​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!

The first year I was privileged to work at (then) Canada's premiere radio station CFRB, I was asked to substitute host the hour-long Betty Kennedy interview program.  Along with potential guests suggested by her researcher-producer, I wanted to include several of the big name broadcasters long affiliated with the station.  One was the longevity and ratings leader, legendary morning show announcer Wally Crouter.  The other was beloved news commentator and reader Jack Dennett.
My theory was that the audience would be intrigued to hear directly from the human being behind the voices they knew and relied upon, like family.  Part of Dennett's duties included delivering the top-rated 8 am news, which was always sold-out with national sponsors such as Ford, who would have to wait years for an opening to occur just to get into the commercial rotation.

When Jack rolled into the studio (just a year before he was to leave us at age 59), he told some wonderful stories about his life, work and a few interesting inside radio station stories.  Dennett was so highly thought of, it would take him an hour to cross the floor of a convention centre fund-raiser event, as everyone who saw him wanted to say "hello" and happily shake his hand.  

Jack had the prime-time morning news shift, which meant that he was on air with major newscasts in and around number-one rated Crouter.  Yet his modesty came through, as he mentioned that Wally's huge audience, not his own talents, was responsible for the station's highest ratings, even greater than those of New York.  No wonder that listeners loved the warm-voiced, thoughtfully intelligent delivery that came through each morning as people began their daily toils.  He was the real deal, modest to the core and totally unaffected by his public stature.

My favourite as Jack told it, was one about Sinclair.  Long before the famous station was to move "uptown" to Yonge and St. Clair (which "Sinc" bellyached about because he thought the marble hallways and state-of-the-art studios were too "upscale" for his taste), it was located more in the commercial heart of town in the old Creed's building on Bloor Street, where the cement towers of the Manulife Centre now stand.  It was a frequent habit of Dennett and Sinclair to dine together at a luncheonette further along the busy Toronto east-west thoroughfare.

As Mr. Dennett told us, it was one of the coldest days of the year as he and publicly-proclaimed millionaire newsman Gordon Sinclair (who liked to challenge the audience by saying: "If I can do it, so can you!") headed out in their warmest winter finery.  On their way along the high-rent district, they passed a beggar on the sidewalk, with his hand out for a contribution.  Sinclair muttered his complaint to Dennett, suggesting that the man's fate would be different if he would simply get a job.

Upon reaching the simple restaurant, Gordon told Jack to order his usual; he had remembered to get something left behind at the radio station.  A few minutes later when Sinclair returned, his companion noticed he was without his expensive Harris Tweed overcoat, and mentioned it to Sinc.  Gordon growled, remarked that he must have left it back at his office, and would not talk about it further.  

Later, as the two left the luncheonette on their way back to CFRB, Sinclair quietly said: "I also must have lost my favourite pair of gloves!" as he jammed his hands into his suit pockets.  When Jack said what a wonderful thing Gordon had done, Sinclair just said "We will not speak of this, again!"

We had conceived "The BLUENOSE OPERA HOUSE" as a maritime version of "Prairie Home Companion", as a new radio program filled with lots of original "down home" stories mixed with music beloved and created by Atlantic Canadians.  It was to be a vehicle promoting the arts in every form, plus new ideas involving innovative business startups; and would occasionally feature young people who've headed back in this direction (bucking out-migration) to realize a dream.  Without being stuck in the past, we wanted to counter internet, text messaging and unlimited video distractions by passing along our stories before they are lost.

We launched a radio pilot in front of a "live" audience at the Old Confidence Lodge (IOOF Hall) in Riverport some years ago.  Between music sets of rock, jazz, folk, bluegrass, blues, country, we told stories of the Maritimes in a character building that had no heat -- on a dank April day -- but over 90 audience members kept the enthusiasm and warmth going.  Musicians contributed their fine talent from the South Shore and Halifax areas... all for the "reward" of helping launch an unproven idea, speculating that it might work if given a chance.

It couldn't work.  The senior CBC management were quite enthused when they heard a copy of the show, but warned that budgets were tight... and getting worse.  Commercial stations had mostly become (thanks to the CRTC) computerized juke boxes with few local exceptions. "Music-driven" in the parlance meant hardly any personality or passion like radio used to have, and certainly no stimulating talk and interviews.  We were up against the wall.


While I was painting (a wall) one day, I thought: "Either the idea was dead being not right for the times, or we needed to think outside of the box." (how difficult when you'd been working, planning this thing for six years!).  Going back to square one, I stepped back and remembered two things.

