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Requiem for a Coach

My first thought was brilliant — they always seem to be — where else could the wake for Coach Wright be but in the tiny, tiled box of a gym where he spent so many thousands of hours with his “kids”, this never-married father of none? The Caledonia Sweatbox, the dim, cramped but comfortable Blue Devils’ lair, where half-court shots were no longer than an NBA three-pointer, where big-footed forwards needed to turn sideways to get their Chuck Taylor high-cuts completely out of bounds…

But what if there are only twenty people there? That gave me pause; even in that bandbox of a gym, twenty voices would make for some unfairly desolate echoes. As it happens, my grand thought was punctured, and for the best. As it is with too many aspects of sporting and educational life these days, the bureaucratic and custodial hoops we’d have had to jump through were too many, so we didn’t celebrate Don Wright’s life of ball-bouncing generosity in the centre court circle of The Gym, as madly poetic as that might have been.

We did better. The community hall we got was perfect. (Its hardwood floor was a far better surface than we ever played on in the old town high school.) What do you need, really, when it’s time to pay tribute to the life of a man – once painfully shy and young and slender, but by his last days grey and limping and carrying too much goddam weight – who gave to our youthfulness and to our kids whatever he had? Nothing but the people, as it turned out, and they were there. We were referees, athletes’ parents, fellow coaches, former players and friends. (I was all of these things. A five-time winner.)

Dave B was there. He had been to Don something I never was: a young coach who got to discover, years later in repeatedly teasing conversations, that he had cut the man we were honouring when Don was an earnest and under-skilled twelve-year-old. Dave and his wife Georgia had made sure, for the last several years, that Coach Donny had a place to go for Christmas dinner. (They also did most of the coffee-making, cookie-dealing and cleanup for the memorial. The Basketball Family lives.) Dave, the nearly legendary “Bart” of the Hamilton hoops community, had been with Don one of “the usual suspects” when it came to college and high school basketball games, especially for girls’ and women’s teams. His eulogy at the service had some good laughs, but it was serious business. It even allowed a glimpse of anger, for Bart wanted it known that his friend, our friend, was more than might’ve met the eye. Bart had seen and heard too much of those who dismissed the Coach as either a has-been or “some old guy, whatever”. He made earnest and teary amends.

Most of those who spoke after Bart were former players, though there were some old friends and fellow coaches that he’d never blown a whistle at. (Come to think of it, he rarely blew one at any of us. He had no interest in the whistle. He wanted his voice to be enough. It was.) The sharing was utterly informal, as Don had insisted and would have liked, but at least one former Ontario West university All-Star, an experienced teacher, had written her remarks in order to have some anchor, some way to not “lose it”. Mind you, she’d already lost it twice before her turn came, and duly lost it again, but my goodness, weren’t these the best kind of “losses”: of composure, of emotional restraint, of the kind of busy life-living that sometimes leads us to forget to say “thanks” to those who built us? Cindy and I weren’t the only ones to lose it more than once, and we gained so much by really feeling what we felt.

There were about 100 of us. It was a grand reunion, including the core of my own high school team from three decades gone. Present, too, were about ten young women, high schoolers who looked a little bewildered and felt, for a while, out of place. They were members of the last teams that my old buddy Don, sore and often discouraged, gave his last weary hours of coaching to. They honoured “Mr. Wright” by their presence, and they went away knowing more of the man than they had, and wishing perhaps that they had found a way to give something back to him. We all did.

So long, Coach. Thanks for all the sweat, the hope, the ideals. Keep caring for us as we do for you. Fare well, brother.

[I also wrote an “In Memoriam” for Donald Edward, and it’s in the “On Second Thought” section. It gives a more clear picture of the man and what he did.]

How to Know You’re a Nerd

One sure indication of this FINE and immensely under-valued condition — Nerditude — will be your interest in turning to the On Second Thought section of the site. There, Your Nerdiness may find, for all your insomniac needs, an essay that I just completed for an undergrad English course in 20th-century American fiction. Hemingway. Anderson. Faulkner. Pynchon. Nabokov. Erdrich. Morrison. And among these greats was John Updike, of whose many novels I had somehow managed to read precisely none before this enforced novelizing. I read The Centaur, one of his least-known novels. Twice. And then I wrote about its depiction of a father and son.

