​No one but the Man upstairs knows what I went through to work on myself (including periods of being hungry), to improve my own creative “product” just to get somewhere in my chosen career.  Unlike the rare few who seemed to be born with a natural gift and their lives always appeared as a straight line up, mine was a maze of zig-zags until everything (after a very hard, personal struggle) seemed to gel.

So I also felt a connection to a gifted (though more natural) artist who also had to struggle against the odds.  After breaking through to a middle-sized but power-house top-rated radio station in a vibrant but very competitive radio market, I was hosting an all-night talk/music/interview show when invited to interview DIONNE WARWICK.

The non-stop superstar was appearing at a hugely successful theatre-in-the-round for a week, and select interviews were allowed mid-day before opening night.  It was one of the hottest days of that summer as I drove to the assigned venue in an upscale hotel.

Everyone knew and hummed her hits (“Do You Know The Way To San Jose”, “Walk On By”, “Theme From Valley of the Dolls” to the Stevie Wonder, Elton John, Gladys Knight fundraiser “That’s What Friends Are For” and countless other singles, albums, movie themes, penned by the unstoppable duo Hal David and Burt Bacharach.  

When I arrived, I was assigned the last interview slot.  I waited and listened as the middle-aged interviewer before me, from the largest station in the capitol, leaned over WARWICK and asked one mundane question after the other (“When did you know you were making it?” and “What’s it like to be a star doing sold out concerts?”) sort of thing.  DIONNE looked not only like she could strangle the woman asking the same old questions, but also how fast she could get out of the room.

Then when it was my turn, I was already sitting down on the other side of her with my recorder going.  Ms. WARWICK turned to me with that “Oh no, not one more; I think I’d kill anyone who puts me through this another minute longer” kind of look.  I couldn’t blame her; it was embarrassing.

So biting my lip, I simply asked (like the neighbour over the back yard fence) “How’s the purple carpeting holding up?”  For a second she froze, then started laughing: “How did you know I have purple carpeting in my house?  And yes, it’s my favourite colour!”  “Oh, I read about it some time ago… wanted to get you out of a certain frame of mind if I could.”  She kept grinning.

This was a career epiphany for me, as I thought the only way I’m going to keep this going is to not stay too light, nor make it heavy….. just pivot (such as in basketball) to move things along and keep them interesting to the interviewee and the listener.  Before I knew it, we were flying.

“So why are you drinking tea, and I noticed your putting honey into it, on the hottest day this year?”  “My throat feels a little scratchy, so I take it so soothe me and help me be ready for my work tonight.”

“Ms WARWICK, you refused an invitation from Richard Nixon to do a concert at the White House.  That’s equivalent to turning down a command performance in this country.  Why did you do that?  Most performers could only dream of such an invitation.”

(She answered me as both a black person and a woman)  “Because he’s done nothing for my people.  I can do a sold-out show for a night or an entire week in a huge concert hall, but cannot get a hamburger anywhere I want or stay in just any hotel nearby.  We’ve not progressed at all under his presidency.  So no.  While he’s there, I will NOT appear at the White House!”​

Pivoting from that, I then (in a self-deprecating tone) said “If you didn’t have to do these seemingly endless interviews today, in an area famed for its prized antiques that I know you’re fond of, if you had this afternoon off, would you be rolling down the road checking out all the shops filled with treasures?”
“Oh yes.  But there’s much work to be done to be ready for curtain time tonight.  But I’d love to just have a full day off with nothing to do but go look for antiques.”

“I understand that Bacharach and David, but Burt especially, is a task-master, a focussed perfectionist who is incredibly demanding, famous for being difficult to work with.”  “Yes, (laughing) I’ve heard that too.  But he taught me everything I know.  As an example, we’re not just doing a sound check this afternoon.  We’re going to rehearse.  Like Burt, if I don’t get 101% out of my musicians, we’re not going to stop, even if we have to send out for food.  We’ll work right up until curtain time.  No breaks until we get it right or it’s no go."

​"Others may focus on the hits, the successes.  But I’m intrigued with your background.  You really got your early musical training singing gospel in church.  But you ended up going to the University of Hartford, headed to a teaching program.  So when all of this is over, or if in fact it never happened this way, would you consider teaching?”

(This is where the pivoting paid off, and she gave me a wonderful gift I appreciate to this day.  Mostly because I think I gave her the room to talk about the things that meant most to her.)

WARWICK: “You’re right about the gospel beginnings.  I’d be nowhere without that.  And you’re also right about the University of Hartford.  Perhaps someday I’ll think I might like to do some teaching.  But back in school, I boarded.  To earn money for college, I was hired to sing demos and new music Burt and Hal had just written.  I’d take the train to New York City when they called me.  Sometimes we’d just take hours as Burt sat at the piano while they worked out melodies and lyrics, and I would sing them.  Lots of starts and stops while they made countless changes, corrections.  Other times in the studio, they’d pretty much have the polish done, and would have me sing a demo.

They’d often tell me that they loved my voice, and even the demo could be mixed into a single with me.  It never happened.  Yes, I got paid, but like the hired gun, I was then shuffled back to school.  So one day after a very long session, when it was time for me to leave I gathered my things, headed to the door, opened it but turned to look back at them.  I was tired and upset, and said to them both: “Don’t Make Me Over.”  Not sure what it meant… it just came out.  Then I stormed out and headed for the train and long ride back to school.

After I had cooled down, I really started to worry: did I blow it?  Did my temper get the best of me?  Am I going to lose my job I love doing and need so much?  About a month later (sometimes there were long gaps between sessions) I got a call to come in.  I had been worrying all along that it might be over.  I’d get a pink slip.  I was really nervous when I got on that train headed to New York.  Still worried when I walked into the studio, ready to be told it was all over.

As I took off my coat, they were very quiet.  Hal David said to me: “DIONNE, remember when you left last time?  And what you had said before slamming the door?”  (I sure did, and regretted it.)  I was about to apologize when he continued: “Well, we sat there for a moment, and Burt said “I have an idea.”  So we worked on it.  Put your headphones on; we’re going to work.  Let’s try out the song; it's on the music stand.”  At the top was the title: “Don’t Make Me Over.”

We made minor changes and then they had me record it with Burt on piano.  That was it.  They thanked me, and I (more meek this time) left.  Figured again they’d give it to Jerry Butler, Bobby Vinton, B. J. Thomas or the likes who already had done so many of their hits.

