated. That was a massively historic event on its own. Simultaneously, the evolution and unprecedented power of media now had forever been established. Television could almost instantly place world events directly in front of the eyeballs of viewers around the planet.
For the next several days news media of all kinds covered the event wall-to-wall. The extermination of the accused assassin was broadcast live. The funeral procession of a world leader, the tears of a grieving widow, and a poignant salute by a three-year-old son were all there for the world to see.  
Like families around the globe, we watched too. Disbelieving, unable to tear ourselves away. It became one of the first moments where years later people would share with each other exactly where they were and what they were doing ‘when they first heard the news.’ I learned from that day that I was no longer young enough to forget. Like it or not, I would always be old enough to remember. 
In 1969, the first human to walk on the moon brought much needed positivity to the power of the media to shape the narrative in front of a worldwide audience. For once and for always, with the reporting of a presidential assassination that ended the American Camelot, Pandora’s media box had been permanently opened for business.
Flagged for the Future
In the early sixties, in anticipation of Canada’s approaching centennial of 1967, the politicians of Parliament Hill did what politicians do. They found a political banner to rally behind to make them look more patriotic than their opponents from ‘across the aisle.’ In this case it literally was a banner, or more precisely the issue of a spanking new design for our national flag. 
With a change in government, the debate quickly evolved from whether there should be a new flag to what it was going to look like. I was nine years old and breezing through grade four when the flag issue reached its boiling point. My weakest academic subjects were ‘Art’ and ‘Penmanship.’ Even at that age I knew that art was in the eye of the beholder. I didn’t understand how I could always score no higher than a ‘D’ even though I always tried my hardest. 
On the issue of penmanship, I professed to my teachers and parents that it was unimportant to me and would be inconsequential in my career. Upon being awarded yet another ‘E’ for that skill, I would argue that my ‘sloppy’ handwriting shouldn’t be held against me. I never won that debate then, but in the long run, history and the development of computers and word processing software has proved me right.       
As the debate on the design of the new flag raged in the early months of 1965 our class was tasked with an art project. We were to use our Crayola’s to illustrate our own original idea for the flag. We were assured we could design whatever we wanted.  
My mother was a proud descendant of United Empire Loyalists who had fled the American revolution for the comfort of the British Empire in Upper and Lower Canada. This meant that I was also a descendant. At home, as the flag debate intensified, I would listen to my mother defend the traditional Red Ensign and to suggest that there was simply no need to make such a change.
For that reason, to make a point in my art project, I applied myself to as faithfully a recreation of the incumbent flag as I could muster. In the upper left corner, I did my best to recreate the Union Jack that anchored the flag. Alas, I couldn’t recall any of the symbols contained within the shield found in the opposite bottom right corner. I thus replaced what were a representative array of heraldic lions, a harp, fleur de lys and a sprig of three maple leaves with a crudely drawn fish, an attempt at a maple tree, and an abstract attempt at a mountain. 
As I was putting the finishing touches on what I believed to be a true masterpiece of national pride, the teacher crept up behind me and suddenly, in a loud voice chided, “That’s like the flag we already have! You were supposed to draw the flag that you want to see!” Naturally, I replied very meekly that it was the flag that I wanted to see. In truth, I think I just wanted to please my mother. Not surprisingly I received my usual ‘D’ for that assignment. 
It was soon after that disappointing criticism of my heartfelt art that the next media event of my life magically materialized, and it was a direct result of the adoption of Canada’s new flag. A community event to dedicate and honour the new flag was to be held on the lawn of the convent. 
As part of the ceremonies, one student each was chosen to represent the high school and the elementary school, to present a dedication speech on behalf of their fellow students. 
In absolute contrast to my success in art and penmanship, was my renown for reading aloud. From day one I had taken to heart the instruction to ‘read with expression.’ Sister St. Jerome had encouraged her grade one students to always project, so that the people in the back of the classroom could hear every word. I knew instantly that it was the most considerate thing to do and great fun into the bargain.
To be fair to everyone, a competition was held to select the student most worthy to carry out this historic honour on behalf of their schoolmates. The decision was made to reach down from grade eight as far as grade four to assemble the finalists. Each teacher held a contest in their own classroom to identify their champion. I humbly report that there was really no contest in my classroom. As the teacher explained what was going to occur some of my classmates began to point at me and say my name out loud. “It going to be Pat!” “Pat’s going to win.” Things like that. They knew. As proud as I was about that recognition, I would have traded that moment without hesitation for one in which I was identified by all as the best baseball player in grade four. I was far from that. 
Things were more interesting at the next level of the competition which took place in the gym. As I entered, I reviewed the other candidates, one each from the higher grades. They included some of my siblings. It began with the Grade 8 competitor. This tipped me off that I would likely go last. 
I was thoroughly confident in my ability to read the text accurately and ‘with expression.’ The others proved that they could do that too. I concluded that the most notable advantages I could offer would be clarity and the ability to be heard at the back of an outdoor venue. That wouldn’t be a problem. They were exactly the skills needed to be heard across the school yard at recess. 
I listened intently to each of the others. When my turn arrived, I elevated my volume to what I believed was the loudest of the auditions while enunciating carefully so that the judges could understand every word. After all, it was the most considerate thing to do. Fun too!
It wasn’t baseball. I hadn’t hit a home run, but I was one happy camper when I returned to that classroom knowing I had just been recognized as the best in the school at something. That was one of my very favorite things.  

The winter snow was replaced by fresh green grass and budding lilac bushes. A stage was erected on the broad convent lawn in the vicinity of the flagpole. A microphone and speakers were in place. There the community of St. Andrew’s West assembled for the ceremonial dedication and raising of our new flag. From behind the convent the skirl of the bagpipes grew loud as a parade of kilted Scottish pipers marched into place to open the festivities. Father Wylie began with a prayer. Everyone sang God Save the Queen. Various dignitaries made speeches. I recognized that with the p.a. system it was no longer going to be necessary for me to project. Indeed, when I stepped up to the mike, I felt quite comfortable. I’d established in the past that the audience was my friend. I had a job to do for them and so I shifted my focus into making the words sound as clear as they could be. 
I managed to avoid the feedback and distortion that had pestered some earlier presenters. I had only about three sentences to read. I felt myself shaping them, honoring them, and honouring our new flag. I sensed the power of my voice booming out of the speakers and echoing across the venue. I maintained my concentration. I finished to enthusiastic applause. I was awash with feelings of pride and exhilaration. The ceremonies ended with the assembly proudly belting out “Oh Canada,” our beloved national anthem.                        
Following the proceedings, as I stood under the crisply flapping new flag, many locals approached me, shook my hand, complimented me on my presentation or simply smiled, waved or nodded. I had just performed my first ever gig as a public speaker at a once-in-a-lifetime event that had been deeply meaningful to a lot of patriotic people. 
It felt different than Painter Pat, Christmas Angel Pat or Carnival Prince Pat. On that day I received a gifted glimpse of what I was for. I understood that I had been blessed with a skill of great value that could anchor my entire life. It had nothing to do with penmanship, but it had everything to do with art.      
Acting, Stage One                    
By the time I reached the age of twelve, within my elementary school career, I had always reliably placed near the top of my class. However, I always fell just short of first overall. On the last day of grade six, Mrs. Smith, our fuss-budget of a teacher, announced that there was a tie for highest average in the class between me and Marny MacIntosh. We had both achieved an overall percentage of 86.5 percent. I would have been thrilled with that outcome had the teacher just stopped talking there. Alas, her next statement would destroy my level of respect toward academic achievement for many years. Mrs. Smith proudly pronounced that since Pat had such poor penmanship the honour of first place and the accompanying prize would go solely to Marny. 
A gift-wrapped box was delivered to Marny’s desk. I recall that she seemed quite perplexed as the class applauded, smiling shyly and not gloating or putting on airs as I might have done. I never learned what the prize was, but that was never the point for me. The repeated chastisement and scorn of my poor penmanship over the years, now reinforced by this blow to my spirit, turned me away from any desire for academic success. The bitter taste of that cruel moment remained for the entire summer holidays. I was not excited to return to school. I had given up hope and was no longer motivated. I was happy to spend the summer recovering with my family. 
My father, an immigrant from England, possessed a refined British sense of humour but could easily descend into the ribald. My mother, raised in Montreal, a descendant of both the French and English sides of our national culture was flat out funny in the Canadian tradition. Both of my parents possessed attractive, infectious laughs. Each parent offered their laughter to us freely as a satisfying ego stroke if one could say or do something funny enough to trigger such a response. 
I was the sixth born in my family. My eldest sister, the first born, was never lacking in attention from my parents. Although her sense of humour was fine, she was never very funny. However, the remaining siblings all realized that finding a way to make our parents laugh would be rewarded if not by attention, then by some of their sought-after spiritual mana. The competition was intense, and the lessons were plentiful if you cared to learn them. Being funny became my new thing.
There were times when my glib repartee was not appreciated. I can remember my dad sternly wagging his finger at me while admonishing me for some defiant or snide remark I had conjured up. “Don’t you be cheeky with me!” he would command.  I would slink away, smirking in proud contemplation of the power my words could have, even over grownups.        
September arrived and I reluctantly entered grade seven. I should have been confident and proud. I wasn’t. I was frustrated and disillusioned. I felt imprisoned. For the first few days I just sat and listened, offering little unless specifically called upon. I was disinterested and did not want to be there. 
A handful of classmates were older than the rest of us. They were those who had been ‘held back’ one and even two years. They were more physically mature than those of us who were just now tiptoeing into puberty. They were never the shiniest utensils in the drawer; however, they could be quite entertaining. The lads enjoyed kibitzing with our teacher, the very comely newlywed Mrs. Pilon. This would often result in group laughter from most of the kids in class although there were always a few who just didn’t ‘get it.’   
I sat, enjoying the banter and the periodic relief it provided from the sheer boredom. I slowly realized from these classroom comedians that I too could achieve a delightful form of recognition from my peers and some spiritual mana, if I provided a well-timed quip at an opportune moment. I sensed a renewed faith in myself. I knew instinctively that I could be even quicker, wittier and ultimately funnier than those guys. 