If I Had Only Had…

It’s a perfect day to account for my failings as a writer, quite apart from the practical consideration that I have to teach school today. The call came. It came to me. I’m a class act.

I find myself at one of the real centres of juvenile creativity in Canada, Canterbury High School. It’s a specialized arts school. The annual musical is spectacular, and a far more important event than any number of Big Football Games. (Actually, there is no football at Canterbury. There aren’t even that many boys at CHS; it’s about a 70/30 split. The kids who attend here because they live in the immediate district are also a minority. They’re called “Generals”, as opposed to “Visuals” or “Instrumentals” or “Vocals”, and they can find it a hard place to come in some respects. The place is crammed with keeners who applied from all over the region to come here and dance, sing, play, act, paint, sculpt and write. It may still be the only school in the country with a Literary Arts program. My family’s move to Ottawa five years ago was made, in large measure, because Son the Third had been admitted here as a ninth-grade writer. It was a 500-kilometre move, and an easy decision, finally, and a wonderfully fruitful one.

Replacing Ms. Barkley today, my Dave’s ninth- and twelfth-grade writing guru, I’m in a class where to write myself seems not only possible but necessary. Grade 12s. Supremely pleasant and diligent and highly motivated, which does not suggest that they are not also distracted by the epic conversational possibilities with fellow writers they’ve shared and performed and edited and sweated with for four years now. Still, they don’t need much from me. It’s a strange kind of a high school. It’s beyond okay to be smart, to read, to care about social issues and cultural richness. Among the seniors, it verges on being a requirement, which explains why coming from the school catchment area without actually belonging to the Arts Canterbury crowd can be a bit of a trial. Generals. Of course, it could be a rich and fascinating place to wind up in if, say, you were a smart, sophisticated and confident adolescent, unbounded by cliques and suspicion. In other words, for only a few.

But back to me. (It’s all about me.) I am prone to think, Gosh. Sons One and Two would have been so much more at home or challenged or stimulated by a high school experience like this one. But I am also subject to selfish and exculpatory thoughts: Damn, if I’d been exposed to the idea that writers were real, if I’d had the chance to be among other kids that read as much or more than I did, if I’d been encouraged to write and party ARTY when I was young, I wouldn’t find the literary learning curve so steep in my advancing age. I coulda bin a contendah. I coulda bin a star. Yeah, I just didn’t get the breaks. Sigh. Et cetera.

All of which helps me not at all, but it’s a soothing diversion. And it’s writing, and so am I. And it’s now. And the bell hasn’t even rung yet. Maybe I’ll even get around to posting about the WritersFest, as I recently promised.

WritersFest: A Paranthetical, Not to Say Apologetic, Remark

I spent a little less than my usual night-haunting, all-day-Saturday-slouching-from-venue-to-bathroom-to-venue, inspiration-sucking hours at the Ottawa International Writers Festival this year. However, I do have some discoveries and some mental meanderings to report.

(Disclosure alert: For those of you who live in the Ottawa area, of COURSE I know that the Fest finished two weeks ago. It’s Slow News, like the Slow Food Movement, linger over the pleasures of life, “the purpose of life is not to increase its speed”, slow is good, “literature is news that stays news”, I want a man with a slow hand…)

(Nota bene: For those of you blissfully ignorant of subterranean artistic currents in Canada’s capital — that is, you don’t live in Ottawa — this is HOT OFF THE PRESSES! LATE-BREAKING NEWS! IT’S WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW RIGHT NOW!)

(No more parantheses.)

This was the 12th annual WritersFest. It’s a father and son story, two stubbornly bright men who didn’t know back then that what they wanted to do made no sense and would never get off the ground. Well, it does and it has. Here’s to Neil and Sean Wilson, and all the believers in their absurd, delightful and ever-more-substantial dreams.