Months later I was sitting at my desk doing homework in my dorm room.  The radio was on as it always was, very quietly in the background.  Suddenly, as if I was hearing something in my own head, I heard my own voice singing “Don’t Make Me Over.”  I got goosebumps as I turned up the radio, and just stopped.  I knew that very second, that my life would never be the same!”  

At the end of the interview (that maybe both of us had dreaded; me anxious and DIONNE resentful), she turned to me and put her hand on my arm, thanking me for what she thoroughly enjoyed.  Then asked if I was going to be at the 8 pm opening.  Said I wouldn’t miss it for the world.  She smiled, then said “I hope you like my gown I’ll be wearing.”  I did.  She was stunningly beautiful, especially with that fluid, malleable  voice taking us through amazing compositions.  A day and night to remember!

JOHN DUNSWORTH, Friend
When John came to the Lunenburg studio to record a Bluenose Opera House radio program, it wasn’t the first time we had met.
John’s friend, Bluesman Morgan Davis had suggested we meet.  I had earlier self-consciously bumped into him at a fundraiser (he could never say “no” to helping others) and blurted out “Hi Mr. Lahey”.
I had been given John’s cell phone number by one of his sibs and was told he was in L.A.  So I called him.  When he answered, I identified myself (knowing the Americans were getting paranoid about which direction the bad guys were coming from and kept tightening up their ‘homeland security’), as Customs Officer Kellogg, and that we had learned he had contraband goods with him in the form of extra CD copies of Jackie Dunsworth’s “Slip Sliding Away”.
Dead silence for a few elongated seconds.  (He should have hung up on me right then and there.)  Then he responded: “Who IS this?”  I felt stupid, going too far.  But I didn’t yet know John and how gracious he is.  And always curious.
When I told him my name and added that I was planning a radio show to promote gifted artists, he said he’d be back in Nova Scotia the following Monday; we could meet at the Trellis Cafe, his ‘defacto off-campus office’ in Hubbards.
We did.  Over their hamburger soup we both had, I told him what I’d planned as John’s eyes narrowed and I could tell wheels were turning.  Our first meeting went well.  As we walked out to our cars, his arm was draped around my shoulder as he said: “You’re yin, I’m yang and we’re going to get along just fine!”
I still hadn’t launched my program (which was eventually to be syndicated around the Maritimes and into Ontario) and wasn’t sure what role John would take: would he record a bunch of short commentaries recorded in batches (due to his heavy schedule) modelled after Don Harron’s “Charlie Farquharson”?
Another year passed and Morgan suggested the three of us meet at the Trellis to kick some ideas around.  John apparently had thought I was proposing a TV show, not simply radio, and had brought his laptop along and was using it while we bantered and ate.  I learned he was playing Scrabble while listening and talking.
I had now launched the program, but still wasn’t sure how we could slide John’s enormous talent in to do him justice AND work around his demanding schedule.  
Another two years had passed, the show’s formula was worked out so that each guest would be treated equally as a co-host; they’d have plenty of room to tell their life story while also choosing and introducing music important to them (a merging of the BBC’s “Desert Island Discs” and an idea George Harrison had given me during my first full year in radio).
I finally called John to invite him to guest co-host a show, but I worried about his fast mind, vast talent in many areas….. would he be too boxed in by the timing demands?
To get to know his work, he invited me to a shoot in Chester of the syndicated television series “Haven”.  I arrived and was shown around the amazing indoor set, then invited to sit with him in his trailer; we chatted, he took several phone calls while waiting for his taping.  Once a person came by to announce ten minutes, he said “Let’s go”.  He led me over to the food trailer and he ordered burgers for both of us.  No-rush Johnny, no worries about last-minute burps.  I was excited to shortly witness his work on a set.  Time was up, a van dispatched to where we were standing, Mr. Dunsworth climbed into the front seat and waved goodbye to a surprised me as they took off to another location.
When he arrived at the studio he was the first guest to bring a gift….. actually there were three.  One was a copy of a tiny book he had written; the second was a CD of just his simply telling stories of his life; anecdotes about boyhood adventures and pranks.  The third (he was like a kid with a new toy) came from a dollar store he had just visited.  Unlike the scores of orange plastic-handled box cutters, he’d come across sturdy, ridged-handled, quality metal ones that were well made probably for professionals, and he was delighted.  He had bought two for a buck or two, and gave one to me.  That was John.  No nonsense, no explanation needed, generous.
While taping the BOH we never used scripts other than listing credits at the end.  I just had notes (sometimes one word), so all of it was spontaneous and literally done while flying by the seat of our pants.  With John, we just flew.
At one point, I softly chastised him for our second meet, saying “You know Mr. Dunsworth, it was rather intimidating meeting with you at the Trellis Cafe, kicking ideas around while you played TWENTY THREE simultaneous Scabble games on your laptop”. He softly responded “But I don’t do dat anymore.”  Then he brightened and added: “I DO hold the world’s internet record for three consecutive seven-letter words!”  Without thinking I responded “That’s good.  It means you’ve graduated from four-letter words!”  He took it all in stride and smiled.
We’d always supplied, well beforehand, our guest co-hosts with a list of needs that included requesting a number of their favourite songs they would introduce (which reveals much about their early life, interests, formative years, career path, relationships).  John was so busy on the road, that we barely got artist names, not particular song titles.  I wasn’t happy about that, but understood.
One of the artists he chose was Sting, so I picked his “Stolen Car, Take Me Dancing”.  John couldn’t believe it, claimed effusively it was his favourite Sting number.  We had a synergy going.
After we recorded the show, I made a copy of the lightly edited one and delivered it to his house.  When he finally had time to listen to it, he wrote to me and humbly said I was brilliant, he was a dork.  I wrote back and said “You’ve got that wrong, it’s the other way around”.
Not long after, CBC national office in Toronto suggested I should submit the program as a summer relief show.  They needed our two-hour edition distilled down into one hour.  I thought John’s show with us was one of the best we had done.  I called him to ask if I could borrow back the copy I had given him, so I could pre-edit at home since every minute in the studio cost me out of my own pocket.  He immediately agreed.  Then he added: “You do so much for the arts community.  I’d like to hand over the CD and buy you breakfast at the Trellis, as a way of thanks”.
We met and as usual had an interesting, light-hearted conversation while we ate.  He paid the bill, then we walked out to the parking lot.  Two women getting out of a van recognized him (as people seemed to do everywhere) and came over to chat him up.  He then introduced me, saying “This is Paul Kellogg who hosts the Bluenose Opera House.  We’ve become good friends since we did the show”.  
I could tell by the blank look on their faces they had never heard of it.  Again without thinking, I put my arm around John’s shoulder and said “That’s right.  We’ve become really close, almost like brothers”.  I could see one of his eyebrows raised as in “Uh oh.  What’s coming?”  Then I continued “We’re so close, we’re getting ready to take a test case to the Supreme Court of Canada”.  They asked “What for?”  I responded while lowering my eyes to appear shy, almost embarrassed, “We want to get married”.
