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Loss

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Charlie Watts
1941 – 2021
RIP

Charlie_Watts_Berlinale_2008.jpg: Siebbi derivative work: Miss-Sophie, Charlie Watts Berlinale 2008 cropped, CC BY 3.0

A less-happy side-effect of being gifted a moderately long life (and one of course with many years yet to run – one hopes!) is that as one ages one increasingly observes the passing not just of those who are close and loved, but also of major ‘public’ figures whose achievements and even whose simple existence has throughout the years touched the lives of so many. In this online journal I like to acknowledge those whose very passing, in my view, changes the world as we know it.

I was never the biggest Rolling Stones fan but I certainly acknowledge their genius within their field. At least two of their works are, as far as I am concerned, timeless classics: ‘Gimme Shelter‘ and ‘You Can’t Always Get What you Want‘.

I saw them once – at the old Wembley Stadium in London. Jagger was extraordinary but as a whole they somewhat underwhelmed. Even in that show, however, I couldn’t help but recognise the essential contribution that Charlie Watts made to the band’s sound. There are many technically gifted drummers in the world but there are few whose style is so distinctive that – even when maintaining a simple back-beat – they are instantly recognisable. Charlie Watts was numbered amongst that elite.

The many tributes already published make it clear that Watts was a thoroughly likeable, modest and self-effacing man who contrived to make it relatively unscathed through the mayhem that seemed to exemplify the Stones existence back in the latter part of the last century.

Can the Stones continue touring without Charlie Watts? Should they? Who knows – but he will be sadly missed by many…

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Two days ago I started a relatively light-hearted post on the subject of having to move into our basement to avoid the worst of the recent heatwave. By the time that I had finished and posted it yesterday the mood and tone of the piece had changed. News of the tragic sudden deaths of an unexpectedly high number of  the elderly and infirm of British Columbia certainly put into perspective the trivial inconvenience of having to transfer our sleeping arrangements into our basement.

My post had also made reference to a visit that I paid back in the 1980s to the hill station of Ootacamund in the Indian state of Tamil Nadu. I included a quotation by the first Lord Lytton concerning the ‘English’ nature of the rain and the mud at Ooty. This Lord Lytton was the very same (though I had not noticed the fact at the time of writing) for whom the small settlement (less than 250 inhabitants) in the Fraser valley in BC was named – the which was coincidentally also mentioned in my post yesterday as being the town that had – over the past three days – set three successive all-time heat records for Canada.

It is doubtful that many outside the country had even heard of Lytton – though some may have seen items in the international press on this new and unwanted record.

Today Lytton is gone!

On Wednesday afternoon a wildfire swept through the town so quickly that there was no time to issue evacuation orders. Residents grabbed what they could, took to their cars and fled. Within two hours ninety percent of the town had burned to the ground. Though loss of life is thought currently to be mercifully light, the loss of homes and property is not.

Our heartfelt thoughts are with all those who have suffered and those who will continue to suffer as a result of this climate-related episode and should any others wish to suggest that now is not the time to be raising such matters I can only say:

“Now is exactly the time!”…

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Those of you who know me well know how I can stand up for other people – wade in and have my voice heard.  Less so when it is very personal or if it is about me.  Although never said to me explicitly, I always sensed that I should stay quiet, hide, just in case.  In case what?  I didn’t know.  Being raised by a residential school survivor and a parent who spent time in a French Catholic orphanage I think it was bred in the bone.  Stay quiet – don’t cause anyone in ‘authority’ to pay attention to you because that never turns out well.  I am grateful I grew up loved and wanted and cared for and I love and admire my grandparents and parents and relations for who they are, all that they did and accomplished.   We are a family of survivors.

But when we are reminded, again, of the genocide of the first people and the children found buried at the same residential school where my grandmother and two aunties were forced to go, it is not a time to be quiet or hide.

Canada does not want to pay compensation to the remaining residential school survivors of St. Anne’s.

This school had the electric chair that they used to punish children and also to study the effects of electricity on the human body.

The information in the Canada Food Guide was informed by scientific studies on children in residential schools.  That is how we learned the minimum requirements of what a person needs to eat without dying or succumbing to disease.  It is not a surprise that my grandmother did not talk much about life at the residential school, but she did talk about always being hungry.  Always, always hungry.  Imagine in a land of plenty growing up starving, surrounded by people who treat you as if you are less than human.