Spirit, Ethics and Climate Change Action: IEF 3

Here’s a third quick instalment on the International Environment Forum’s conference earlier in October. As with the earlier three synopses, I give you a link to somewhat more expansive notes that I posted on the IEF site. The following link takes you to a news story, with photos, from the Canadian Baha’i community. (It focusses especially on the Friday sessions that I didn’t attend.)

Here’s a peek at what Saturday afternoon’s IEF session had to offer.

Living Lightly, With a Smile

David Chernushenko is an environmental consultant, activist, and author, and a former deputy leader of the Canadian Green Party. He took the conversation from the abstract and the global to tangible, immediate and home-based actions. His personal motto is “live lightly”: reduce our ecological footprints and do it with joy.

He emphasizes the following characteristics. Resilience. (Are we ready to ride out the rough spots?) Integrity. (Walk the talk.) Empowerment. (Are we encouraging our children?) Equity & Fairness. (Am I taking more than my share of the planet’s resources?) Redefining growth. (It’s not all economic indicators.) Humility. (Who do we think we ARE?) With that in mind, he suggested a range of simple, practical steps that any family can take. Make one step. Then make another. It’s simple, and it’s light. (Upon light!)

“Learning to Make Responsible Choices: The Consumer Citizen Network”

Victoria Thoresen, Ms. Thoresen, an Education professor from Norway and the manager of the CCN, challenged the conference. Many of her frankly imploring messages – I beg of you, please consider… — urged the perspective of parents and teachers, and the needs of their children/youth, about these concepts:

SufficiencyHow much is enough? How do we withstand the barrage of materialism? Courage. Sustainable consumption has powerful enemies. Encouragement is golden. Diversity of response. Not everybody should be doing the same thing, even if it was possible!
Empathy. Thoresen, with her wide travel and international experience, called upon us to remember how the majority of humans live. “We are only a small corner of the world, even if we DO own most of it!”

Dr. Thoresen also implored us to remain mindful of the UN Decade for Sustainable Development, 2005-2014, as well as the earnest United Nations’ Millennium Goals which many have already forgotten. She spoke briefly of the Consumer Citizenship Network (“’consumer’ is such a bad word in Canada!”) and its work to create debate and enlightenment about “the pressing need for consumers to understand the ethical choices that they make”. She concluded:

For humanity’s nobility to emerge, its qualities of trustworthiness, compassion, selflessness, dedication, loyalty, sacrifice and service need to be nurtured and gain ascendancy over its selfish, baser impulses.”

Retroactivity Is Still Activity, Right? (IEF 2)

I live in a mental and emotional framework in which, much to my bride’s consternation, time is elastic and late is a long sight better than not at all. Besides, as one of the great thinkers said, literature is news that STAYS news…

Not that my two-week-old reports on the International Environment Forum’s 11th conference are literature — my hubris has bounds — but the ideas and the challenges that bubbled during those consultations are as current as next year’s news. Such is my justification for this late report: this stuff MATTERS, no matter how tardy the messenger is. As before, I’ll give you a quick taste and link to the more full report on the IEF site, where there’s even some moderate-quality video, too.

Saturday afternoon, October 13: Local Eco-Action

Here is the briefest of summaries of a panel discussion on the theme “Value-Based Approaches to Environmental Action”, and featured two of Ottawa’s citizen leaders and an American guest.

Jessica Lax spoke of the Otesha Project, a “light living” NGO that seeks to empower and train young people. This initiative of Ms. Lax and friends came after a life-changing period of service in Africa. With joy and practiced optimism, Otesha’s theatrical and bike-tour activities have made a strong impact on the youth culture of Ottawa.

Clive Doucet is one of Canada’s strongest voices for re-imagining cities. His work for the greening of Ottawa, as a city councillor, has allowed him to see both what is possible and the nature of the obstacles to those advancements. Check out his book Urban Meltdown here.

Peter Adriance is the NGO liaison for the National Spiritual Assembly of the Baha’is of the United States. He outlined some of the experiences and learnings of various elements of the American Baha’i community, and its collaborations with other faith-based organizations. Movingly, he told of grassroots development among impoverished women in Kenya, and struggling American fishers.