They exclaimed “But now you can do that.  There are no more hoops to jump through in Canada.  It’s now legal for same sex couples”.  I answered “But not for two straight guys!”  John hadn’t expected this, and nearly doubled over with laughter.
In my private life, my 25-year relationship with my good wife was unravelling, and we had determined it was time to go our separate ways and sell our finally-finished dream home.  I was ready for the next chapter, but heartbroken about selling the beautiful sanctuary (not that buildings are more important than human beings).  It was something that I felt we had both earned through a lifetime of really hard work.
John knew about my design work, and called one day to say he was going to stop by to see the place before it was sold.  Clustering his area errands, he dropped by, toured the house while we shared some coffee.  He later wrote he was wowed, his head was still spinning a day later.  He asked if he could bring his son Geoff up by boat, to show him the place.  I again made coffee and walked mugs down to the small outboard tied to our float.  We sat there as several times he pointed the home out to Geoff, saying how wonderful it was, sitting up on a gentle knoll like a resort.  Upon leaving, without my moaning over life’s turn, John must have instinctively felt my sadness, as he stood and gave me the longest guy hug I’d ever had.  I realized that without words, sensitive, caring John could read people, including me.  No prima donna there.
Not long after, John invited me to see his beloved Southwest Cove home, a real (and unforgettable) treat for me.  I thought maybe he’d show me around the place and his landscaping, and I’d head off in short order.  He’d spent so much time working on the road, that his days at home were short, chores unending.
I saw his handiwork in the house at the edge of the sea that he and Elizabeth had built, toured the grounds, marvelled at his back-breaking stonework including a massive sea wall with stone compasses built right into the walk; stone seats built up a hillside like a Roman forum, overlooking the beach and ocean…. like an outdoor, private amphitheatre.
Two of his three daughters (Zoe and Molly) I was introduced to in the kitchen were making coffee, and I was offered a mug, then a seat oceanside but under some trees.  We chatted, then I thought it time to leave, let this man get back to his day.  He’d have none of that.  
I followed him up to his shed (noticing the old Ford pickup truck with back-saving crane in the rear bed, plus some small watercraft lying about in varied condition).  He had just picked up some black ABS pipe to fix his broken saltwater pool pump.  I watched as John got more frustrated, trying to figure out the puzzle-like shapes of straights, elbows, curves, saying “back in the hardware store the kid has this all set out so easily”.  After a few more minutes of standing back, I stepped forward and said “O.K., Johnnie-boy, give me a chance to play”.  In about a minute (it’s all geometry) it appeared to be done, the pieces fit.  We walked them down to the water’s edge, John connected the parts to the motor and pump lines, flipped the switch eh voila!  It worked.
Then I followed him back into the house, where his daughters were making some pasta with veggies; offered us some.  We again took our plates out on the deck and chatted.  
I was again about to get out of his hair, when he said: “Let’s go.  I want to show you something”.  Into a car we went, off to his parents’ old cape summer home down the road.  He led me inside and told me to tour the entire place, from attic to basement.  While he sat on a sofa, I stood in each room while making a mental photograph, then the service equipment in the basement.  I assumed he was going to ask me about updating of the place that appeared in excellent condition.  Wrong I was.
When I’d finished, he’d noted that my house was about to be sold outside Mahone Bay, and I would soon begin as music director for a new Halifax station.  “If you’d just pay for the utilities, how’d you like to live here while my sibs and I figure out what to do with our parents’ home and all this land?”  I was gobsmacked by his never-ending thoughtfulness and sensitivity to others.  A real gem, that John.
Thinking the playtime was over, I said I must be going.  He’d have none of it.  “C’mon, I’m commodore of the local yacht club I want to show you”.  That exclusive picture was shortly corrected (without navy blue blazer, white pants, deck shoes) by gazing upon several floats, small prams, a few moderate boats tethered to moorings.  He told me to follow him into one small dinghy.  He quickly pulled the outboard’s chord and brought it to life, adjusted the choke and off we went.  Having rented a place years ago on Owl’s Head Island, I knew the lay of the land.  But not the sea.  John gave me an amazing tour of the rock island, a tiny inlet with towering walls of stone that grumbled as the sea cave filled and ebbed with tidal water.  It was a sharing of his beloved private place, in an afternoon best shared with a friend.  I was humbled and deeply touched.
We had numerous hit and miss encounters with many months  between his touring, my moving, my new responsibilities.  I remember during my never-ending move, getting an email from John asking me to stop for a cuppa java, saying he was watching me roaring by exit 6 of the 103.  I was out of time before the house sold, so I took a raincheck.  Finally while in Florida, I wrote to him from my trawler, saying when I returned I would grab some coffee with him.  He responded by saying just before Christmas wouldn’t do; he was in Albany on the “Santa Go (Screw) Yerself Tour”.  I fell off my chair laughing.  But he inspired me to suggest he write a book of his memoirs.  I thought of a title, but before I signed off (John could do this to you, he could make your mind start to chug away whether on funny or serious matters) I wrote another thirty potential titles for him.  He loved it and picked out several favourites.
In 2016 I bought a large store in Lunenburg, to reduce its offshore housewares, home decor and gift lines, but radically increase locally-made, quality artisan-made treasures.  He would stop by when in the area.  Once when I wasn’t there, the staff gave him a scrap of paper that to this day, is pinned over my small desk in the modest stock room.  It reads “Pall, I drooped bye to say high.  John D”.  It warms me whenever I see it.
There’d be big gaps between our visits or writing, but it never stopped.  At one point a few months ago he suggested we grab another bite at the Trellis.  He got there first and when I arrived, introduced me to a couple sitting nearby.  He told them I had bought a store in Lunenburg and couldn’t quite remember the name, so I filled in by saying “Comfort and Joy.  It’s a fertility clinic by day, brothel by night”.  He enjoyed that.
When we left, he proudly showed me his new acquisition in the parking lot; a perfect condition, shiny 20-something-year-old black Mercury Sable.  What else could I say, other than “John, you look smashing in Sable!”
One story is that he would meet a friend on a sidewalk, and they’d start yelling at each other in Russian (or something that sounds like it, as it was said neither knew a word of Russian other than probably “wodka”).  Strangers would gather as the angry-sounding levels built, until suddenly the two men would hug and walk away — onlookers stunned.
Before I knew him, we (my ex-wife, my son Keith) encountered him at his brother’s annual Canada Day neighbourhood picnic in Southwest Cove.  I introduced my son to him, who said: “Mr. Dunsworth, over any other TPB actors, I’ve wanted to meet you.  People may think slapstick is easy because it looks that way, but it isn’t, it’s difficult.  I put you up there with Chaplin and the Stooges”.  John’s jaw dropped and thanked him.
Just a few weeks ago, John called while he was driving, not flying, to another province.  As he was passing my exit on the highway, he left a message to say he was thinking of me and how things were going in my life.  It wasn’t about him.  That was John.  He touched everyone he encountered, no matter your work, your background, and it was deep, unmatched, unforgettable, simple, brilliant, selfless, loving.  One-in-a-billion.
The kinda guy the world desperately needs more of; the one you can never get enough of.
​Paul (or “Pall”) Kellogg  