There can be no question that children in residential schools were abused in so many ways.  They did not get to live with the people who loved them, who wanted them, and they watched their friends die and they were forced to dig their graves.

For all of these reasons, if you are moved to, I invite you to write an email or a letter to the Prime Minister of Canada (who, along with his cabinet, abstained from voting in a motion put forth by the NDP that Canada drop it’s ‘belligerent and litigious approach to justice) – that you don’t approve of these actions, that indigenous people are people.  That Canada drops all lawsuits against indigenous peoples.  That the millions of dollars spent fighting in courts be used to provide all reservations with clean water.  Stop arresting those who are protecting unceded territory, pay compensation to St Anne’s survivors.  It won’t undo past actions, but it is a meaningful act of reconciliation.  Every letter makes a difference.

This is not meant to make anyone feel badly – too many people do not know about this, or the extent of the horror.  We cannot change the past but if we do not face this, together, we, all of us, cannot heal.

All my relations

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No words

I try – for the most part – to keep the posts to this gazette relatively light-hearted, the which – for the most part – reflects the blessed lives that The Girl and I lead out here in Beautiful British Columbia. Regular readers will know that this praxis occasionally falls by the wayside should there be happenings out in the wider world on which I just feel the absolute need to comment.

It is our great good fortune that only very rarely are there circumstances in which the dark clouds gather nearer to home and that some grim situation intrudes upon our privileged existence.

This, sadly, is one such…

The Girl has been greatly affected in this last period by the news from our very doorstep of the terrible discovery of the unmarked graves of 215 children at the former Kamloops Residential School here in BC. This news has been published around that world and you may have already read something of it wherever you are. The Girl was… is… understandably deeply upset by the news and moved to put something into words.

With your indulgence I will upload her reflections in my next post:

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HRH Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh

1921 – 2021

RIP

There have already been many tributes paid to Prince Philip, who died today at the age of 99. There will be many more such in days to come. Our thoughts are with The Queen; she and the Duke had been married for seventy three years.

On such occasions it seems inevitable that all and sundry will trot out their anecdotes concerning the prince. For what it is worth – here is mine:

I was only once in the same space as the Duke – way back in the mists of time before the turn of century. I was invited to attend a Gala Dinner somewhere in the midlands of the UK in support of a charitable foundation that I can no longer can recall. Philip was doubtless the patron of said charity and was the guest of honour at the gala.

Now – it happened that on the night in question a very important (if such a thing there could be!) football match was taking place. I believe that it was the semi-final of some footie contest between England and Germany (or West Germany – depending exactly when this took place). There was much grumbling amongst the attendees of the dinner – many of whom would have preferred to be at home watching the game.

For a while the Master of Ceremonies – who was in any case making regular announcements – kept the assembled throng up to date with the score from the match, which England were at that point leading. Then all of a sudden the announcements dried up. Word went around the room that Germany had equalised and that Philip had decreed that no further updates should be given.

Several courses later I chanced to look around the room – which seemed less crowded than it had before. I was slightly surprised to observe that the Duke and I were amongst only a very few men left in the room, all others being of the fairer sex. Again, word went around that there was a large screen TV in the kitchens, the which had been thoughtfully provided so that the chefs could keep an eye on the game. Now – I have no interest in such matters and the Duke clearly could not slip out to have a look… so thus we remained.

Yet another while later and there was a muffled groan from somewhere offstage and all of a sudden a hoard of be-tuxed chaps wearing disconsolate expressions filed back into the room. It seemed that England had once again (as was/is their habit) lost on penalties.

I like to think that the Duke had been wise enough to have privately predicted the potential outcome and had thus made a smart choice.

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“Dying is not romantic, and death is not a game which will soon be over…Death is not anything…death is not…It’s the absence of presence, nothing more…the endless time of never coming back…a gap you can’t see, and when the wind blows through it, it makes no sound…”

Tom Stoppard – Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead

You would think that – given the unprecedented times in which we live – intimations of our mortality would be constantly lurking on the periphery of our minds… or at the very least intruding upon us – un-looked for – in quieter moments when the hubbub of the world dies away.