Session 2: The Development of Moral Capabilities

“Let your vision be world-embracing, rather than confined to your own selves.” This famous passage from the Baha’i writings, Gordon Naylor (a member of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Baha’is of Canada), began, is a radical call to moral and ethical advancement.

He urged the participants to adopt a humble, learning mode about the developments of human civilization to come. We don’t know and can’t imagine the civilization that we need to build, and we shouldn’t waste time and energy trying to make it in our own drastically limited images. Mutual encouragement is key. We must find ways to joyfully appreciate the talents and capacities of others. A mature respect for the rights of others is another of these capacities.

At Nur University in Bolivia, a set of 19 moral capabilities was developed to allow rural communities to move forward. They include the capability to:

• evaluate one’s own strengths and weaknesses without ego
• imbue one’s actions and thoughts with love
• take initiative in a creative and disciplined way
• contribute to the establishment of justice

Mr. Naylor advocates the following elements of a moral framework.
1. An orientation of service to the common good.
2. Leadership whose purpose is individual and social transformation.
3. Twin moral responsibilities to truth: know it, enact it. (Serve it.)
4. Transcendence through vision.
5. Belief in the essential nobility of the human being.
6. The development of capabilities.
7. Commitment to a world-embracing vision.

A Little Blubber With My Breakfast: MORTAL CITY

You know, you think that everything’s peaceful. Crazybird has caught his bus, Ladybird has madly pedalled her way into the professional distance, and there is bread in the toaster. A small hit of sports news so as not to feel left out of the loop of entirely imaginary conversations. (Will I speak to anyone today who cares that the World Series starts tonight?) A knife from the drawer, a practised flip from Tuner to CD and wherever it was that I paused last night’s silvered, tuneful progression of disks. Some even date from this century.

Where was I? Dar Williams, American folksinger, a 1996 album called Mortal City. I smile during my artful bread-spreading at the whimsical meanderings of “Southern California Wants To Be Western New York”. Smart fun. The title song is last. She recorded it in her bedroom. It has made my throat catch and my chest heave before this, but I’m not ready for that at 8:37 in the morning with honey dripping off my whole wheat. “Mortal City” has breathy, uncertain voicings, rueful humour, soaring loneliness, and good old-fashioned gentleness. Altruism lives. People find each other, at least for one night. There is crisis and self-doubt and tiny victories, and harmonies so longing that they hurt. This is a song that never would have made the radio even in the ‘good old days’, whenever that was, and not only because it’s seven minutes and fourteen seconds long and has only the most sombre and subtle of hooks. It doesn’t make me want to even think about dancing.

Dar Williams has done this to me before. She writes some of the most clever and feeling stuff there is. Good morning.

The World Serious: Game One

Just for fun, I’m going to not only watch Game One of the World Series tonight — it’s the Colorado Rockies against the Boston Red Sox, and it’s BASEBALL, a curious game played mainly in the U.S. and Latin America — but also write my urbane and knowing commentary on the whole she-bang. My site isn’t really well-equipped for this up-to-the-minute reporting, but my basic article will swell in volume, if not in perspicacity and wit, as the evening goes on.

You’ll find this in the It’s All About SPORTS!  section, though I’ll no doubt be ranting about the broadcast and the commercials and the fact that most of the alleged Red Sox won’t even have a red sock showing…

IEF: A Backward Glance

One of the main things that I wasn’t posting about when JH.com was down was a conference that had absorbed my family unit for several months before it actually happened. EcoBride was one of the main organizers of the 11th annual conference of the International Environment Forum, a collection of people inspired by the teachings of the Baha’i Faith to seek out ecological understanding and action. This was the first time the IEF has conferred formally in Canada, and I saw many of the anxious hours, the e-mail flurries and the telephone marathons that make an event like this happen. I am glad that the conference is over, partly because it was superb and I got to be present for a lot of it. I’d almost say that I’m getting my wife back, except that she now has more invitations to speak and will soon be off to Sweden for a more work-related gathering on eco-labelling practices. (There will likely not be a JH report on the mysteries of consumer environmental regulations…)

I won’t give you the full summaries — I wrote for the on-line discussion, and will link you to these more complete notes — but I want to offer you some of the flavour of this conference, entitled Responding to Climate Change: Scientific Realities, Spiritual Imperatives.

