Archive for the ‘Story Teller’ Category

Changing Life Roles…
October 22, 2017

I have just returned home from a wonderful afternoon with a friend who, a lifetime ago was my student. We were experimenting with tweaking the sound system in the church. He agreed to meet me and to put his considerable talents to the test to see how we might improve and make clearer the worship message. We ran wire and set up an amp and tested microphones and speakers and twisted dials and sliders for two to three hours. Overwhelmed by  rich, robust sound pulled from assorted electronic gadgetry spread out on the floor and on the table and desktop, we continued. I stand to learn much from him about the nuances of sound.

He was in my first class, Grade 5, when I began my teaching career in 1965. One of 37 young eager minds awaiting filling by me. A first year, fledgling teacher. I remember him fondly from that time because he reminded me of me at that same age. And, today I wonder about changing life roles. The student becomes the teacher! It is not just about him and me! I’ve thought about this before. At what point in our lives, do our children become our caregivers? Our teachers? It is a whammy! The realization that roles have reversed hits home and I delight in the knowledge that I have become the learner.

Today’s adventure into learning was about sound. It was about sound systems and making sound bend to our will. What I came home with is so much grander than just the mechanics of sound. As part of our finding stuff to use as test material, he introduced tome his favourite poet, Shane Koyczan. And I learned even more about the person he has become over all the intervening years since 1965. He has grown into a man of considerable depth and who finds peace and solace in the language of poetry. I rushed home to share my discovery, my learning with my wife.

Let me share it with you, too.

Tears Tonight for a Great Canadian Humourist
February 15, 2017

In late 1980 through the mid 1990s, I worked as an Education Officer for the Ministry of Education of Ontario out of Thunder Bay. My territory covered a large portion of that part of Ontario-about the same size as all of southern Ontario. It meant many long lonely hours on the road.

neys-lookout-001-a

Neys Lookout at the mouth of the Pic River

Just me and my truck and trees and rocks and breathtaking vistas along Hwy 17 along the north shore of Lake Superior. And, marvelling at the difference of the land on the northern run along Hwy 11 alongside the Palisades through Beardmore and Geraldton to Hearst and Iroquois Falls. It was quiet. Just the sound of the  tires on the road and the and the thrum of the powerful 7.3 Litre diesel engine for company. I learned to enjoy the solitude and the time to ponder all of the amazing things that were and are my life.

I wrote many papers in my head on those long journeys and as the technology improved dictated them to my computer as I drove. A dinner theatre script here, a manual to do something or other there, a script for a video. When that wore thin, I turned to my radio, dialed in CBC Radio One to listen to Stuart McLean on the Vinyl Cafe.

Stuart McLean was a master story teller; a person I aspired to be like. Stuart caused many kilometres to vanish beneath the tires of my ride and I spent five wonderful years of my life relishing his every word in the newest of his stories about Dave and Morley and their kids Sam and Stephanie. His skill with language and rhythm of the story forced me off the road frequently in gales of laughter about Dave’s misadventures. It was safer for both myself and the on-coming traffic that I made this choice. He was Canada’s Garrison Keillor.

Today, it was announced that Stuart McLean died and I felt a lament rise in my heart. My prayers are with you this night as I reminisce our times together on the long and wondrous journey of the highway of my life. Thank you for the lessons in Dave Cooks the Turkey. May God’s Spirit raise you up and release you from the agony of your illness dear friend of the road. The world is a much emptier place because of your absence in it.