If it does not do so – and the behavior that we see on the news-reels suggests that it may indeed not – then that is probably because there is something in our makeup that makes us determinedly believe that – “it ain’t gonna happen to us“!

That may well be an essential mechanism for our very sanity…

There are – however – times when these things sneak up on us and give us a nasty fright.

The Girl was obliged to visit the Victoria General Hospital the other day for what is blandly labelled (so as not to frighten the horses!) – a ‘procedure’. This procedure was of the sort to which us chaps need never give a second thought, but that ladies of a certain age sometimes do. It was to be carried out in Surgical Daycare and was billed as a quick in-and-out – nothing to worry about…

…except that it was to be done under a general anesthetic…

…except that – because of COVID-19 restrictions – all I could do was to drop the Girl off at the front door and then pick her up there again later – once they had called me to let me know that she was ready to go.

The procedure was scheduled for 2:45pm and she had to be there two hours ahead of time. The procedure itself would be pretty quick but, of course, recovering from the anesthetic can take a wee while. We estimated that she could be ready any time from 4-ish to about 7-ish…

All I could do was to go home and wait.

The gentle reader will be well ahead of the curve by this point…

Yes – I did fine up until about 6:00pm, but I have to admit that as the clock ticked forward past 6:30pm – with no word at all from the Victoria General – a part of my normally satisfyingly logical mind started to run through the various alternative scenarios. However much one tells oneself that all is as it should be and that delays and diversions are to be expected with this sort of… er – operation – it became increasingly difficult not to start imagining the worst…

…and I have to tell you – that was not a pleasant experience.

All is good! Surgical Daycare called me at about 6:45pm. The Girl is fine and raring to go (within the usual bounds of taking things easy for a bit) and all gloomy thoughts have been banished once more to the outer darkness.

Strange thing – the mind…

 

 

 

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Missing out

“You could grow up in the city where history was made and still miss it all.”

Jonathan Lethem – ‘The Fortress of Solitude’

We are – when all is said and done – having a good pandemic!

Now, should the gentle reader take offence at my flippancy (a fair call one might say) consider that – compared to those who have lost loved ones – to those who have themselves been ill – to those who have lost their livelihoods – to those, even, who have had to endure lock-down separated from family or in cramped and unsuitable quarters… we are undoubtedly blessed a thousand times over.

I hope that you will forgive me for wishing that, for us, it will remain that way. I truly wish that all were similarly blessed.

Even so…

It is difficult to look back at the autumns (falls) of previous years without a certain wistfulness adding itself to my habitual autumnal melancholia. Since The Girl and I found our way to these shores more than half a decade ago we have noted that Canadians (well, Victorians certainly) are in the habit of leavening the often dreary run in to the festive season by means of a variety of diversions and entertainments. We have – quite naturally – happily joined in.

Looking back over the past five years of autumnal blog entries I can see that music has featured strongly: Our annual rendezvous with Barney Bentall’s Cariboo Express has become almost a tradition and the season has also featured other regular charity concerts, such as those supported by Victoria’s ‘New Orleans inspired Funk Brouhaha‘ outfit The Hi Fi. The last few years have also seen one or more of us in attendance at gigs by artists such as Simple Minds, Cowboy Junkies and Skerryvore.

Theatre has also featured strongly. The Belfry usually starts its new season in the fall with us in anxious attendance, hoping for signs that this season will be a ‘doozy’ and that – come springtime – we will not be feeling faintly dissatisfied (as we occasionally do) with the fare on offer. Now is also the time of year that Intrepid Theatre normally goes into full-on fund-raising mode, with its annual ‘Merry & Bright‘ event at The Atrium downtown.

Not this year – of course…

I see also from my retrospective perusing that we have on more than one occasion enjoyed a trip to Vancouver during this season – often with some Rugby involvement. We had tickets this year for the Rugby Canada Halloween Event at BC Place in Vancouver which would have featured Canada, the USA, Fiji and an All Black XV. We had even booked our hotel!

We still have on our mantle a slightly sorry stack of tickets for various events – all of which have been postponed and will (hopefully) be rescheduled when it is safe so to do. But for now…

Sigh!!