Thus, during lessons, I began to seize upon those pregnant pauses, that were aching for a pithy punchline, when they were left hanging by the teacher. A poorly thought-out response from a called upon classmate would afford another prime opportunity for me to inject a wise crack if one came to mind. The audience of equally bored captives would almost always provide a reassuring laugh track. I was back.
My remarks were initially deflected or ignored by the teacher but soon my constant performing got on her last nerve and eventually my ‘smart mouth’ would result in the first of a series of comedy club bookings with an exclusive audience of one, at ‘the principal’s office.’ 
Alas, the principal was never amused. Performing for an audience of one is never easy. Still, I had caught the bug and simply couldn’t resist harvesting the low-hanging comedic gold ripening on the tree of grade seven knowledge. 
One day, Mrs. Pilon announced that our class would be performing a two-part theatrical presentation on dental hygiene for the students of the early primary grades, one through four. This caught my attention. There was nothing I wanted more than to be an actor, unless perhaps it was a New York Yankee, or a radio station disc jockey. Obviously, I couldn’t do any of those things just yet, so I really wanted to be in the play. Considering how such opportunities had fallen into my lap in the past, I figured I was a shoo-in. 
The play was called ‘Daily Dental Care.’ It required a cast of about 10 characters. Those who weren’t in the cast would act as props people, costume assistants, stage managers, lighting etc. The main characters were ‘Doctor Dental Hygiene’ and the evil ‘Captain Cavity.’ I was hopeful for the role of Captain Cavity since his lines would be the most fun to perform. I concluded that since I was by far the best, loudest reader and presenter in class, I’d be performing one of those two roles. 
I felt the excitement of being in school begin to rise. This only lasted for about fifteen minutes until Mrs. Pilon gleefully informed me that because of my constant ‘performing’ during class and the fact that there simply were not enough roles and jobs to go around, it was now time for the well-behaved students to get their turn. I was not required to be part of the presentation. Touché.      
Over the next few days as the production took shape, I could only monitor the play-related activities from my desk as I read some lame novel. I was supposed to compose a bonus book report that would help me raise my fading marks. My disappointment in being excluded from the play faded quickly. The play was not funny, not interesting and would not be entertaining, even for little kids. It appeared that it would run for all of 10 minutes. 
There were a few other classmates also not involved in the play. They were either too shy, had to catch up on work or like me were ‘not required.’ One of them, a good friend named Wayne, had missed several days with an illness. While away he had written a slapstick comedy skit. Wayne was a bright, high-achieving, well-behaved student. He approached me about performing a role in his skit if he could get permission to present it during the intermission. I readily agreed.
Surprisingly, Mrs. Pilon gave him the go ahead. Perhaps even more surprisingly, I was permitted to accept the role of the grocery store manager. Wayne would direct the skit and play the husband. A very tall young lady named Ginger would portray his wife. The scene was a small grocery store into which a couple would enter to do their shopping. 
The script was very clever, peppered with punchlines, and with lots of ‘business’ for the harried storekeeper as he tries to keep his merchandise from being destroyed by what he believes are two very clumsy shoppers. For several days classmates dutifully brought in grocery packaging to decorate our set. We had tins of soup, boxes of cookies, egg cartons and any and everything to make our set look like a grocery store. All were empty and thus noticeably light.
On the day of the show, students from the younger grades marched into the basement of the high school building where they were instructed to sit on the floor. From there, two steps rose to the stage. The marquis production required little by way of sets. Costumed characters such as a carrot, a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste would simply step forward and deliver statements about their function and attributes in the context of dental care. The plot was almost entirely informational, lacking any charm or humour. Nelson, who portrayed Captain Cavity, did his best to inject some menace into the character but could only manage a few snickers from the audience. They couldn’t really make much out of what was written for grade seven level students.
Then it was our turn. We scrambled up onto the stage. A folding utility table was set up downstage right and featured two displays of soup tins. Other items were stacked on small desks at the back of the set. The scene opened with me dusting the displays. The couple entered from stage left, with Ginger speaking in a high-pitched nasal voice. The kids immediately recognized this as an applied character voice like many they would have heard on Saturday morning cartoons. They began to feel right at home and laughed right on cue. 
Ginger announced that she had brought along a ‘short’ grocery list which unfolded all the way to the floor displaying a long list of items. This attracted more snickers. Next, she instructed her husband to be careful this time because “You know how clumsy we can be.” 
On that cue I, as the store manager, snapped to attention and began to discreetly follow the shoppers as they made their way around the store. I mugged and hammed-it-up as overly nervous. The kids began to giggle and snicker even more loudly.   
Wayne scrutinized an item then delicately placed it back in the correct spot. I, in my eagerness to maintain control, then readjusted the item which caused the entire display to cascade to the floor. I made a hap-hazard attempt to juggle the items back into position but failed magnificently. I would dash from display to display in an effort to prevent the shoppers from initiating calamity, only to cause it myself. By this point the young audience was enthralled. The dialogue was lost within the cacophony of boxes and tins loudly bouncing all over the stage and down the steps into the first row. Wayne moved toward the utility table. I chose to take a theatrical flying leap to intercept him. I landed on the table which completely collapsed under my weight. Soup tins bounced over me and down the steps into the front row as I landed legs akimbo on the edge of the stage.  
The youngsters laughed hysterically, rolling around the floor in riotous mirth. The rest of the sketch was unnecessary. We stood together on the stage surrounded by carnage and disarray. Together we took an early bow to boisterous applause. With that, I had just made my debut as a physical comedian and stage actor. Once again, I recognized the unique energy of an appreciative audience. 
What of act two of ‘Daily Dental Care?’ Well…it really didn’t stand a chance.   
Front-Page News 
I began my story with the fact that I was born on Tuesday, the 13th of December. I couldn’t know then how the mathematics of the calendar combined with a common superstition would once again provide another fascinating new media experience. 
A birthday on the 13th of any month is not notable in and of itself. However, when combined with a Friday, ‘triskaidekaphobia’ the fear of the number thirteen, rises to a level somewhere between curiosity and light infotainment.  
One of the most popular horror movie franchises of all time is called ‘Friday, the Thirteenth.’ In addition to at least a dozen sequels, the macabre melodrama has spawned a TV series, comic books and even a video game.
Some believe the superstition originated with the Last Supper prior to the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. There were thirteen at the table. 
Many historians contend that the ‘unlucky’ spell was really cast on Friday, October 13th in the year 1307. On that fateful date the infamous Knights Templar were suddenly arrested by King Philip IV of France. It seems the monarch was in dire need of cash and the Knights Templar had plenty of it. With extreme prejudice, the king brutally tortured and executed the heroes of the great unwashed. Thus, the coincidence of the 13th of any month falling on a Friday has since been associated with horror and fear enough to fire the imagination of newspaper columnists, morning radio hosts and fiction writers for hundreds of years. 
For me, the fact that I would be reaching age thirteen on that very configuration, simply added to the excitement of the occasion. It was a once in a lifetime event that would deliver some new attention and mild notoriety.
My father, in his role as administrator for the local hospital, was often called upon by the local press to comment on some story related to local health-care issues. Being a small town, reporters and their sources were often quite cordial with each other. 
Within the chit chat that followed such an information session, my father mentioned that he had a son who would turn thirteen on the upcoming Friday, the 13th. As it turned out, the reporter had also been assigned to tap out a few lines about a couple of other local youngsters who would also celebrate their thirteenth birthdays on that same day. The plan was to caption a photo of the two for the local news section. The reporter knew instinctively that the more local kids you can squeeze into the picture, the better it is. Local content sells newspapers. 
So it came to pass that my father picked me up after school on the late afternoon of Thursday, December the 12th. He whisked me into town for the big photo shoot at the offices of the Standard Freeholder, the city of Cornwall’s humble version of ‘the gray lady.’ 
We made our way up three flights of stairs to a large room jammed with desks, telephones, filing cabinets, ashtrays and paper coffee cups. In the back of the room in front of a large bulletin board I was introduced to a photographer, complete with a camera sporting a large flash. There were other parents on hand and, of course, Johanne and Paul, the other two subjects of the photo. 
We were posed surrounding a large calendar. A thick felt pen had been used to circle the date, Friday the 13th. The three of us were instructed to look happily upon the date. After all, it being a special date, it should make us feel a little special too. There were a couple of flashes, a repositioning here and there, then a few more flashes and that was it. There were a few moments of small talk, birthday wishes extended, and we were free to head-out into the early evening darkness, just nine days short of the upcoming longest night of the year. 
My dad and I met up with my eldest brother, Bill, somewhere along the way. He had remained in the city after school. He instantly claimed the privilege of his birth order, dispatching me to the back seat of the car so he could ride shotgun. Meekly, I scrambled into the back seat behind him. Then, through billows of blowing snow, we began our eight-mile journey to the farm. 
On the edge of the city limits we approached an intersection for which our car had the right-of-way. Suddenly, my brother shouted “Hey!” In that instant my father reacted similarly. I glanced out the window to my right directly into the looming headlights of an eighteen-wheeler bearing down upon me. Within the dark shadows it appeared huge and menacing. Just as I braced for impact, I felt the kind of sudden, disorienting jerk I’d experienced once before while on a roller coaster. It tossed me across the back seat. Through the rear window I watched, frozen, as the truck slid slowly past in the gloom. It appeared to have avoided contact with us by just a hairs width. 
Seat belt use was not yet law. The event was so startling that my father pulled over to the edge of the road to check on us and to calm his nerves. I was fine but I didn’t know what to make of it all.  
My brother, a licensed driver, was spitting flames that the truck had gone right through the stop sign and could have killed us all. My father rolled down his window. We soon learned that the truck driver was equally shaken. He had also pulled over. We watched nervously as he trudged through the snow toward us. I still remember the vibe of his humility as he approached. He apologized most profoundly and accepted all responsibility. The trucker went on to suggest how lucky we were that my dad had steered perfectly. He still couldn’t understand how he had managed to miss us. My father, always the gentleman, suggested that black ice could have been a factor. Later in my media career I would have a unique opportunity to learn a great deal more about what it is to be a trucker. I welcomed that.
In my school there were six siblings, who had very recently lost their dad in a horrible traffic accident just yards from the very place where our event had occurred. They had all been in the car with him at the time. Their tragedy filled my thoughts as my father cautiously guided us home across dark, snow-swept country roads. 