An Inconvenient Truth, by Gerbis!  (13 October, morning)

Michael Gerbis is the CEO of the Delphi Group, an Ottawa environmental consulting company, and one of 20 Canadians who have been trained by Al Gore in giving this presentation on the causes, effects and solutions to global climate change. The challenging irony of the situation was clear early in Mike’s presentation – the majority of attendees have already seen An Inconvenient Truth, and some have read the book. Preaching to the converted, of course, and the implicit challenge of how to take this message to those whose lives, politics, education or commitments leave them outside the “in-group” of environmentalists. One of Gerbis’s solutions is to take it to the schools, a very different audience from this one!

“We don’t inherit the earth from our ancestors; we borrow it from our children and grandchildren.” Mike, father of two, began in this vein of native spirituality. This is a businessman, someone who has decided to seek out the opportunities presented by ecological imperatives. His approach is not primarily a spiritual one, but his presentation fit well into the overall search of this conference for the ethical and moral dimensions of this scientifically complex phenomenon of climate change. Mr. Gerbis’s contribution was that of a sobering reminder and a summary of the overwhelming scientific consensus that will perhaps eventually filter down to inform the consciousness of the mass of citizens, in Canada and everywhere.

  • The correlation between the accumulation of so-called “greenhouse gases” and increasing global temperatures are now clear; the 10 hottest years on record have ALL occurred in the last 14 years. Crazy weather is now a staple of newscasts, and we’re starting to believe what scientists are in the process of proving.
  • Among the most stunning visuals for me show the retreat of the glaciers world-wide. The Inuit, of course, see this at first hand in their hunting and living grounds.
  • We’ve lost 20% of the world’s coral reefs, and much more is desperately threatened.
  • Gerbis, a businessman, finds the countervailing economic arguments very short-sighted and limiting. There are major economic opportunities out there, which his own company is based upon.
  • Australia has had five “hundred-year droughts” in the last ten years. This and other “freak” occurrences are increasing exponentially. They are accelerating.
  • This is most dramatically seen, perhaps, in the rapid melting of the Greenland and Antarctic ice shelves, and is beginning to be seen in low-lying territories.
  • But perhaps the biggest problem is our way of thinking: our denial, our unwillingness to sacrifice privilege and comfort and the apparently urgent imperatives of economic growth.
  • And get this straight, says Mr. Gerbis: there is NO lack of scientific consensus; there has never been anything about which practising scientists (as opposed to industry lobbyists) have been more in agreement about.

As with Nobel Peace Prize winner Al Gore’s documentary, it was a sobering picture, but not a despairing one. The scientific and technical prowess to make dramatic changes exists, but the ethical impetus is still lacking. The main place of change is in people’s hearts. Gerbis concluded with these words of Martin Luther King, given in a different context but applicable to this global emergency:

“When people get caught up with that which is right and they are willing to sacrifice for it, there is no stopping point but victory. Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”

It is our moral obligation to do everything we can to give the planet back to our children in such a way that it will benefit them; the earth will be fine, it’s not going anywhere, but will it be a liveable place for those that follow us?

A Planet, Several Moons and a WORLD

My reading list is always long, all the more so now that, just for fun, I’m doing a university course in 20th century American fiction: Hemingway, Faulkner, Updike, Pynchon, Morrison, et al. I have some definite gaps in my life reading list. To clear my path to the Excited States of Narrative, I eagerly finished another novel by one of my discoveries of the summer, a Scottish writer named Andrew O’Hagan. Our Fathers was filled with beautiful writing and memorable characters, and his Be Near Me took me far away from Ottawa. Amazing stuff, really. The incidental descriptions of youth, education, social mores and fads are wonderfully quotable, and I will be using them.