​Many moons ago I was working a news-heavy small radio station that strangely, against all the national U-S networks (CBS, NBC, ABC at the time) won national news documentary awards including the coveted Columbia-Dupont.  Our brilliant news director asked me to cover one of the earliest environmental conferences ever held, at a former estate-turned conference centre.  I jumped at the request.

Many of North America’s corporate elite were invited to this affair, and included speakers such as (then) New York Governor Nelson Rockefeller.  The Friday night opening would start with dinner in the mansion, then a talk by a notable speaker.  I drove with ease to the event, as I had grown up in the area and knew every road like the back of my hand.

I got off the major highway and turned onto a winding, unlit narrow road lined with stone walls that led to the former estate.  I drove around a bend and came upon a car crawling along (decades before cell phones, GPS), stopping, then slowly moving on, stopping again…. looking very confused.  Or was the driver impaired?  When it stopped again, I passed and pulled in front and stopped (I had a large, reflective press plate on the back) knowing his headlights would see me and my identity.  I took a chance and just figured the driver was lost.

I could see it was the latest model of a very expensive car.  As I approached the driver’s door, the power window came down slightly and I asked if he was lost.  A very familiar voice answered back: “I am, Red, and I’m running a little late.  Do you know where the conference centre is?”  I replied “Yes.  I’m going there to cover it.  Follow me if you will.  We’re almost there.”

We soon approached the break in the high walls, turned to pass the entry gates and climbed the winding drive; Mr. Luxury Car right behind.  I drove right up to the portico, slowed, then moved on as I saw him pull under it and stopped.  He had arrived.  

After parking my car further away, I entered the incredible structure and was ushered to a seat at a round table, surrounded by corporate mucky-mucks, including next to me, the chairman of Pittsburgh Steel.  They were not too interested in this baby-faced “kid” and a guy who just didn’t “fit”.  As soon as dinner was finished, the keynote speaker was introduced and it was my “lost” man, Arthur Godfrey.  

​To those who wouldn’t remember the name, he was the most successful broadcaster of the era, proportionately larger than even Johnny Carson of “The Tonight Show.”  Godfrey had a coast-to-coast CBS network mid-morning radio variety show that not only eclipsed everything, but when television came along was one of the few that survived the transition and then broadcast simultaneously on both radio and television.  His show kick-started careers for many entertainers including the Maguire Sisters, Johnny Nash, Pat Boone and countless others.  His sponsors made his show the financial break-even for the CBS network’s entire program day, before it finished by late morning five days a week.

Arthur’s informal talk and kick-off for the environmentally-themed weekend mentioned his unscientific but growing concern over just what he saw as an amateur airplane pilot.  He noted that his untrained eyes could spot increasing smog and that ever-present and growing brown “ring” on the horizon.  He wanted to voice his alarm (now) more than 44 years ago.

​When it was over, I lingered in the fancy lobby as Godfrey was surrounded by people asking him some informal questions.  A conservatively well-dressed, pleasant-looking older woman stood near me, and I could see she was watching me and reading my facial expressions in response to the questions and answers.  She asked me where I was from, what my family was like, what kind of work I did, how many siblings I had….. yet for some reason I didn’t feel she was just being nosy, just appeared to be interested.  Then when a quiet, dark pin-striped, bespectacled man joined us, the woman turned to him and asked my name.  “Paul, I’m Mary.  This is my husband, Laurence Rockefeller.”  

Subdued hand-shaking and greeting exchanged, she turned back and asked me to escort them to their car (I had known they were used to body guards and chauffeurs).  She took my arm and her husband followed.  We walked out into the night and she directed me to their auto, a dark blue two-door standard Lincoln model of about 5 years old.  He unlocked the car, then I held the door open as she climbed into the passenger side.  Mrs. Rockefeller thanked me, then said “Please don’t tell anyone, but we had no choice but to park two wheels up on the grass.  Hope to see you at the conference tomorrow.  Good night.”

I returned to the portico as Mr. Godfrey just came out the front door.  He saw me and asked: “Red, how does one get out of here?”  I walked over and asked if he would be heading back to New York, upon which he affirmed.  “West side or East Side?”  “West” was his response.  I said: “Then you don’t want the Major Deegan, you’ll take the Saw Mill Parkway.  I know a short-cut.  Follow me.”  He had a slight limp and walked with a cane, the few steps to his car.  As I pulled my car around the drive and pulled in front, he fell in behind me.

We wound our way down the drive to the gates, then turned in the opposite direction from where we had entered.  I led him through twisting, dark roads, passed a few small houses clustered in one area, then at a fork took another dark, unlit road through some forests that suddenly opened as we came down to a stop sign at the Parkway.  I stayed ahead until I put my signal on for an early exit to my parents’ home, and noticed as he went around me he flicked his interior dome light on and waved a thank you and goodbye.  As I slowly made my turn off the exit, I watched the taillights of his big car zoom off into the night, heading home to his New York.

However you picture Christmas, as the one coming up fast and how you dream (or hope) it might be, or the one of so many pasts; they are yours and yours alone.  The one you're anticipating might include loved ones coming home to visit, neighbours dropping by not by sleigh, but with the same Currier and Ives warmth, or memories of those you wish were still walking through the door.  You might be the one who goes about your preparations humming "I'll be home for Christmas...... if only in my dreams."