In a small town like Cornwall, the tragedy of traffic fatalities, though rare, would be front page news. Usually, the reporting included photos of the victims. My thoughts fell back to the mystery of Friday the thirteenth and a thirteenth birthday which I very nearly never celebrated. Then I reminded myself that it was not yet officially Friday the thirteenth. 
The next day, to my surprise, above the fold on the very front page of the newspaper, was a large photograph of three fresh-faced newly minted thirteen-year-olds. They were sharing a moment together, defying superstition. 
I couldn’t help but think about the close call from the evening before. How, but for the luck of an inch and an instant, my most recent annual school photo could have instead been placed in this very same location to identify me as a tragic victim. 
My first ever front-page newspaper photo turned out to be a unique way to celebrate my birthday, but the gift that I received was a profound new personal philosophy: “No matter what the day or date, always welcome good fortune when it comes your way.”      
Hello Broadway Musical, Bye Bye Birdie
At school in the quiet, heritage village of St. Andrew’s West, I’d spent eight years with essentially the same thirty classmates. Each year three or four would disappear for reasons unknown, only to have interesting new faces replace them. It was much like a professional sports team that during the off-season swaps some players for new ones in search of a winning formula. At the end of grade eight there remained about fifteen of us who had begun grade one together. 
That next September, as I rode the bus to my new high school in the industrial town of Cornwall, Ontario, there were none of those classmates with whom I could share the ride. My older brother Chris, who was one grade ahead of me, sat as far away from me as he could. Textbook behaviour I suppose. 
As I began my four and a half years at General Vanier Secondary School, the home of the Vikings, I was confronted by a rambling modern structure that boasted the innovative concept of no windows in the classrooms. The idea was that students would have fewer distractions. This was changed several years later when it was concluded that this had done more harm than good. Naturally, I was there during the harm period.  
More immediately disconcerting to me was a student body made up of about 1,500 latter-day baby boomers including about 400 of us who would populate a total of thirteen grade nine home rooms. I was assigned to classroom 1-C. Our supervising teacher, Mr. Chalmers, was a pleasant fellow who spoke with a distinctive Australian accent. There were none of my St. Andrew’s classmates in my home room. I would have to make new friends. 
Like so many other rookies I spent the first few weeks learning the lay of the land which included the political pecking order. Naturally, grade thirteen students resided at the top. Not surprisingly, it placed me and my fellow newcomers at the bottom.           
In the hallways, I managed to re-attach to a couple of my buddies from Saint A. We explored the maze of the school together while commiserating about tough homework and cute girls. 
Some kids would play rambunctious games of tag through the corridors during lunch hour. We joined them for a few days until that became frowned upon by older students. They were the ones who were ‘too cool for school.’ I wanted to be one of them but alas the words most suitable to describe me at the time would have been nerd or dweeb. 
The first social event that came up that was open to the participation of students from all grades was the annual ‘Slave Auction’ held to raise money for some cause or another. I’d caught the acting bug during the Grocery Store sketch two years prior. This seemed a reasonable facsimile, so I signed myself into slavery. 
I’m not sure I can stretch the description taut enough to have it qualify as a ‘media event’; but there were many intercom announcements, bulletin board posters and a buzz through the corridors and classrooms. A photo, not including me, eventually made it onto the local page of the Standard Freeholder. More photos were sprinkled through the next edition of the yearbook that was published at year’s end.     
On the day of the slave auction, I transported my hastily assembled haphazard slave outfit to school in a paper bag. I decided to manifest my transmutation in the boys washroom closest to my locker. Being somewhat bashful, I entered one of the booths where I hung up my brand-new fall jacket and sweater. I decided to wear the remainder of my outfit over my street clothes. It’s no wonder grade nine students received no respect. 
Moments later, regarding myself in the row of mirrors, I could easily see that I looked like a poor excuse for a slave, but oh well, it was the best I could manage on my own. I was hopeful I could impress with my acting and raise a lot of money for the cause, whatever it was. 
Upon making my way to the ‘slave holding area’ in the auditorium, I was instructed to stay ready as the grade nine slaves would be the first to go up. As I looked around, I recognized Brenda. She was a very pretty, blonde female slave from St. Andrew’s. She was now in Grade thirteen. I wasn’t surprised that she didn’t recognize me. 
Soon, an authentically costumed ‘slave trader’ gestured me toward him. He whispered that I should resist as he dragged me across the stage. Great! Acting! Finally! I did my best to feign resistance. My loud protestations elicited a sprinkle of guffaws from the assembled multitude. I felt the audience once again. I was reminded of my debut as an angel in the Christmas play in ‘The Hall’ so many years before. I hoped my haphazard costume would hold together.
Soon, the bidding got underway. Excruciatingly, it rose to an embarrassing eighty-five cents. The buyer was Wayne, my friend and classmate of eight years. His skit had made me a star for a day. Now I would be his slave for an hour or two. I’d hoped to be bought by someone I didn’t know but there was an advantage to being Wayne’s slave. He was polite and gentle. 
Beyond pointless jumping jacks, running here and there like a mad fool and, of course, carrying his books for the remainder of the day, it was very light duty indeed.
A buzz circulated later that Brenda had elicited the highest bid of the day. Some guys from grade thirteen had pooled their resources to raise the bidding to almost thirteen dollars. All I had managed was a paltry eighty-five cents. I understood that this was a new experience for me. I realized that nobody knew me here. I’d have to gain some notoriety if I ever wanted to put myself forward for this kind of thing again. 
When I was finally set free, I walked dejectedly back to the washroom. My dad was due to swing by and pick me up on his way home from work. I slunk into the washroom, swung open the door to the booth to discover that my jacket and sweater were not there. I quickly scoped out the other booths to no avail. In a panic I dashed from washroom to washroom throughout the school checking every booth, even though I knew exactly the booth I had changed in. None of the maintenance personnel had seen my clothes. 
I checked with the front office only to learn that no one had turned anything in. A cold, unsympathetic receptionist offered the obvious advice that I should have put the items into my locker. Truer words had never been spoken.
Then I had to face my dad. He was the breadwinner in the family and had to clothe nine children.  He had busted my portion of the budget on a jacket I just had to have, and still he managed a selection of other quality items for my high school wardrobe. I quietly climbed into the car. Dad was mysteriously distant. It seemed like as a good time as any to let him know how my day had gone. 
I explained what had happened. I could see that he was tense and quietly upset. It was suitably unnerving. When he finally spoke, all he said was that I would now have to make do with whatever I already had, or a hand-me-down from one of my brothers. He would not be replacing the items. Then, after a long pause and in a gentle voice, he shared with me that he had learned that my grandmother, his mother who lived in England, had passed away just hours before. The lump in my throat disallowed me from further conversation and we drove home in silence. I resolved to never again involve myself in extracurricular activities at school. 
At Christmas I received my first ever cassette recorder. By then it was clear to my parents that I wanted to become an actor or radio announcer, so this was the perfect gift, and I wore it out. 
I immediately began to record character voices and short audio theatre with my new best friend John. John was Canadian born. His family had just returned from having spent the last ten years living in England. He spoke with an authentic British accent which fascinated me. We spent long hours together performing, recording and laughing. 
After the holidays, I learned that in the spring, our school would be presenting the Broadway musical ‘Bye Bye Birdie.’ That was exciting news. The soundtrack was in popular rotation in my dad’s record collection, so I was quite familiar with the play. Both the Broadway production and the movie starred the incomparable Dick Van Dyke. I worshipped him, and not just because we shared December 13th as our birthday. That was just a cool fact that made me feel good. 
I was very aware that the cast included the character of Randolph MacAfee. He was the little brother of the girl who would be kissed on national television by rockstar Conrad Birdie. The story was inspired by the global hype that resulted when Elvis Presley was drafted into the army at the height of his superstardom. The musical tells a tale in which teen heartthrob Conrad Birdie is similarly drafted. The entire event is exploited to promote a new record entitled ‘One Last Kiss’ as written by the hapless Albert Peterson, the character portrayed by Dick Van Dyke.
The excitement comes to a head when, live on the immensely popular Ed Sullivan Show, Conrad Birdie is to deliver a symbolic farewell kiss to a randomly chosen sweetheart from middle America. The recipient of the massively hyped smooch is Kim, the older sister of Randolph MacAfee, so the family goes along for the ride.   
I was a bit of a runt. I could be heard at the back of the auditorium. I had ‘some’ stage experience and I knew the play. I believed things could turn out better than ‘Slave Day.’ I talked it over with my parents. The question wasn’t could I be in the play, it was could I audition? My school marks at the time were not encouraging so it was no foregone conclusion. Perhaps they figured I wasn’t likely to get the part against a student body of fifteen hundred students. Perhaps they thought that if I was cast, it might provide some structure to my life, and I wouldn’t spend so much of my time alone in my room playing with my cassette recorder. Perhaps they concluded that having a kid in the cast would give them an excellent excuse to go see a Broadway musical for a mere four dollars per ticket. In any case, I was given the green light to audition. To my great surprise and joy, I nailed it. I would be Randolph MacAfee and, as the MacAfee family would sing together in the show, we were going to be on Ed Sullivan!
A very charismatic and talented student named Terry was the president of our student council. He was very popular across all grades. This was no surprise as his dad, ‘Patrick’ a well-known and very successful lawyer in Cornwall, had a citywide reputation as being larger than life. This was often illustrated by his penchant for full-throated singing as he negotiated the aisles of local grocery stores. 
Like everyone else in school, I knew who Terry was. He had been the most boisterous cheerleader during the football season, leading parades of hundreds of students across town to games at other schools in support of our Vikings. I also admired his intercom announcements which were always humourous as well as informative. 
His costumed skits during assemblies were hilarious and clever. As he made his way through the cafeteria or up and down the schools hallways, he would entertain everyone with his sharp wit and expert comedic timing. 
It was Terry who was cast as Harry MacAfee, the head of the MacAfee family. The character I would play, Randolph MacAfee, was described as ‘worshipping his dad.’ Thus, Terry was encouraged to let me chum around with him at school whenever appropriate and I was advised to stay as close to him as I could get away with. They wanted us to develop a genuine chemistry for the stage. To me it was unbelievable. From February through May I was going to be the sidekick of easily, the most popular guy in school: the president of the student council, a grade thirteener, and I was going to be in the play!   
