(An excerpt from the yet to be published ‘Oh The Humanity – the memoirs of a less than memorable person’)
I have been lucky in my life to have touched greatness, the combination of time and place that made possible a chance to meet my heroes.
As a lad I used to work in downtown, or should I say under downtown Victoria, as stock boy for Sydney Reynolds, purveyors of fine china, at the corner of Government and Humboldt. To those who have never visited Victoria, Government and Humboldt sits kitty-corner to the Empress Hotel, across the street from the Inner Harbour. The store had been in this esteemed corner since about 1927, so to say it was ‘Old Victoria’ would be apt.
Anyway I digress, as I often do.
My boss, Geoff Reynolds, had rubbed shoulders with the rich and famous for most of his life, politicians, royalty, actors and actresses from Hollywood up for a getaway weekend. Although he had a habit of calling me ‘Wretched Boy’, Geoff was a prince of a man, puffing away on his pipe in his basement office or quick to show me the nuances of Royal Doulton.
As I was working away in the basement, packing yet another Radner Flowers for an American customer, Geoff yelled down from upstairs, “Wretched Boy, come meet an old friend of mine!”
I heard a deep laugh from above as I scampered up the stairs (did I mention it drives my wife to distraction that I cannot simply walk up stairs?).
There in the middle of the crystal room stood one of the largest men I have ever met. “Hello Mark”, boomed out the voice, “or do you prefer Wretched Boy?”, with another deep chuckle.
Geoff and John Wayne had been friends for many years, but to me it was a starstruck moment, meeting one of my heroes, who as it turned out was a really nice guy, soft spoken and courteous to a fault.
I have met other heroes, Anwar Sadat, Menachem Begin and Jimmy Carter (still a minor deity imho!) while I was serving in Ismailia and Tel Aviv, Marshall Tito on a trip to Damascus, Brian Mulroney on an early trip to Victoria. But one other hero has stood out to me above all else, filling me with a deep sense of loss this morning as I type.
It was 1979. I had just returned from the Middle East and taking an extended leave in Victoria – smelling the roses so to speak, listening to ‘Jazz In The Park’ at Cameron Bandshell, even hiking the perimeter of the city with Martin. After a year in the desert I was a little burnt out and in need of sea breezes and green grass!
One of my favourite parts of Victoria, then and now, is Beacon Hill Park. As time and chance would have it I was in Beacon Hill, just wandering about, when I came across a cairn memorial to a family of fishermen (and women) who had drowned off the Island. Deep in thought (one of the people who had drowned was a former classmate of mine), I didn’t hear the man walk softly up beside me.
“Did you know them?” he asked, in a quiet, clipped English accent.
“Yes, one was a classmate.” I replied, not really looking up from the cairn.
Without prompting I told the story, what I knew of it, to the man, who nodded sadly and spoke little.
I looked up and realized I was standing next to Roger Whittaker, who took time out of his busy schedule to listen to the story of a burnt out soldier. We talked for some time, his film crew waiting patiently to complete shooting whatever scene they were filming.
As he left I spoke after him “Thank you for your music, love it!”.
He smiled and nodded.
Truly a great person, a person first, with a gift of music that still brings a lump of memory into my throat.
Thank you Roger!