One year many Christmases ago, and after my beloved radio industry had gone boringly corporate, I was running a small little arts cafe in the "Big Smoke."  I had yet to learn that to make a go of it, "cheap and cheerful" with quality comfort food, craft beer and catering to the financially-sqeezed arts community, one needed volume.  Spell that big space, not 26 licensed seats.  O.K., we squeezed in 36.  But tiny place means you need to be expensive to pay your bills, like an exclusive bistro.  We DID pay them, plus the staff received above average wages apart from their (tax-free) tips, but there was no money left over to pay the owner..... me, who worked the longest hours.  

Yet I worried about those with no families or partners to be with on Christmas Day; no gifts to exchange, no sumptuous, traditional feasts to share.  Yes, there were downtown missions and the Sally Ann for some of their residents and street people.  But what about the truly homeless, mistrusting of anything institutional?  And those "single again" (or continuously); those going to school, the working poor, too far (or broke) to make it home?

I thought it would simply be a good thing to do, offering a free traditional Christmas turkey dinner with no strings (pardon the pun) to any and all, including those we probably would never see again.  I ran the idea past my partner, who was very unhappy about my being away for part of the "big day."  I decided to do it anyway; I HAD to do it.  My circuitous life meant I  knew what it was like to be comfortable, but I also had experienced being broke, having no family close by and at one point, being truly hungry.  One never forgets that.

I put a notice up in my little hole-in-the-wall cafe, asking those who could help prepare, serve, and even cook turkeys (we had no ovens).  Word got out well beyond our neighbourhood.  Someone called me from very upscale Moore Park (known more as the refuge of lawyers plus downtown movers and shakers) where, which prestigious renovation company sign on a front lawn was more important than the neighbour's.  The resident (surprisingly) would happily provide cooked turkeys.  We were on.

People offered veggies, potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce; we would contribute soups, several desserts, juices, milk, tea and coffee.  A few cheery souls promised to help serve (not my own family or inlaws, which was fine..... just wasn't their thing).  We all have our priorities, especially on an important holiday.  One young woman called, offering to bring some food and asked, as a single mom, if she could include her toddler.  When she showed up, I realized she was one of our thoughtful regulars, a York University graduate student.  Who would have known?  And she just didn't want to drop in to eat, she wished to contribute something.  I was quite moved.

When we opened the door, we welcomed people we had never seen before, and knew we'd probably never see again.  That wasn't the point; we weren't doing it to attract new business, just to give back a wee bit.  It was heartwarming  serving these souls while working with volunteers, plus speaking with folks if they cared to chat while filling their tummies.  There was a steady flow but we were never jammed; then as it trickled down by mid-afternoon, I let the volunteers go one-by-one, until I was the last person handling the buffet set up on our counter.  Finally, one person was there, hesitantly asking if there was any cost.  I responded "No.  It's free.  Please, help yourself."

I noticed that this gentleman wore what appeared to be second-hand but clean clothes including a well-worn navy pea coat; he sat alone by our large front window as he began his meal.  He spoke very, very slowly.  "This - is - so - good!"  I was taken aback.  He obviously had difficulty forming his words, carefully planning what he was going to say.  I didn't want to intrude into his space, his thoughts, so I simply replied "Thank you.  I'm glad you're enjoying it."

After taking his time, he finally finished.  Again he said "This - is - so - good.  May - I - have - a - little - more?"  I responded "Absolutely.  We have plenty, and you're probably the last one."  He came back to put a little more on his plate, then carefully ate that.  As he got up to bring his (scrupulously) empty plate back and started to thank me, I said: "We still have more food and I think no more are coming, so we'll close.  Would you like me to put some into take out containers for you to take with you?"  He responded: "That - would - be - so - kind.  I - could - really - use - it - later, - or - tomorrow."  

He stood quietly as I filled several take out containers to the brim, I felt a lump in my throat.  I then bagged them for him to easily carry, and he slowly thanked me once again.  "Thank - you; - that - was - so - good.  Merry - Christmas, - Sir."  I said goodbye to him, shook his free hand at the door, and locked it after he left.  I watched as he made his way down the street until he finally disappeared.  I went to the counter to get all the remaining food ready for a city counsellor, who was coming by to take it to a shelter.

But before I could start my packaging, I went to the back as the floodgates opened and quietly cried.  I wasn't happy nor sad.  I just wondered who that soul was I'd never see again; what was his story, what had he been through, why was he probably alone, what was his life like, where would he go?  

Indeed, I was right, he never returned. But as the years spilled into decades, I always wondered, never forgot, that solitary man.  And to this day, I cannot tell that little (Dickensian) story or even think about it, without my eyes filling, the lump in my throat returning.  May God please bless him, wherever.  And you too, everyone, this Christmas.

Hosting a high-profile talk, interview and music show during afternoon prime time has its pressures and rewards, including in Canada's largest city, Toronto.  One day I received a lovely letter from the wife of a noted portrait photographer, Cavoukian, relating my work to that of her husband's.  While he spent hours developing film in his darkroom (remember those. before the digital age?), my program's content kept him company.  Both were to tell me that though we had never met, I was like "family."
He was the son of famous Cavouk (Armenian, like Karsh) who had migrated to Canada with his family.  His father had literally invented studio colour portraiture, with the backing of Agfa in Belgium.  Colour outdoor pictures were common at the time, but indoor photography had to be coloured by hand (remember the foreign postcards that were unusually tinted?).  

While Karsh claimed Ottawa, Cavouk set up shop in Toronto with his studio and large-windowed gallery in the landmark Colonnade on fashionable Bloor Street.   Many times I had nearly pressed my nose against the huge glass display windows, to look at portraits of the Royal Family, Prime Ministers, corporate titans and the occasional celebrity.  What fascinated me too, was  the texture of the portraits, looking like oil paintings.  This was because Cavouk was probably one of the first to employ the technique of using canvas on stretcher, to mount his colour film.  It was truly amazing to behold the depth, vibrancy and texture.

So I was honoured to have a letter and exhibition opening invite in hand, to finally meet the inventive Cavouk and Cavoukian (in Armenian, "ian" added to the family name meant "son of").  Onnig Cavoukian and I became good friends.  You should know that these Cavouks are highly-driven: sister Anne Cavoukian was Ontario's Privacy Commissioner, and brother Raffi is the world-reknown children's singer.

My father (a straight classical music lover) was visiting and both of us were invited to dinner at Cavoukian's.  During the meal, upon learning that my (now retired) dad was returning home the next day, not far from where one of Onnig's clients was living.  He asked my father if it would be an inconvenience to deliver a finished portrait of a client, rolled up on canvas ready for the stretcher and framing.  Dad was happy to oblige.