I cherished the time I spent with Terry in the Student Government office located at the front of the cafeteria. With Dutch doors I was certain my peers could see me casually hanging out with the student government brain trust. Occasionally, I even gained access to the infamous and wildly decorated ‘grade thirteen commons room.’ This hallowed keep was traditionally strictly verboten to anyone from a lower grade and even to teachers. In this rarefied air, as the play approached and rehearsals intensified, I could feel that I was living some of the best days of my life…so far.
Newly constructed, our high school auditorium featured the largest seating capacity and most modern facilities in the city. The backstage area was fresh, spacious and professional. To a youngster whose memories were of the cramped spaces of ‘the hall’ and the riser in the high school basement, it was all incredibly exciting. Walking on the stage and looking out at the many seats in the house was truly magical. 
I lived for the rehearsals. I didn’t have much to say or much to sing so I wasn’t under a great deal of pressure and when not needed on stage I was often set free to gravitate from place to place. 
I observed and absorbed the energy generated by cast members and musicians in different locations around the school. I would watch, entranced, as they perfected the orchestration, the singing, the dance steps or the dialogue. The crew, and the techies building and painting the sets, adjusting lights and testing sound effects would also draw my interest. I had great respect and admiration for the teachers who were guiding the students in their activities. I tried to learn leadership from them, lest I ever be called upon to assist. Being the youngest cast member and spending so much time just watching ‘the older kids’ work, a persona of ‘the little brother’ evolved around me and most seemed to treat me that way. I felt privileged to be able to witness this frenetic dedication to purpose. 
I was not a good singer. That is still true to this day. One day a music teacher named Vincent Crooke, who was coaching the cast, did his best to coax something vaguely approaching a tune from my very limited skill set. Finally, he threw up his hands and declared “You’re tone deaf!” After a huddle with the director, it was concluded that Randolph MacAfee would sing badly on purpose as a comedic device. That I could do.      
One day a photographer appeared at rehearsal. He took some general publicity shots of the cast and ‘head shots’ of the leads. As I was included in that bunch, I posed for my first ever media ‘head shot.’ It would appear on a large poster prominently positioned in the window of the bank located at the main intersection of downtown Cornwall. 
As our three-night run drew near, it was time to open the box office and start selling tickets. Cast and crew were expected to do their part. We were each given a handful of tickets to try to sell. Tickets ranged in price from two dollars up to four dollars. I managed to sell a few but on the weekend before opening night we had to return any unsold tickets. The weather was gorgeous on the Sunday of our first dress rehearsal, so I decided to ride my bicycle the eight miles to the high school. On the way, I was challenged by the steep grade of a railroad overpass. After much effort I decided to walk my bike to the top. Taking a moment to rest, I took a quick look at the train tracks below. A refreshing breeze prompted me to remove my sweater to cool down. Before leaving home, I had tucked the unsold tickets into my shirt pocket. It seemed like a good idea at the time. As I stripped the sweater up over my head, the tickets got caught in the fabric and were propelled out into the wind. I watched helplessly as the unsold tickets fluttered like a ticker-tape parade down to the tracks.
It had been deeply impressed upon all of us that lateness for dress rehearsal was unforgiveable. Apoplectic, I dropped my bike and picked my way down through the brush and scrub of the embankment, trying to locate each ticket. I didn’t come close, but if I didn’t leave at that very moment, I could be late for the call time and that was a major sin. I decided it would be better to arrive on time and face the music over the lost tickets. My angst and panic were profound as I pumped my legs to get to the school by the call time. Yet, I didn’t want to arrive at all. I felt I had let everyone down. 
I fretted that I would have to make good on the ticket costs and that would mean upsetting my dad again as I sure didn’t have any money of my own. It was exactly the kind of thing I feared. It was why I had decided that I wasn’t going to get involved in any more school activities.                        
My panic provided the jet fuel I needed to make it to the rehearsal, which I did with time to spare. I slowly approached Mr. Barrie in the ticket office. Nervously, I stuttered the details of my clumsy mishap, then waited for the shoe to drop. 
To my immense relief he simply looked at me with a bemused smile and said, “Don’t worry about it. We’ll work something out. Away you go.” I welcomed the good fortune and beetled off to rehearsal. I never heard another word about the ticket issue.
Our production of Bye Bye Birdie entirely sold-out all three performances. I cherished visiting my good friend the audience three evenings in a row. To a boy from the countryside, it was all energy, colour, music and magic. The review in the newspaper was very effusive. All of this prompted the powers that be to announce that there would be a production again next spring. It would also be a colourful, high energy musical, perfectly suited for the verve of a teenaged cast and crew. ‘Lil Abner,’ another big Broadway hit was on its way to Cornwall.   
As much as my Bye Bye Birdie experience had been the best time of my life so far, I would never appear in another high-school musical production. A much more significant theatrical challenge and many new media experiences were mere months away.     
By The Dark of the Moon
Let’s briefly drop back to June of 1969. My grade eight class was on a day-long yellow bus, box lunch excursion to Ottawa. After a day of museum hopping, we we’re pleasantly surprised and intrigued with a late day detour to downtown and the brand new and spectacular National Arts Centre of Canada.
Our nation’s sparkling arts venue was supposed to be finished in time for the centennial celebrations of 1967. Alas, construction issues delayed that objective. It featured three main performing spaces including Southam Hall (formerly called The Opera), The Theatre, and a smaller ‘experimental’ space. 
Its mission was to present the best in Canadian performance. A broad variety of Canadian and international presentations and popular performers would be show-cased there in addition to ballet, concert symphonies and opera. Just days earlier, the NAC had been officially opened at a gala event hosted by the Prime Minister of Canada.
The building architecture was Béton brut, which translates literally to “raw concrete.” It was a popular style from the era. It represented an austere approach to design. To a bunch of gawking, pre-teens from a country village elementary school, it was fascinating, mysterious, and awesome.
Which is why it was to our absolute astonishment that after being implored to obey all signs and to be respectful to everyone we encountered, our supervisors released us to wander freely for 45 minutes. I had the feeling the teachers and chaperons wanted to nose around together as “just grown-ups.” 
At first it was bewildering. Where to go? What to do? I joined a small group, and we trekked off together to see what we could see. It seemed a massive place. The art and décor that punctuated the halls and public areas was fresh and magical. Posters and signage were colourful and fun. 
Preferring to complete my tour solo, I discreetly strayed away from my companions. First, I followed the signs to The Opera. It was vast and otherworldly to me with the atmosphere of a cathedral. I wanted to shout as loudly as I could to see if I could make it echo. I held my tongue. 
Then in The Theatre, under the watchful eyes of attendants, I was permitted take a few respectful steps through the double doors. The seats looked comfortable enough, but it was the stage that appeared most inviting to me. I imagined myself dashing down the aisle to jump up onto it. I could see myself kicking around under the warmth of the stage lights before stepping forward to tell a few jokes; maybe someday. I managed to restrain myself and ambled off to find my mates.  
I felt like I was on another planet. I can’t recall feeling a specific spiritual connection with The Theatre that day. Perhaps if I’d been less distracted by the newness and vastness of the place and had more keenly tuned into my instincts, I might have. 
* * *
By the autumn of 1970, I was a year deep into my new persona as that of a high school student. I did not submit myself for Slave Day this time. In the theatrical realm, I was still being nourished by the spiritual residue of Bye Bye Birdie. However, academically, the best I could boast from my first year was a mere four of eight possible credits. With Terry, my mentor, now off to university and with extracurricular activities suspended by my guidance counselor until my marks improved, I felt empty and unfulfilled. 
My friend John and I had become fast friends. We spent a lot of time chumming around the school corridors together. We amused each other with a perpetual game of ‘make him laugh.’ I always imagined he and I were like the comedy duo Rowan and Martin, but in the years since, I’ve realized that we were much closer to Beavis and Butthead. 
John’s 10 years of life in England eased the way to a comfortable connection with my British dad. We all shared a deep appreciation for the comedy of Monty Python, Frankie Howerd and the Two Ronnies. We laughed ourselves silly watching it all together.
In late September, news circulated that the Cornwall Little Theatre was going to hold auditions for high-school aged actors from across the city to appear in a play. The truly exciting part of that news was that the play was to be presented the following spring as part of Theatre Canada ’71 in the Theatre of the National Arts Centre in Ottawa! 
Actors would be chosen from students attending the three high schools operating in Cornwall at the time. Technically, this wasn’t a school based extracurricular activity. I noted that the auditions were to be held at another High School entirely. I decided to review the scripts that had been circulated to see if there were any rolls suitable for a veteran of The Ed Sullivan Show, or Broadway or even the basement of St. Andrew’s School.
The play was called ‘Dark of the Moon.’ It was set in the Appalachian Mountains and featured some Appalachian idiosyncrasies within the dialogue that looked like a lot of fun to say. Things like “This ain’t no natural night for a social,” and “It don’t make no never mind,” And “Best corn liquor I made this year!” Fun! The supernatural plot tells the story of a ‘witch boy’ named John, who, while taking human form, falls in love with a human girl. His desire to remain human and marry the girl leads to tragic consequences. 
Lo and behold, the play includes a character named Floyd Allen, who is the little brother of Barbara Allen, the female lead! After having played the little brother in Bye Bye Birdie just four months before, I figured I was a shoe in for the part! I would absolutely go for it. Two of my older siblings also wanted to audition, so I hoped that would make it much easier for my parents to say yes, and I was right.
I was beginning to develop an instinct about these things so I strategized that I should try to make myself noticeable as a ‘little brother.’ On the day of the audition, I found a dusty old boy scout cap in the back of a closet and popped it on my head. The cap was obviously too small. I’d never been a boy scout officially or otherwise, but I wore it anyway just to make an impression.
It wasn’t long before I concluded the tactic hadn’t helped at all. After one single opportunity to read for the part of ‘Floyd’ the directors began to send me up time and time again to read for the significant part of Preacher Haggler, or for John the Witch Boy, the actual lead role in the play. I was aware that older, more mature-looking actors with more experience, from all three city High Schools were competing for those two parts. I kept asking to read for Floyd but wasn’t given that opportunity. 