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Sean Connery

1930 – 2020

RIP


Image by <a href="https://pixabay.com/users/skeeze-272447/?utm_source=link-attribution&amp;utm_medium=referral&amp;utm_campaign=image&amp;utm_content=394756">skeeze</a> from <a href="https://pixabay.com/?utm_source=link-attribution&amp;utm_medium=referral&amp;utm_campaign=image&amp;utm_content=394756">Pixabay</a>
There is very little that can be said in addition to all that has been and will be printed on the subject of the sad passing of Sir Sean Connery. To those of us who grew up in the 1960’s he was an icon – a legend – a larger than life character who somehow managed to encapsulate the dreams and ambitions of that age… almost certainly without any intention of so doing.

There will be many lists of favourite or best performances: my two top Connery films – “The Man Who Would be King” (an incomparable pairing with Michael Caine) and – unsurprisingly – “Goldfinger”.

In later life even a minor cameo in some otherwise mediocre picture would almost inevitably imbue the project with an added sheen, a sparkle that it might not otherwise have deserved at all. And should you think this mere hyperbole – well, you may be right – but there was a world in which Sean Connery was alive… and now there is not.

A sad day…

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Ennio Morricone

1928 – 2020

RIP

 

We are fortunate that – in this world and at this time – we are as a civilization blessed with a sizeable number of good composers of film and television soundtracks. A considerably smaller subset of that number may actually be counted amongst the great composers, whose works will outlast them.

There are – however – only a very, very small number who can rightfully be considered and lauded as geniuses…

…and – as of today – there is one less.

Much that need be known about the importance of Morricone’s scores (even those for films that in themselves scarcely merited such adornment) can be gleaned from the widely reported fact that parts of the scores for Sergio Leone’s initial trilogy of ‘Spaghetti Western’ films were recorded before the filming was started; the antithesis of usual practice. This was done so that Leone could use the music during filming as a backdrop against which to choreograph the action.

My personal favourites – which contain music that can move me to tears on any day, let alone one as sad as this – are the scores for “The Mission” (which was a huge influence on me) and for “Cinema Paradiso”.

I leave the gentle reader and the vagaries of Google to provide a suitable soundtrack to this posting.

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Tone

I find myself taken aback by just how upset I am at the point of the UK leaving the EU.

I am not going to say anything more (just now) as to the rights/wrongs/inadvisability/sheer stupidity of this particular turn of events – feeling it appropriate to let things take their course for now and to try to keep just the tiniest bit of an open mind as to the likelihood of the current administration actually managing to make a decent fist of things… or at least to not cock things up so badly as to render them un-fixable. I must admit, however, that on their track record thus far the portents are not propitious.

I am quite capable of keeping my sadness and gloom to myself and not burdening others with them and I reluctantly accept that a certain amount of triumphalism by those who are never going to know better is inevitable. There are some things that are, however, simply unacceptable – and this is one of them:

www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2020/feb/02/norwich-anti-racism-protest-brexit-day-poster

I cannot begin to get my mind around the sort of thinking that would persuade a fellow member of my nation that it was in any way at all acceptable to even entertain such thoughts, let alone to try to advertise them to or to force them upon other human beings. The sort of crude exceptionalism that this represents can sadly be once again found in other parts of the western world and all such examples carry most regrettable resonances of a regime from darker and more dangerous times.

So – in the interests of keeping the tone appropriately light – I leave the gentle reader with an extract from J. M. Barrie’s ‘Peter and Wendy‘. The current UK Prime Minister in particular should have good reason for bearing its relevance in mind.

“But above all he retained the passion for good form.

Good form! However much he may have degenerated, he still knew that this is all that really matters.

From far within him he heard a creaking as of rusty portals, and through them came a stern tap-tap-tap, like hammering in the night when one cannot sleep. ‘Have you been good form to-day?’ was their eternal question.

‘Fame, fame, that glittering bauble, it is mine,’ he cried.

‘Is it quite good form to be distinguished at anything?’ the tap-tap from his school replied.

‘I am the only man whom Barbecue feared,’ he urged; ‘and Flint himself feared Barbecue.’

‘Barbecue, Flint—what house?’ came the cutting retort.

Most disquieting reflection of all, was it not bad form to think about good form?”

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.

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“If Smee was lovable, what was it that made him so? A terrible answer suddenly presented itself: ‘Good form?’

Had the bo’sun good form without knowing it, which is the best form of all?

He remembered that you have to prove you don’t know you have it before you are eligible for Pop.”

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