He left for his nine-hour drive with the scrolled canvas portrait on the back seat of the car.  After arriving home, he called the client to ascertain directions to his (rented) home and a mutually convenient time to make the delivery.  

The agreed day arrived, and Dad drove the 45-minute distance to this chap's temporary digs.  It was a spacious house directly on Long Island Sound.  My father rang the bell, and was greeted by a round-faced, middle-aged man who ushered him into a study that had sheet music everywhere; on furniture and scattered on the carpet.  The polite man graciously thanked my dad for the delivery, and apologized to him for not being able to speak with him at length; he was finishing a musical for a New York theatre.  The two exchanged names back at the front door as they warmly shook hands, and Dad quickly left.

I was speaking to my father by telephone the next day, and asked how the portrait delivery went.  He said it was fine, and that the thoughtful recipient expressed his regret several times for not being a better host, but that he was pressed for time in meeting his work deadline.  He wondered out loud what kind of musician this person might be.

Then my dad asked me: "Who is Charles Aznavour?"  I responded, "Why?"  Father said that he was the man in the portrait, and the same man who briefly welcomed him into his home.  "Dad!  Aznavour is a legend; he could cause riots in France!  He's an iconic, beloved singer-songwriter, actor, dancer, activist and diplomat world-wide; has written tons of standards, including 'Yesterday, When I Was Young,' 'She' and 'Dance, In The Old-Fashioned Way' plus thousands of others.  He's collaborated with legendary entertainers from Edith Piaf to Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra.  Jack Jones recorded an entire album of his work called 'Write Me A Love Song, Charlie'."

Dad just said "Oh."  Then added: "Who's Jack Jones?"  Aznavourian (also Armenian), would have loved it. 

I'm not terribly superstitious, but a fork in the road was presented to me the very first time I was on the air.  I had the choice: get the hell out when hardly getting my feet wet, or pass the "test" and not look back.

While attending broadcasting school, there was actually one guy who had his own radio show, albeit just one (lonely) night per week, on a remote FM station (when "FM" was hardly a pimple on the industry nose compared to AM powerhouses).  I was to learn that even the "studio" (that's stretching it) was in the same room as the radio transmitting equipment, located within a lone cabin surrounded by woods atop a tall hill.

Vincent came up to me near the course completion, to ask me if I'd like to do his Saturday evening radio show (coming up on New Year's Eve) while he attended a family party with his fiance.  I didn't have to be asked twice since, to a radio junkie-wannabe, this would be a thrill.  

December 31st couldn't come too fast, as I had my music picked (from my own vinyl collection of 45's and 33's), bags packed (boy they're heavy with LP's, a few toiletries plus packed picnic, one big bag under each arm) as I headed to the nearest bus station for the hour ride to Vinnie's tiny city/large town.

He picked me up at the bus depot, drove me to the distant facility but stopping first at the downtown AM outlet in a local hotel (the AM sister station offices and studio looked comfortably adequate, compared to what was coming).  We were there to pick up program logs.  The snow-lined lone road winding amidst the bare winter trees, climbed to the shack at the hilltop.  I was excited and nervous: if I could make it through the night, I'd be a professional broadcaster (yeah, right) since I was being paid a few bucks plus a hot breakfast.  This was it!

Vinnie showed me around the tiny buiding: just a furnace and cot made up for me in the small room, then we moved to the "studio" which consisted of a tiny console, mic and chair, next to the actual transmitter equipment; no bathroom or running water ("they're lots of trees outside to choose from").  He turned the equipment on in sequential order (the FM side was so poor it had no daytime or overnight programs, so the evening show was "it."  I wrote down how to carefully switch everything off after midnight, in opposite order.  He wished me well, left, and the last sound I heard was his door closing, car starting and moving off into the night.

I had an hour to go before "showtime" at 6 pm; time to put my personal things on the already made-up cot, then take my coffee thermos, food and records and set them out, putting the vinyl in order of play that I had already programmed in sequence.  Last one to go was Guy Lombardo's classic "Auld Lang Syne."  Chair was o.k., newswire checked for the latest news and sports headlines, then weather forecast I would use.  Now that I was ready, it was just a matter of waiting until the clock struck six. I would open the mic while holding a 33 record (cued to my first song as long as my shaking hand wouldn't make it dance across the grooves) as I said my first "Hello" and introduced (trying to keep the voice even and calm) Frank Ifield singing "I Remember You" unless the needle skipped to "Only Love Can Break The Heart."

It's a go; we're on; monitor sounds fine, earphones on both ears (not professional) made my voice sound like someone mature and smooth.  We're rolling!  Damn, this isn't work, it's play and we get paid for this?  Next record set to go, moving the just used discs back in their sleeves, from right side of the floor to the newly growing stack on the left.  Cool.  Everything's under control.

During the night, there is a sad news headline story from earlier that day, about some family members perishing from smoke inhalation in a house fire.  It was reported the kerosene stove had backed up.  Too early for exact numbers, especially with the investigation hardly launched.  Not much else going on; suppose people are out there partying with friends, loved ones, and not yet into trouble for tying one too many on.......

It's almost midnight.  I'm allowed to read the news and sports headlines with the weather forecast early (instead of on the hour); then yell (to no one in the empty room save the cold mic: "Ten, nine, eight".... raise the voice to feign excitement...."three, two, one: ....HAPPY NEW YEAR!") as my last broadcast words into the mic, then segueing into Lombardo's immortal chronicler.

Finished.  Excited.  Thrilled, really.  O.K., Broadway Billy Rose, cut the heady stuff, back to reality, stand up, finish the job by turning off the transmitter equipment, pack your gear up and set it by the door, finish your snacking (not even a beer nor bubbly; your evening's MC has half a Pepsi to finish as he lifts it to toast...... the goddess of communication?  Have we just met?

Man, this place is silence personified.  Not a sound but the wind in the trees outside.  Place a little drafty, not well insulated, thank goodness for the warm mini furnace in the front room.  Time to put my own things away, turn off the lights, crawl under the blanket fully dressed (it IS chilly) and work the first time high down (no longer a radio virgin, but a "pro") and try to get some sleep before Vince arrives whenever.

Finally, sleep.  Mustn't have been too deep.  Rolled over, noticed the pilot light was right at eye level; comforting to see the tiny speck of warm flames.  Who knows how much later, turned over again, semi-conciously noticed furnace pilot light was out.  No big deal.  Maybe automatic.  Must get some more shuteye, which comes easily this time.  