I rationalized that perhaps I had nailed it on my one turn as Floyd, and that since I could project my voice to the back of the theatre, I was now being used as a ready volunteer to perform scenes with those candidates the directors were more closely scrutinizing for the leads. In any case, after the audition I wasn’t certain how to feel. I was confident I’d had a good audition. I just hoped I would be cast as the little brother once again. My older siblings were auditioning for the roles of Barbara Allen’s parents. We were all hoping for a kind of theatrical ‘family plan.’     
     On the afternoon following the audition, the ringing of the telephone interrupted Sunday afternoon football on TV. My older sister was the first of us called to the phone. Soon, she slunk into the family room to reveal that she had been cast in the minor role of ‘Mrs. Bergen.’ She didn’t seem all that enthused as she let my brother know they now wanted to speak to him. He returned almost right away, smiling broadly, and announced that he had been successfully cast as ‘Pa Allen.’ With a jerk of his head, he let me know I was up next. A professional director by the name of Roy Higgins had been attached to the project as a consultant to Cornwall Little Theatre and had directed the auditions. It was he who was on the phone. He got straight to the point. “Pat, we’d like to give you the role of John, the Witch Boy.” 
What? I was dumbfounded. It had not occurred to me for even an instant that such a thing could be possible. Was this a mistake? All I could muster was a weak “Okay.” 
Mr. Higgins continued. “Pat, you’re going to have to work really hard. Do you think you can do that?” I could barely form my words through the rest of the conversation. I pledged to work hard and to do my very best. So, the deal was struck and one of the most pivotal telephone conversations of my early life came to an end. In a bit of a daze, I shuffled slowly into the family room to share the news. My sibling ‘fellow cast members’ and my parents were as baffled as I was. 
My brother Chris, who had owned the biggest news of the day for a mere five minutes, was convinced I was pulling their legs. I was just fourteen years old and had auditioned against experienced student actors, some as old as eighteen, from all three High Schools. 
How could I have won what was one of the most plum parts in the history of Cornwall amateur theatre? What witchcraft was this? How could wee ‘Paddy’ be the one to perform that role on the stage of The Theatre at the National Arts Centre of Canada? 
Believe me, I wondered that myself. I was thankful. I was proud. I was terrified. I had no idea how much this was going to change my life.
The broad strokes were that we would present the play for three nights in January of 1971 to raise money to finance our spring performance at the NAC. We would stage the play for another three nights in the late spring, to ready ourselves for the big performance which would be on May 19th, 1971.
The play is set in two contrasting locales. One is an isolated Appalachian Mountain community made up of typical bible-thumping townsfolk. The other is a supernatural mountain realm led by a ‘conjur man’ and ‘conjur woman’ who were served by a bevy of exotic female witches. For some reason, John, the witch boy, has some standing in the supernatural realm and so, at least temporarily, can cross back and forth from one world to the other. Essentially, there were two separate casts within the full roster of characters. 
The primary directors of the play were high school teachers. Each had the responsibility of one of the realms. My unique part placed me within both and so from the very beginning my rehearsal schedule was heavy. I thrived on that. There was nothing I loved more than to feel the space of the stage, the warmth of the spotlights and to sense the presence of those watching as we fine-tuned our scenes. 
The appearance of the Beatles in 1963 had sparked within me a deep fascination toward Top 30 radio and announcing. I admired the slick communication skills of the glib ‘deejays.’ I envied their power to play the hits of the day in the order they wanted. I snickered at their irreverent comments and laughed at their jokes. I wanted to be just like them. I wanted to sound great. I wanted to be funny.
Alas, and often at the most inappropriate times during rehearsal, I succumbed to the temptation to drop a punchline or launch a wise crack. This drove the directors to distraction, and I was taken to task time and time again. Eventually, I learned how focus and concentration are essential to an actor. I also recognized the respect other cast members deserved as they worked to get their performances where they wanted them to be. 
As the January performances approached, I once again found photos of myself in the newspaper. There was a lot of interest in a play that would feature students cast from all three high schools for a production at the NAC. Meanwhile, I was becoming a great deal more popular with students from all grades in all three high schools. I couldn’t help but notice that girls in the cast and others in hallways of my school were starting to notice me back, and to return my smiles.
When I was thirteen, in a hayloft of a small barn in my own back yard, I experienced my first and only kiss prior to my being cast in Dark of the Moon. The kiss was with a friendly, older girl named Sandra who lived up the road. It had been nothing more than a quick peck with lips tightly closed. Neither skillful nor romantic. 
There is a scene in Dark of the Moon where John and Barbara Allen engage in a very passionate kiss. On the day of the first rehearsal of that scene I was extremely nervous. It happened that the consultant, Roy Higgins, was present at the rehearsal. This added to the tension. The character of Barbara Allen was played by a very pretty, sixteen-year-old girl named Ellen. When we reached the point in the script where the kiss was called for, I didn’t know what to do. I looked at the directors hoping for rescue. Mr. Higgins simply said “Go ahead. Kiss her.” I glanced sideways at Ellen with panic in my eyes. Suddenly, the directors recognized my utter lack of experience and laughed boisterously together saying, “He’s never kissed a girl before. It’s so cute!” 
Ellen sensitively took my hand and led me out into a hallway alcove. There I very quickly and enthusiastically learned the joy of romantic kissing. It’s not that difficult. From that moment forward I resolved to become very good at it. Afterall, we should develop a genuine chemistry for the stage. Fortunately for me, many of the younger girls in the cast would watch us rehearse our scenes from the audience. Soon, they made themselves available to me for practice sessions backstage. It was heady stuff for a shy kid from the countryside. Some of the cutest girls from the three high schools were lining up to take turns ‘practicing’ with me. I very much appreciated their input. Eventually, I noticed Kathy, one of the townsfolk. She attended my school, and she was about my age. She wouldn’t stand in line for the silly ‘kissing lessons’ and at first, she seemed to be a bit contemptuous of me. This intrigued me and not surprisingly, she was the one I fell for. 
Alas, I was not yet fifteen years old. I didn’t have a job, so I had no cash to take a girl out on a date. As I lived 8 miles out into the countryside, it wasn’t easy to get to town. I was still more than a year away from eligibility for a driver’s license. I had to face the fact that I really didn’t have anything to offer a girl as a boyfriend, beyond my status as the lead role in the play and being a notoriously good kisser. Alas, I also knew that wasn’t nearly enough. 
As much as the attention I was getting from girls inside and outside of the play was a pleasant distraction, I realized it was still a distraction. Everything that had been happening to me had elevated my ego to new heights, taking with it my level of confidence. I resolved to commit to my sixty fellow cast members and our army of technical people and volunteers. As I began to concentrate on the approaching performances, I was unaware that the seeds of a professional attitude toward my work had begun to germinate.       
The first run of the play was well received, and the reviews were very positive. After a raucous cast party, we broke camp to work on our academics for a while. We looked forward to getting together again in late March to begin rehearsals anew. 
Able to concentrate on school life for a while and without the burden of rehearsals, I had time to enjoy the social rewards of having a high profile within the student body. I was readily recognized in the hallways and was welcomed at most any table in the cafeteria. Thinking back to Terry, my ‘Dad’ from Bye Bye Birdie, I was beginning to feel a lot like “my father’s son.” 
I was free for school dances, movies, and parties. I could hang out with John and best of all, I had a chance to spend some time with Kathy. She was still not ready to make any kind of ‘going steady’ commitment. I was aware that she had a thing for a fellow from grade eleven who had been paying attention to her and he wasn’t in theatre. Beyond simply trying to be the more attractive alternative, it seemed impossible to compete with a guy from the higher grades. So rather than exploit my popularity with girls from all three schools, I did my best to prove my singular interest in her.
While all of this was going on a decision was made to have my tonsils removed in February. This would ensure plenty of recovery time before the spring resurrection of the play. 
The doctor who performed the tonsillectomy was from Romania, the home of count Dracula. Just prior to the anesthesia being applied he looked down at me and said in an authentic Bela Lugosi voice “You have a beautiful throat.” When I came to, I certainly had a sore throat. I might have checked for a bite mark.
Just after the surgery Kathy surprised me with a visit to my hospital room. I was thrilled to see her. I took it as a very good sign. Alas, I was somewhat allergic to the anesthesia and as I leaned over in my bed to greet her, I projectile vomited all over her coat. She quickly left the room and never returned. Although we were both in the cast and attended the same school, it would be a long time before we spoke again. When we did, it was magic.
Amusingly, while still in the hospital and unable to utter a sound, my boyhood hockey idol, Jean Beliveau, scored a hat-trick during a game I watched on TV in my room. His third goal was the five-hundredth of his career. The crowd was ecstatic, the announcers were boisterous and effusive, but I couldn’t let out the beginnings of a cheer. I silently learned to let go of disappointment for things that I couldn’t control.           
There were a few changes when we all assembled to begin rehearsals for phase two of our theatrical journey to the NAC. The Conjur Man had been recast, as had a few of the townsfolk and witches. 
The second performances of the play were successful once again and we had all reached the maximum level of excitement as May 19th arrived. On that morning our ensemble travelled to Ottawa on buses. Arrangements had been made for us to spend the night at the residences of The University of Ottawa which are within easy walking distance to the National Arts Centre. 
We had been given complimentary tickets to an afternoon performance of black-light music and movement in The Theatre. It would be a good way to get a feel for the very venue we would perform at that evening. A couple of witches who attended other high schools asked me if I would like to join them for lunch before taking in the matinee. I accepted and we went to a pleasant restaurant called the Mayflower which was located near the NAC. 
After lunch as I ventured back toward the men’s room, I noticed that someone had inadvertently left some small change on their table. I didn’t have much cash myself, so I was thrilled with my find. “Hey!” I said excitedly to my fellow witches, “someone left some money on this table.” 