The first was recalling that Britain's BBC had incredible success with the longest-running radio show ever: the ever-popular "Desert Island Discs".  Prominent guests (castaways) were invited onto the program to play their favourite music they'd have with them if stranded on an...... island.  Quite revealing in their choices: music they remembered in their parents' home, songs they danced to as kids, a tune that inspired them by lifting spirits even on a grey day (we all have them) or was privately "their song" with their partner.

My second memory was from my first year in radio.  It was the height of the Beatles (1968.... I must have been three!) when I received a call after 2 am while playing music on the "graveyard shift".  The caller was George Harrison calling from a rest area payphone (there were no cellphones back then) while traveling through by limousine at night (no dark out windows either, at the peak of "Beatlemania") as his wife (Patti Boyd) was sleeping.  It was the coldest night of the year (February) and George talked with me for over 20 minutes until his voice was shaking from the cold.  His last words were: "Paul, you have my dream job".  (me): "What?  I'm doing an all-night show on the second floor of the Exide Battery factory!"  (GH): "Someday when we're out of this damned gilt cage, I want to sit in a radio studio like you're doing, talk about other people's music, then play it!".

I continued painting the wall, thinking about those two ideas.  The last thing I wanted was to mimic every other show, including the syndicated ones that play non-stop music introduced by (yet another) formatted, bubble-headed DJ with no depth or even music history knowledge.  How do you do that with today's economic realities?  

Then it hit me: combine those two concepts and have a different Guest Co-Host for each show, who not only brings in their favourite, meaningful music, but actually introduces it themselves.  Who better to do it?  In between, have a kitchen chat about their life's work, their story.  NOT an incisive, go-for-the-jugular interview, but a real look into their life and learn what makes them tick.  It's also another way to vibrantly learn about our culture and rich heritage and bring it to life with real people telling their own stories in their own language, as imperfect and fun as that may be.  The music would be theirs, mixed in with Atlantic Canadian-originated work and the music Maritimers love from around the world.

While mulling all of that over, I went to a Petite Riviere (NS) songwriters' circle that featured four musicians.  Talented Kev Corbett took a turn, introducing his song (somewhat like this -- may not be accurate): "Went back to visit my dad in the house I grew up in, headed upstairs to my old bedroom, looked out the window at the same view I knew so well for so many years...." (or some such, forgive me Kev) but more importantly, he then went into the title song of his newest release called "Son Of A Rudderless Boat" and a huge bell went off in my head.  "That's IT!" I silently exclaimed to no one. Who better to introduce a song than the creator of it, or someone who has taken ownership of it.... NOT some mindless DJ following a format in a sterile studio!  (Thanks Kev).

At that point something kicked in, and I promised myself that I would take those concepts, merge them and create a program with a little more depth than you'd hear almost anywhere.  After much writing, years of planning, changing, fine-tuning, we launched the first "BLUENOSE OPERA HOUSE" radio show on November 20th, 2011.  Novelist William Kowalski agreed to test the waters and Co-Host with me, using CKBW (Acadia Broadcasting) in Bridgewater, Nova Scotia as the platform.  This, thanks to the belief, encouragement and support of (wonderfully big-hearted and community-minded) Program Director John Wiles, who had let us use their old studios to edit the earlier pilot.

We recorded the show about six days before actual airing on Sunday night.  Neighbours and pals including MLA Pam Birdsall and Canadian Senator Wilfred Moore (who sat on the floor for the entire two hours) gathered at our home to hear it for themselves, as my "brother" (who was out of town) Mayor Don Downe sent his best wishes.  

Other community-minded stations (including Seaside radio in Halifax) were telling us they liked the concept, and the first to launch outside of Acadia in Bridgewater (with repeaters in Liverpool and Shelburne) was Antigonish broadcasting in June (with transmitter repeaters in northern Cape Breton at Inverness and Pleasant Bay); then adding "The Coast" radio in Glace Bay (southeast Cape Breton) in September, really meant we were covering significant parts of Nova Scotia.  All along, including hearing actual shows (not just the edited pilot) CBC Atlantic Canada has been an enormous supporter.

Our mail comes from most provinces across Canada, many American states from Florida to Washington, plus Mexico, Greenland, Spain, England and elsewhere.  Some may say we produce a variety show, but the real "glue" are the Guest Co-Hosts, who tell their own story mixed in with their music...THEIR way.