Did I completely go out, or was my consciousness on low alert, trying to get messages to the brain: "something's not right.  Wake up."  No go.  Until I realize I'm choking.  Smoke in my mouth, nose, lungs.  No panic, just a chill realizing something's terribly wrong.  Fireman neighbour and boyhood chum telling me: "If ever in a fire, hit the floor, really crawl as low as you can, get below most of the smoke as you grope along!"

I did.  Song I played earlier by Skeeter Davis just keeps playing over and over "Why does my heart keep beating, why do these eyes of mine cry?" Rolled off the cot, crashing it to the floor, then crawled so low as to almost be kissing the deck..... trying to remember about where the door was..... choking as I reached up with one hand over my mouth and nose, the other groping and finding the door knob.  "Don't they know it's the end of the world......"  Pushed the door open, coughing and gasping as I snake out onto the snow.  "It ended when you said goodbye."  I finally start to get fresh air into me, eyes moist, tears rolling down my cheeks, not feeling the freezing temperature but grateful for the air.

Slowly, I worked my way back in as I see smoke exiting the open doorway.  I leave the door open as I take a deep breath then hold it, and go to each window, opening one then crawling out again; then another, just one each time as I crawl back outside.  Finally, the smoke has dissipated and I can find the furnace main breaker to shut down.  Done.  Wait outside for some more clean air to breathe normally, then go in (now only 6:30 and streaks heralding a new dawn starting to break the dark, starlit sky).  Vincent will be totally into a deep sleep after a great night of dinner and partying with his future inlaws, fiance, friends and family.  I don't care.  I call him.

He's groggy, but suddenly sounds wide awake as I explain what happened. He's on his way.  When he arrives, he looks at me and says I look as white as a ghost, but with a little soot in my hair and ears (I had tried to wash my face in the snow).  Off we go into town for a hot diner breakfast and a chance for me to really wash up in the men's room.  Vincent is shaking as I give him the details.  Admits the furnace had acted up before, but was told it was fixed.  

"How do you feel, Paul?  Your life almost ended the moment you became a paid professional!  Has it scared you away?"  I told him that if this was something to test me, to challenge my survival, then perhaps it might be a good luck omen.  If I can survive that early morning, then maybe, just maybe, the rest would be just fine.  

Not to steal from ROBERTA FLACK's unforgettable song BUT, there comes a moment (or two) in our lives when we discover something..... by surprise, accident, serendipity; without knowing what's coming we're in the right place at the right time.

One time this unplanned event happened was during my dual career as (single) parent and broadcaster.  While living in the "big smoke" (decades before the internationally shameful "Cirque du Ford"), I had arranged for my little boy to attend a Saturday morning children's art class at Harbourfront.

To quell any anxiety he would have, I assured him I'd stay in the same building, be there as soon as his class was over and we'd have a treat by having lunch at the Amsterdam Cafe in the same facility.  

When the time came we headed to the self-serve line and picked what we'd like, then head with food trays around the corner to a large room with tables.  As soon as we landed at one of the few remaining vacant spots, a band came out and started tuning.  Didn't pay much attention, including to the lead singer, a female dressed in western gear (skirt, vest) with fringe.

As soon as they began, I immediately stopped eating, took in the tightest band I had ever heard, and the singer's voice that was clear, strong, beautiful and fresh...... an amazing quality of power and sweetness, lush -- sensual too.  I commented to "the little guy" that I had never heard anything like it, including how tight all of them were. With their energy, riveting tunes and quality, they couldn't help to soon explode into the top North American music scene.  I could feel the goosebumps on the back of my neck.

The next time I was on the air (CFRB) I described (atmosphere, dress, band, music) what I'd witnessed, sharing my experience of a new discovery with one of the largest audiences in North America.  Was this the first time this singer and her polished band were noticed by and mentioned in major media?

A few weeks later (and a little under the weather with a cold) I was flipping channels late at night, on my little-used TV.  I stopped at the Tonight Show, where JOHNNY CARSON was about to introduce a guest.  My jaw dropped when the curtain opened to that same band and lead singer.  He welcomed a Canadian named "K. D. LANG" and she actually was sitting at a table with a cigaret burning on an ashtray, and sang about a heart-tugging breakup.  The audience went wild.  In no time, the rest was history as hit albums poured out; icons such as ROY ORBISON and TONY BENNETT lined up to do duets with her.

Fast-forward in time and (like a world Google map as you hit the "+" button to hone in on Canada, Atlantic Canada, Nova Scotia, then South Shore).  As your image takes form, a young girl is singing at the Heritage Bandshell and later in the Folk Harbour Youth Concert at the Pearl Theatre, both in Lunenburg.  Her name is CLAIRE JAWORSKI.

Still a kid (early teens) but with incredible natural talent, I'm thinking this is k.d. lang back in rural Alberta.... standing in front of microphones and maybe just a few people in audiences at school auditoriums, church basements, community centres, local rodeos and livestock auctions, festivals, even half-time at local school games.  JAWORSKI-LANG..... this is the real deal, but locals see her (them) everywhere, that they notice but may think.... "that kid's got talent BUT....... it's a tough world out there and hardly anyone makes it".  Or they quickly grow up, get a part-time job at the local hardware store on weekends, then maybe full time at a luncheonette till someone comes along, sweeps them off their feet, babies and unplanned obligations-hurdles take over, hand-to-mouth survival kicks in.

Yet the fighter in them (most days) is stronger; the private lessons, practicing and working (for free) resets the compass after each disappointment or challenge.  Parents, siblings, best friends keep supporting,  encouraging them on.  The growth seems miniscule to many, until suddenly they catch their act they haven't seen in awhile.  Something new, something more mature, well-honed, growing (bursting, really) is now taking over..... as unstoppable as a bullet train.

When I heard a recently mixed version of "Happy" I sensed this is CAROLE KING..... (now 16) young, fresh, unstoppable, today.  Then "Waiting" was the next CLAIRE JAWORSKI tune that stopped me dead in my tracks.

I cajoled, hounded, pestered the Otitus Media producer David Findlay and executive producer David Friendly to beg permission from CLAIRE, her manager, parents, the prime minister if need be, to let us air (if not world premier) these magnificent modern pieces.  We did.  While CLAIRE JAWORSKI co-hosted our show (podcast # 67) we (hopefully) made music history as we launched CLAIRE's milestone work.  

Check it out.  Hearing is believing.  "The first time ever, I heard........"