The girls looked at each other and laughed. I knew I could amuse, but I wasn’t sure why that was funny. Then I noticed that there was money left on other tables as well. “There’s even more money here…and here!” I exclaimed as I scooped it up. Just then Mr. Barry, a teacher from CCVS, the downtown High School, stuck his nose into the restaurant looking for stray cast members. I ran to him, eager to relate the strange story of money being left on all these tables. He didn’t laugh or ridicule me. He simply explained the concept of what a ‘tip’ was and then took my windfall and delivered it to a nearby waitress. Ever since, I’ve believed that people who work hard need to be appropriately compensated. A few heartfelt words of thanks go a long way too! 
Not long before our call time, I was led to a location outside of the NAC on the banks of the Rideau Canal. There, a television crew from the CBC was setting up for an interview. The directors of the play, me, Ellen, and a couple of the older members of the cast were standing by. There was to be a one-hour CBC TV special broadcast about Theatre Canada’71 and we were going to be interviewed by veteran CBC personality Bill Walker who was there in the flesh. He spent a few moments with each of us, asking general type questions and then we were wrapped. Several weeks later, when the special came to the airwaves I learned the meaning of the industry phrase, “left on the cutting room floor” as my comments had been reduced to one very quick response. Still, I could now add CBC documentary interview subject to my media resume if I cared too. I never have.     
The excitement accelerated as the day stretched on. The afternoon black-light presentation had been spectacular, all spacey lights and weird music within a format I’d never seen before. It ignited a great buzz amongst our cast. We began to feel the electricity sparking up. We had become a collective of human Tesla coils crackling with teen-aged energy. 
Backstage in The Theatre, we were shepherded here and there by unionized professionals of the NAC. They gave us all kinds of serious and important sounding instructions. This was going to be a very slick production because that’s what they do. There were professional costumers, make-up artists, technical crew, stage managers and even photographers. The opening scene required my hair to be heavily teased to match the other witches. For my ‘witch-boy’ scenes I wore little more than a pair of cut-off Levi’s. Thus, my make-up requirements were almost head to toe. In Cornwall the witches, each with make-up and a sponge, had always been enlisted to surround me and rapidly apply my body make-up. I’d look forward to that. Not so at the NAC where a professional make-up pit crew had me slathered up in jig time. 
Shortly before the doors were opened to the audience, selected cast members were led to the set for photos. Ellen and I were posed peering dreamily into each other’s eyes. Later, with the tease of my hair not quite finished I was hurried back to the stage for some action shots with the witches. The following year Theatre Canada’72 would be held in Saskatchewan. The national poster promoting the event featured a grid of 9 photos from the previous year. Included among those 9 photos were both a romantic close-up of Ellen and I and a group photo of me with the witches. Once again, another addition could be made to my media resume. Although, I’m still not quite sure what to call it. Poster model?            
For the most part, our presentation went off without a hitch. I heard later that a piece of prop furniture from a townsfolk scene had fallen apart, but apparently “It didn’t make no never mind.” The audience clapped in time to the old-time religion songs, laughed where they were supposed to, and cried when tears were appropriate. It was one of the most exhilarating performance moments of my life. Afterward our curtain call was welcomed with what was described as the first standing ovation in the history of the Theatre Canada festivals. With an audience largely made up of parents of the cast, I would certainly expect so. No doubt, it was well-deserved for a spirited presentation.
Following the performance there was a gala reception in the foyer of the NAC. I was led there wearing the witch boy costume in which I had just finished the play. In addition to the jean shorts I was able to throw on a loose-fitting raggedy vest. There was food, drinks, and loud conversation. Many people were crowding around me, trying to squeeze through to say kind things or just smile and shake my hand. 
A man with a beautiful French accent reached me and grabbed my hand. He introduced himself as Jacques Zouvi. He spoke very effusively about my performance and in particular my physicality. He said he was the director of the Mount Orford Theatre School and that he wished to offer me a scholarship for their summer session. As it turns out the scholarship offer was for real, however my parents would not let me accept it. They said it was because I didn’t speak French and the school was in Quebec. The scholarship was given instead to my friend Richard who had joined the second cast as the new Conjur Man. Ironically, he told me afterword that he had hardly spoken French the entire time he attended. 
Suddenly the crowd at the gala parted and I was introduced to a distinguished looking gentleman who was identified as the president of Theatre Canada. He told me that he simply wanted to shake my hand. He added that he suspected he wouldn’t be able to get close to me in the future considering the kind of career I was likely to have. It was very kind of him to suggest that. Seconds after that conversation a young lady of about twenty expressed great excitement to meet me, but then suddenly dropped to the floor in an epileptic seizure. My handler decided that ‘enough was enough’ and scurried me away from the party and back to the dressing rooms. 
Once showered and back in street clothes, I joined the cast and crew for the many hugs and tears being shared all round. Feeling somewhat melancholy, I stepped into an empty corridor where I came face to face with Kathy, my favorite townsfolk with whom I had not spoken since her hospital visit in February. Eager to make small talk, I asked her if she had heard of anything going on anywhere. She had not. Looking into her eyes at that moment I couldn’t remember if I had made any plans either. I asked her if she might like to go for a walk to unwind. She said she would. We found our way through the basement maze of The NAC and out into a balmy spring evening in downtown Ottawa.
For the next few hours, we strolled together through the Byward Market, up to Parliament Hill, down to Sparks Street and along the Rideau Canal where we sat, held hands, and chatted. No doubt I did most of the talking. As the first hint of new light appeared in the east, we decided we should try to get some sleep before the bus ride home the next day. I walked her to her residence where I said a brief but poignant goodbye at the door. There was no kiss for the romantic kisser. I can’t recall ever having spoken to her again. 
I rode the bus home with an older girl, one of the witches, named Fran. During the play days she and I had been close, with some romantic moments. On the way to Cornwall, we talked deeply about why it would never work out for us. She was eighteen years old, and I was fifteen. She fretted that when I was alone with her, I would behave like any eighteen-year-old, but when we were with my friends, in her words, “I would act like a clown.” She couldn’t understand why. I understood what she was saying. The arithmetic didn’t add up for us. Once off the bus in Cornwall, we parted with a simple hug. I don’t believe I ever spoke to her again either.
In retrospect, these pensive encounters with Kathy of the townsfolk and Fran of the witches, may have been a symbolic winding down of my Dark of the Moon experience. No tears. No hurt. No regret. The adventure is over and it’s time to move on and find out what happens next.
Worried About My Rep
After a long summer of carefree fun, I faced my third year of high school with a troubling shortage of credits. I would have to buckle down and take things seriously. Although such things were quantified somewhat differently at this level, I was aware that if I were still in my elementary school days I’d qualify for the description ‘held back.’ This September the school had freshly transitioned into a semester system. It would require longer class times and more focus. However, it would also provide lengthier study periods and lunch breaks. With substantial added minutes to each time block, participants could also sink their teeth more deeply into extracurricular activities. 
A new high school performance club was to be established. It was called ‘The Rep Company.’ Every six weeks, three evenings of freshly prepared skits, dance and ‘audience suggested’ improv would be presented to a ticket buying public. Our High School lecture theatre could easily be re-purposed for each show and would provide the perfect, intimate venue. In a black-lit environment, audiences that were largely made up of students and teachers, would lounge on cushions on the carpeted multi-tiered floor, listening to great music until showtime. It was very ‘seventies.’ 
I can’t be sure if it was my theatrical reputation following the performance at the NAC or simply that my prior banishment from extracurricular activities had concluded, but somehow, despite my grades, I was able to audition for and was accepted as a member. Much to our mutual joy, my friend John was also named to the first cast. 
Although the supervising teacher, an affable renaissance man by the name of Doug Hill, would provide some scripted material, we were encouraged to write and perform content of our own creation. It was the perfect circumstance for John and me to safely indulge in our goofy adolescent irreverence. We welcomed the opportunity to work with all other members of the cast in various configurations. On those occasions when we would perform material that we developed and performed together as a duo, we would prefer to be introduced as ‘Snerd and Freen, The Comedy Machine.” 
The Rep Company seemed an excellent place to reside until the next big play came along.  
Our rehearsals were largely improv based. The best results were noted, developed, and then formalized into prepared skits. The shows were loose, free form and a rollicking good time was had by all.
Most of the time.
In the early seventies we were still living within the comedic residue of a hugely successful comedy show from America called ‘Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-in.’ 
It was a rapid paced series of sketches and sight gags done within a ‘pop culture’ package. A-list celebrities appeared to deliver punchlines, including even Richard Nixon, the sitting President of the United States.  Such comedy superstars as Lily Tomlin, Goldie Hawn and Arte Johnson gained fame as part of the regular cast. I particularly enjoyed the poetry of Henry Gibson. He would walk into the spotlight and deliver some zany little verse in the voice of an innocent.
The Rep Company incorporated what we called ‘Blackouts’ into our show. They were brief vignettes lasting up to a minute. The lights would rise and one or two of us would perform a joke, sight gag or poem. They were useful to maintain audience attention during the setup of the next sketch.
On one occasion I decided to incorporate an ‘homage’ to Henry Gibson into the Blackouts. I had written two brief verses very close to the style he used. They seemed simple and sweet, but they featured surprising, and in my opinion, funny but not so innocent punchlines. Here they are…
The Dandelion
In the middle of the field,
In the middle of the grass,
I slipped on a dandelion,
And fell on my ass!

The Fawn
A brown little fawn, after a silent birth,
First it feels a hunger, and then it feels a thirst.
It finds it’s mothers udder, and then it starts to suck,
But the udder is empty. Just its goddam luck!  

On an opening night, I performed these poems a la Henry Gibson. My performance choice was reported to our high school principal, and the very next morning I found myself standing in front of his desk. There, inexplicably, I was given a good tongue lashing by an English teacher who had witnessed the scandal. She accused me of having compromised school standards for no other reason than the desire to shock. She was probably right about that. I was a teen-age boy who had become accustomed to attention. When the teacher finished raking me over the coals, the principal made it clear that should anything like this happen again, I would no longer be welcome to participate in any extracurricular presentations on school property.

In my defense I argued that such restrictions would inhibit my creativity. I was assured that creativity need not be shocking or controversial and the truly talented rise above such crutches. It was a practical introduction to the power of censorship in the media. I learned that the most comfortable form of censorship is self-censorship because, if done skillfully, it permits you to maintain your course while directing your fate.
       
Soon after that tempest in a teapot, my face made it into the newspaper once again. This time as part of a local interest story about our Rep Company. It was getting to be old hat. A brand-new media experience presented itself when we were invited to perform improv in the studio of our local cable TV company. 
In Canada, cable TV providers must produce a stipulated number of hours of locally produced community programming as part of their licensing conditions. In the earliest days, for many such companies who up until then had been exclusively technology-based, this was an unwelcome but necessary evil. They would part with as little money for it as they could get away with. As newcomers to the broadcast medium, they provided only the most basic equipment and the most minimal studio space required to fulfill their commitment. It was also rare that anyone resembling a broadcast professional would be employed to run that side of things.
It was under these circumstances that we were invited to appear. Thus, we arrived to perform improv in the most spartan conditions possible. There didn’t seem to be any recognizable context for the show on which we were to appear, if indeed it was a show. It didn’t have a name or any graphics package or any of that. It was very primitive community programming. In a tiny room, about the size of a typical apartment-sized third bedroom, a ‘volunteer’ show-host asked us some perfunctory questions about our company. Soon we were invited to take the floor and demonstrate our ‘improv’ skills.
We quickly discovered that there was no audience on hand to contribute suggestions. We hadn’t thought of that. No problem, the host would do it, but with only one microphone of dubious quality, on a stand in the centre of the room, it was highly unlikely anyone could hear us well anyway. 
Adding to that, our troupe always wore identical performance attire made up of a turtleneck shirt, slacks, and stage slippers all in black. Costume pieces of any colour and colourful props could then be added as required for skits and improvs. It was very theatrical but didn’t much work under these conditions. 
At the time, local community broadcasting was exclusively in black and white. This inevitably resulted in ‘contrast’ problems for viewers all over the city, although realistically, it was unlikely that there were very many viewers. 
Finally, we discovered that with no ‘live’ feedback, there was no way to know how well we were doing. We had no audience signals to direct us toward laughter and success. We felt like everything we said and did, bombed. It didn’t feel very good. I was certain of that. Oh well, perhaps what we did might have some value as an obscure avant-garde art film. Uh…. nope.    
Thankfully, my home in the countryside was beyond reach of this new thing called cable TV. My family had been spared the awkwardness of dutifully enduring the painful programming. I found myself wishing for this first live television performance of mine to be ‘left on the cutting room floor.’ I was relieved to learn later that it was entirely live and there was no video evidence. Whew!
Up to that point in my media career, television had not been very good to me. Eventually, I would get my chance to try to make cable television better. Although, I’d have to wait a while longer for that.           
South Pacific Romance
“Once you have found her, never let her go.” 
                                                            (Some Enchanted Evening - Oscar Hammerstein II)

In April of 1972, production of the third consecutive spring musical was in full swing. Rep Company activities had been set aside so members could join the cast of our high school’s version of ‘South Pacific.’ It had been a smash hit on Broadway two decades before and we were going to do our best to resurrect that success in our hometown.
The musical is based on a book called ‘Tales of the South Pacific’ which won a Pulitzer Prize for its author James A. Michener. The music and lyrics were by the famed duo of Richard Rogers (music) and Oscar Hammerstein II (lyrics.) The story takes place on an island in the South Pacific at the tail end of the Second World War. An American nurse falls for a middle-aged expat plantation owner from France. Meanwhile an American lieutenant becomes enthralled with a young native woman.    
Its large cast of sailors and nurses along with its familiar songs and colourful staging made it a popular choice for college and high school productions. My lack of singing talent excluded me from any of the lead roles. Besides, I’d certainly had my share of opportunities in the previous two years. I was content to be included amongst the several SeaBees. They were the Construction Battalion of sailors on the island. They matched the nurses in number, which was good planning for the boisterous dance scenes.
After the heavy lifting of Dark of the Moon, I was looking forward to being in a production for which my time commitment and onstage responsibilities were diminished. I was sixteen years old, single, and surrounded by a cast of girls who all went to my school. This was going to be fun.   
My older brother, Chris, who was in the Rep Company and had portrayed Pa Allen in Dark of the Moon, had been cast in the comical role of Luther Billis. The phrase ‘type casting’ would not have been inappropriate. A cigar chomping slickster, Billis had the useful ability to manipulate people and circumstances to get what he needed. 
Chris had developed a bad habit of not being able to haul himself out of bed and so was often late for school and for rehearsals. One time he failed to show altogether. On that day, Mr. Doug Hill, our Rep Company supervisor, now directing his third consecutive Broadway production in three years, asked me to cover Chris’s part for the afternoon, which I did. 
I had some ideas of my own as to how Billis should be played, so for the fun of it, I threw all of them into my performance. Afterward, to my shock, Mr. Hill flat out offered me the part saying, “It’s yours if you want it.” It had certainly been fun doing it, but I knew that if I accepted, it would cause enormous conflict within my family. On the drive home from the rehearsal, I told my dad about the offer and my reasons for not having accepted it. He said nothing but quietly nodded. I never mentioned it to anyone else. I chose to remain a SeaBee. It turned out to be a life-changing decision.
On the Saturday afternoon following my one-off performance as Luther Billis, it was time to block a group scene in which the SeaBees and nurses enter from stage left and stroll hand in hand to ‘the Dance.’ For the first couple of walk-throughs, I was paired with a girl named Patty. She was a bit of a goof ball. I liked her a lot, but only as a friend. I heard the director shout out that on this next entrance, couples would be recorded and locked-in for the remainder of the play. On cue, I gingerly stepped in front of a handsome athlete named Ken to intercept the hand of a very attractive girl named Sharon. Smirking, and fully expecting a mild scolding from the director, I strode proudly out onto the stage, hand in hand with her. To my delight we were officially recorded as a couple. Ken wasn’t happy about it. Patty was.       
A fellow Rep Company member and good friend named Denise was the assistant director of the play. I knew that it was common practice at each rehearsal for Denise to place a phone call from the ticket booth to check-in with any late or absent actors. I had developed a secret crush on a sweetheart of a girl named Shannon. With her long brown hair and big brown eyes, she was properly cast as an islander. She was absent from the rehearsal that evening.    
I wasn’t needed on stage for a while, so I hatched a bit of a plan. I offered to help Denise by calling the list of absentee performers on her behalf. I figured calling Shannon on theatre business might be a great way to break the ice. At the very least, I’d get her phone number. Sure enough, Denise was swamped and only too happy to turn the calls over to me. I dashed off with the list in my hot little hand. 
In the ticket office along with a dial phone, there were several student volunteers from the French Drama club. Also, my English teacher, Karen Mary Smith, was there. She was not a popular teacher. She was very judgmental and possessed a sharp, holier than thou attitude. She often wore micro-mini skirts which may have contributed to her questionable reputation. I knew of no one who respected her, and we didn’t get on well in class. 
I leaned over the Dutch door and proclaimed, “I need to use the phone to call the absent actors.” Her response was all too predictable, “Not until you say please.” That comment assaulted my ego in exactly the wrong way. As I reached for the phone I shot back, “English class ended three hours ago.” She was having none of it. “No Patrick. You may not use the phone until you say please!” 
This was the theatre, not the classroom. This was my bailiwick. I wasn’t going to give her the pleasure of my submission. I rolled my eyes heavily saying “Well, shove it then.” I took the list back to Denise and reported to her that I had been denied access to the phone.
I then walked up the stage left stairs and filtered through the curtains to the backstage area. There, sobbing in the shadows, was Sharon. She was the stunning beauty whose hand I had the great honour to hold as the Seabees and nurses crossed the stage to go to the dance. I called upon my most sensitive voice to ask her what the trouble was. Sadly, she was suffering from some foot pain resulting from a case of plantar fasciitis.  I didn’t know what that was, so I began to pour on mega-doses of charm and humour. It worked well. I managed to get some smiles and even chuckles from her. Alas, the moment was interrupted by Denise who had come to tell me that my presence was required by the vice-principal in the lecture theatre which was located across the hall from the ticket booth. 
The vice-principal was a man named Gilles Métivier. He was also the producer of the play. It was not unusual for me to be summoned to meet with play executives so, I bid Sharon adieu and off I went. I entered the lecture theatre to find Doug Hill and Karen Mary Smith standing expectantly along with Mr. Métivier. In his role of vice-principal, Mr. Métivier began the conversation in a quiet, concerned voice, “Patrick, Miss Smith tells us that you told her to… uh… to shove the telephone up her ass.”      
 Well, I certainly had not done that. I emphatically denied it. Differing descriptions of the conversation in question ensued back and forth between Smith and me. I held to the truth, insistent that all I had said was “Well, shove it then.” In my mind, that had been tantamount to saying, forget it or never mind. I understood how even that comment could be taken as disrespectful, and to a certain degree it was, but this untruthful teacher had accelerated the confrontation into a more graphic and false accusation against me. It was specifically from that blatant lie that I resolved to defend myself.    
Eventually, Smith brought in one of the French Drama Club volunteers who, inexplicably, backed up her inaccurate version of the confrontation. The bottom line became that unless I apologized to my accuser, I was out of the play. To me an apology was out of the question. I would not apologize for something I didn’t do. I was sent home to think it over. I could make my apology before classes the next day.     
At home I reported the events to my parents. Thankfully, they knew that I never would have said what I was accused of, and that I would never agree to apologize for something of which I was innocent. I was encouraged by their support. I returned to school the next day with a steadfast resolve. In the principal’s office I held my ground. They held theirs. I was officially removed from the cast. 
Details of the controversy travelled swiftly through the halls of the school. It was the tale of a dramatic battle between an unpopular teacher and a popular student. Amongst the cast it was proposed that no one should agree to take my place. Soon, there were rumblings of a walkout by the student body in protest of the unjust treatment toward me. In the early seventies, student walkouts were all the rage. 
This had grown far more serious than the Rep Company poetry incident. No doubt damning evidence of my word choices during that controversy would have been prominently noted within my permanent record and would not help my case. Realizing that they had to get a handle on the situation they called me back to the principal’s office to offer an ultimatum. I was to apologize immediately or face suspension and isolation until I did. This left me with only one true option.     