For those of you who don't know our parliamentary system in Canada, the highest position is not that of Prime Minister, but the Vice-Regal appointment (approved by Buckingham Palace) of Governor General.  Likewise, (with the Queen's approval) the Queen's representative provincially (and over the Premier) is Lieutenant-Governor.  The posting usually runs four to five years, and is of the highest honour.  I give you this background, as I was asked by our most recent Lt-Gov. if she could ride with me out to Cape Breton's Celtic Colours (she doesn't drive... in office she has a uniformed driver).

I picked the Honourable Mayann Francis up at her lovely downtown Halifax condo.  As I put her bags into the luggage area, I noticed that she climbed into the front passenger ("shotgun") seat.  When I got behind the wheel, I asked Dr. Francis if she wouldn't be more comfortable riding in the rear seat.  She replied with a smile: "I'm not going to have you be my driver!".  I responded that I didn't mind at all if it made her more comfortable..... as long as she didn't insist I wear a cap.

After we wound through the city and hit the highway (as we made small talk), I suggested she look through my music file if she liked, to choose some tunes (there was something of almost every genre in the case).  She asked if she could listen to one of our shows.  I chided her, and said "You don't want to listen to two hours of that; AND be stuck with me in the car for FIVE hours!".  (After the opening Gala, I would drive her out to her sister's home in Sydney.)  She disagreed and asked if I had the one with Celtic Colours Executive Director Joella Foulds (the wonderful woman of great vision and energy who conceived and put the entire international festival on the map), which Dr. Francis had not yet heard.  Indeed I did, as we had just edited it.

We sailed along the highways, listening to that particular program.  As we got closer to the Canso Causeway that crosses the Strait and is the only roadway onto Cape Breton Island, the show was ending.  In it, we had featured many songs by the artists appearing at this year's festival (to help promote), along with Joella's own personal choices (50% of the music).  With that done, and remembering that Joella and Jim Foulds are known for their unusually close and loving relationship, we asked Joella when she would take her big sigh of relief.  Was it after the opening night gala when she knew that her year-round brilliant office staff, plus hundreds of artisans and (now) over 2,000 volunteers, would allow the event to roll along and take on a life all its own; or whether it was at the very end -- after the closing night huge gala in Sydney?  

Ms. Foulds replied "after the opening night gala".  (So this was now the moment for our tee up, as we like to use radio to fire people's imaginations.) "O.K., we've come to our last song.  This is for no one else in the world, not for any of the other listeners, but just for the two of you: husband Jim, and you, Joella Foulds.  It's after the opening gala in Port Hawkesbury, you're very tired but happy as you pull into the driveway.  The porch light is on, as is the hallway light, but the kitchen is dark.  Jim is waiting there for you, with a glass of bubbly, and he's asked you to dance.  This is a gorgeous song by Sammy Cahn and Jimmy Van Heusen, only for the two of you.  It's Frank Sinatra: Come Waltz With Me."

The song finishes, then our theme plays as I read/speak from our only scripted part -- the show's closing.  When it's all signed off, Dr. Francis turned to me and asked: "Paul, did you really listen to that Sinatra song?"  Moi: "Well, not the entire thing, but I know the opening music and lyrics.  Why?"  "Well, it's an absolutely stunning, beautiful song.  But it's all about breakup."

Ouch.

MEL TORME had come to town, swinging for a week at the Beverly Hills Hotel (Rexdale, Toronto) "Hook And Ladder" Club Room.  I had never seen "the Velvet Fog", so used my media invite on opening night to catch MEL with an 18-piece band (orchestra, really).  CKFM's Phil McKellar (a friend of TORME's) saw me, and we sat together.  I was dumb-founded watching/listening to this "singer's singer" roll through an 18-minute medley of Gershwin tunes with no sheet music, while the orchestra raced to catch up while flipping pages.  It was breathtaking.  As was his "A Nightingale Sang In Berkley Square" as you almost saw the leaves slowly lingering as they floated to London's ground.
    When the unforgettable show finished, McKellar turned to me and asked: "If you have the time and can wait for MEL to head back to his room and catch his breath, we can join him for a drink".  I didn't have to be asked twice.  From about 11:30 to 3:15 am, we sat on chairs or the floor, talking about everything: politics, gun control, capital punishment... then it turned to TORME's work. 
    He expressed his feelings about always being an "outsider;" a white jazz singer of standards who never made the pop charts, not much play on contemporary radio stations, never had even one hit.  Yet he described a week's gig at a "swish" upscale club in San Francisco.  He remembered after one evening's performance, the Maitre d' told him that they almost didn't let an old man into the room who was wearing an worn trench coat, sporting a shaggy growth on his face, so they just kept a watchful eye and he made no disturbance.
    A few weeks later MEL was doing a show in England, and had just returned to his hotel room late one night and the phone rang.  The voice of an older man sounded vaguely familiar, and the man teasingly chastised TORME by saying how difficult it was for (the caller) to locate him.  He continued by saying he had not dressed properly for MEL's San Francisco engagement, not knowing how fancy the venue was, and had barely been allowed in.  He said he wanted to tell the singer how he loved that night, and for years wanted to tell him he believed he was absolute top tier of any English language vocalist, of ANY genre.  TORME thanked him, and asked for his name.  The reply: "Bing Crosby".  MEL told us he could have been knocked over by a feather; that it was one of his most treasured moments of his entire life..... he did not know how to thank Mr. Crosby.  He told us that it was the moment he realized he wasn't really an outsider or a "wannabe;" he was actually loved by his toughest critics: his peers.
    I had hit a "wall" and felt it was time to leave.  Yet I had also just been given a gift: that story.  MEL was looking tired, his heavy eyes drooping a wee bit.  So as I thanked the singer and Phil for the wonderful evening, I turned to TORME as I stood and reached for the door.  I said: "You mentioned earlier about never having had a hit.  You know, there are one-hit wonders who are now tending bar in Hoboken, selling carpet or used cars in Los Angeles.  You wrote many songs, one of them a diamond that is played, recorded and loved yearly.  It's 'The Christmas Song' (first recorded by Nat King Cole).  If you never wrote another tune, sang another song, you have given the world a gift that is everlasting and will outlive anything else".
    Mr. TORME looked up at me, said he was too close to that seasonal chestnut to have thought of its impact or realized it's importance.  His tired eyes looked moist as he thanked me for that perspective, and said "Good night".
    So next time you hear "Chestnuts roasting on an open fire........" enjoy Cole's or one of hundreds other interpretations of that gem, but think about the modest man who felt second-rate, yet gave that gift directly to you.  One of many you and I have, that we unwrap every December!