Later, on the day of my suspension, my friend John hitchhiked out to the farm to report to me that after classes, the principal had also called him into the office. There he had been instructed not to get in touch with me in any way until the situation was resolved. Those same instructions were delivered to the entire student body. John described how he just laughed at them in response and walked straight out of the school in my direction. I hope everyone has had a truly loyal friend like John, sometime in their life.  
At home, although my parents were clearly concerned about the conflict, I received nothing but their support. None-the-less, some of my siblings seemed pleased to see me knocked down a peg or two. Chris was entirely convinced I must be guilty and so badgered me to just apologize and get it over with. He was wrong and I wouldn’t.
After several days, I was still insistent that I would never apologize. At the urging of the school administration, my parents arranged for me to speak with a psychiatrist. I enjoyed the conversation. The doctor was a jolly fellow who laughed easily at my quips and wisecracks. He listened intently as “in my own words” I explained the events that had delivered me to his office. At the end of the session, I cheekily asked him, “So, Doc, am I crazy?” He looked at me with a broad smile. With a chuckle he replied, “No. The people who sent you to me are the crazy ones.” 
Beautiful.
My mother was into handicrafts. During my protest period she and a bunch of her friends from the ‘Stormont Weavers Guild’ held an outdoor ‘dye-in’ at our place. The ladies had gathered colourful local wildflowers to create natural dyes with which they would manufacture tie-dyed T-shirts. It was a perfect spring day filled with sunshine, laughter and lots of tea and baked goodies. I pitched in by managing the fire, fetching pots filled with water from the hand pump and hanging dozens of shirts to dry. 
The day gave me great peace. Since each of the ladies had made several designs, I was gifted with about a dozen very trendy t-shirts. Afterward, my mother and I shared a giggle when I referred to them as my ‘back to school’ wardrobe. 
The opening night of South Pacific was now just a week away. I received word that there was to be a cast party Saturday night at Denise’s house and of course, I should be there. There would be no parents. Neither were teachers welcome. It would be my first contact with my friends in over two weeks. I was intensely curious as to whether Shannon would be there and if she was still romantically unencumbered.  
In the early seventies, drugs and alcohol were familiar vices even to those of us in our early teens. Imbibing was often more of a rite of passage than a habit. On the day of the party, I discreetly infiltrated my parents liquor cabinet from which I transferred several ounces of rye into an old medicine bottle. That, along with a tab of purple microdot acid, would provide my stimulation for that evening.  
I was very excited to see everyone and so I bounded up the steps to the front door of Denise’s house. After hugging a few friends on the stoop, I entered. There was a long narrow hallway. Walking alone toward me was Sharon, the stunner with the sore foot. I hadn’t seen her since I was called away to the lecture theatre on the evening of her distress. Even before that we had barely ever spoken. I’d held her hand to walk across the stage with her in rehearsal perhaps four times. However, in that moment, she walked directly to me, and we fell into each other’s arms. I looked into her mesmerizing eyes and whispered, “I’ve missed you.” She echoed my sentiments saying, “I’ve missed you too.” Then she just continued out and I continued in. After the events of the previous couple of weeks, it was welcoming, whimsical, and wonderful, …but…Shannon!
I worked my way through a deep crowd of cast and crew who all seemed happy to see me. I kept my comments short. My objective was to see if Shannon was in the house, and she was! She was sitting on a couch looking very sweet and very content. Next to her, with his arm possessively around her, was Ken. It was the very guy I had stepped in front of to steal Sharon’s hand at the rehearsal and who I had learned had not hesitated to accept my role in the musical. What do they say about karma? 
Instinctively, I began to scan the faces of the other party goers to see if there were any cute, single girls who might be looking for some company, even if just for the evening. I mingled, sipped my drink, shared a toke or too and waited for the effects of the microdot to kick in. I began to feel increasing disappointment that my stubbornness about the school conflict had probably cost me any chance with Shannon. My interest in the party was sinking fast.
Some Enchanted Evening
Perhaps the most memorable song from South Pacific is the romantic ballad called ‘Some Enchanted Evening.’ Oscar Hammerstein II wrote… “Some enchanted evening, you may see a stranger, You may see a stranger across a crowded room. And somehow you know, you'll know even then, that somewhere you'll see her again…”

I found myself lingering in the kitchen. It was filled with partiers chatting and kibitzing. The air was filled with a variety of different kinds of smoke. Loud music pounded through the walls from the den. Suddenly, I saw her. There, across the crowded room, leaning quietly against a wall, was Sharon. I was aware that Sharon had a boyfriend named TJ who went to another High School. He was the fine, upstanding son of a local radio commentator who at the time, was looking very much like the next mayor of Cornwall. I was also aware that Sharon had very strict parents. With all humility, I was aware that guys like me rarely had a chance with a girl of her calibre, but I was slightly drunk with the prospect of a psychedelic texture to my evening. Sharon’s boyfriend was nowhere to be seen and she was the absolute image of loveliness.

I quickly worked my way through the crowd toward her. I felt slightly panicked. I feared some other guy might step in front of me. Choosing my words carefully to clarify her status, I asked, “TJ is your man, isn’t he?” She slowly looked me up and down with the most incredible pair of eyes I had ever seen. “One of them.” She said slyly. No other words were spoken just then, or needed to be. I simply took her hand. This time it was for real. Then we went for a walk in the night air and began to chat.   
   
I learned that in a couple of weeks she would turn sixteen. Her parents, particularly her dad, carefully dictated her social life. She explained that her parents had given her permission to attend both this party and the closing night cast party; however, she was given the choice to bring TJ to only one party or the other. She opted to reserve TJ for the cast party following the play. She reasoned that it was the more significant of the two. Besides, this was a ‘no adults party’ and she and her pal Louise were going to drink some gin together. This she had already done. It was her first time, which is why I found myself holding her up a lot and helping her deal with the more troublesome after-effects.   
At the end of the party, her older brother, who was a musician in the orchestra, clamped her onto the back of his motorcycle. I watched as she disappeared into the night. From that moment forward I had no interest in any of the other girls at the party. 
I rounded up my brother and a couple of our friends for the hitch-hike home. As we walked the final two miles down the dark dirt road, the microdot filled my brain with psychedelic images of Sharon’s unforgettable smile. By the time I got home, I was seriously in love.
At my High School on Monday morning, I intercepted Miss Karen Mary Smith at the doorway to her classroom. In the most terse, clipped voice I could muster I spit out the one word, “Sorry.” I didn’t mean it. 
She looked at me with a snide and victorious expression and replied, “Well, all right then.” Before she could say anything else, I turned on my heel and escaped. I dashed to the main office to report to the principal that I had apologized. Eager to close the file, they instantly re-instated me and sent me back to class.
Being with Sharon was the only motivation I could ever have to compromise my resolve. My strategy was that if I was going to step in front of TJ, I had best exploit the home field advantage. That noon hour, I visited Sharon in the cafeteria. She was sober and thus shy and nervous. I was relieved that she seemed happy to see me.
I would seek her out in the school corridors, so that we could walk and talk together every chance we could get. She made no effort to deflect me, and I felt no rejection. That week, I made sure I went to the play every night. I was still bitter about how my own participation had ended, but none of that seemed important now. During the intermissions, like forbidden lovers, Sharon and I would visit through a crack in the divider door until it was time for me to return to my seat and her to the play. 
Still, the specter of TJ remained. Her behaviour with me so far would never suggest that we were anything more than just good friends. I understood that the way it was, might be all it could ever be. I worried that her time with TJ at the official cast party would end what had become very magical between us. Finally, the Saturday night closing performance arrived. 
After the final curtain calls, as I was leaving the school, I was intercepted by Sharon’s best friend Shelley. She attended the same school as TJ. She told me that Sharon was crying. I asked her why. She reported that Sharon had ‘officially broken up’ with TJ. I was startled. Unsure of how to react I asked, “Well, if it upsets her so much that she’s crying, why did she break up with him?” Shelley explained, “She’s crying because she thinks you’re not going to take her to the cast party!” Of course, I would go with her! I dashed off, found her, held her close for a few moments and to the cast party we went.  
A couple of days later word filtered back to us that, after she had broken up with him, TJ had gotten very drunk, loaded his rifle and intended to hunt me down. If not for the restraint provided by a couple of his close friends, things could have turned out more like an early sixties, top forty radio tearjerker, than a classic Broadway romance. 
A week after the play closed, Sharon’s sweet sixteen birthday party was held in the basement of the church. She had undergone surgery to repair her foot issues days before, so she was doing her best to dance using crutches. TJ was at the party and remained well-behaved. At least until he confronted me in the parking lot. 
A group of onlookers from the nearby teen drop-in centre encircled us. TJ lamented that it really hurt him to lose Sharon. He pointed out that she “has a body that just won’t quit.” He asked me if I was afraid of him. Well, I knew he owned a gun. Of course, I was afraid of him, and I didn’t mind saying so. With that he wrapped things up with the promise that if I ever hurt Sharon in any way, he would find me and kill me.  
In that moment I knew I had nothing to fear. No one would ever want to hurt this girl, especially me.
For the next several days Sharon and I saw each other whenever we could. Her parents insisted she not date one guy exclusively. They strongly encouraged her to date different guys, but this approach was of no interest to her. It didn’t help that I now had a reputation as a troubled youth. I had been suspended from school for two weeks. I had long hair. I wore grunge clothes long before it was fashionable. Girls like Sharon were often mesmerized by bad boys. Her parents knew this. Any parent has the right to be worried, but I knew her parents didn’t have to be. I knew that I loved her.  
One year earlier, on May 19th, 1971, l had performed the lead role in a play on the Theatre stage at the National Arts Centre. It had been the most important day of my life up until then. Exactly one year to the day later, on May 19th, 1972, I slipped an invisible ring onto Sharon’s finger with the pledge, “I will never leave you.” 
“Some enchanted evening when you find your true love, 
When you hear her call you across a crowded room, 
Then fly to her side and make her your own
Or all through your life, you may dream all alone…”
(Some Enchanted Evening – Lyrics by Oscar Hammerstein II)

To me, it was and remains the most important day of my life. Sharon has been my partner in life, love, parenting, career, and business ever since. We have never dreamed alone. In the end, I may not have been in the musical, but together, we shared the lead roles in the romance!