Even more interestingly, before I could dive into the short stories of a youthful Ernest Hemingway for class, I had to finish another labour of love and annoyance. Annoying, because it was a first novel by another mid-20s writer, while mine remains on the dream shelf. Lovely, because the author is not only Canadian, he’s a home boy, my eldest son’s good buddy Jon. The world he has invented was beginning to hatch when Jon August McRae was in my grade 11 Writers’ Workshop in my home town high school. How cool is that, friends and (long-distance) neighbours? As long as I can restrain the muttering, teeth-grinding excesses of envy – which, fortunately, is most of the time – it is delightful to have read speculative fiction of such depth and quality from a kid who not only lounged in my living room but doodled during my English class.

At 16, Jon was drawing and scribbling and mentally living the fantastic lives of Jupiter and Io. (To tell the truth, as fine a writer as he was even then, Jon didn’t ace the course. He had some incomplete assignments, because he knew what he wanted to write and it sure wasn’t The Business Letter.) And he never entirely stopped, to the point that the first novel in his Lost and Found Souls series is out, the second is growing in his lap-top and sketchbook, and the narrative of the third novel has been roughed out.

And guess what? Io: First Book of Lost and Found Souls is a terrific read. It is a richly-imagined world with its own history, language conventions, and mythology. I mentioned Jon’s sketchbook because I am certain, knowing his drawing talent and the novel’s majestic descriptions, that he has already drawn these places, characters and events. It is a world of noble and ignoble Lords, sorcerers and causes, and young Io and his intended bride, Jupiter, are swept up in the chaos of rivalry, exile and war.

I’d heard about Io from time to time, and I ordered it immediately when Young Whippersnapper McRae bashfully let me know it was available. I felt bashful, too: there was no doubt Jon’s former writing creature was going to buy the book, but what if I hated it? Jon is well-nigh family, after all. I sighed with grinning relief not long after cracking the plain black cover, because I knew I was in good hands only a few pages in. It was no surprise that Jon could write, that he could craft some fine sentences, but I was no less impressed for all that. His descriptions, especially of place, are remarkably good; they come from an author with a full toolbox and a great eye, who has seen these places and not just once.

Where are we? We meet Io and Jupiter first as young inhabitants of a walled city in a medieval world. His father is a hunter, her daddy is a morose and mysterious blacksmith. There are whispers of disloyalty, rumours of siege and, before long, hints that there are more than workaday talents at play. When Io and Jupiter, out of juvenile curiosity and recklessness, bluff their peasant way into the castle of Lord Adrastea, they are caught up in political currents and occult powers – some of them, their own – that lead to the separation and suffering of these two loving young friends. One is imprisoned, one is exiled. One tries to survive as an enslaved gladiator, one comes under the tutelage of a nearly silent sorcerer. Each becomes more central to the battle for the city-state of Adrastea, and the broader struggle for power in the entire kingdom of Askasha. There is a palpable, though sometimes confusing, history to this place, and we are led to care about the events there, as well as the personalities that enact and witness them.

And it’s not literary candy. The language is rich, and the interior landscapes of the main characters are serious and detailed, though sometimes challenging to penetrate. The action sequences are full of colour and sensation, though there were times I felt lost. For example, a sudden outbreak of violence, fairly early in the novel when the young Jupiter and Io do bloody battle to earn themselves their respective punishments, confused me. I wasn’t sure what they were fighting, and especially why. This incident is key to creating the movement of the plot, but perhaps too lurchingly. Some of this mystery is intentional, I’m sure, for both Io and Jupiter – get the astronomical hint? He is a moon to her, and not the opposite, as we might expect in swords and sorcery – are also confused by the forces that drive and transform them. The dialogue occasionally gets a little stiff and long-winded, as can happen in fantastic medieval worlds.

Yet McRae has a good ear for dialogue, too, which shows especially in bantering conversations between Io and his cousin Ganymede. (Yes, it is another moon of Jupiter. Two points for you!) There is almost none of the awkwardly explanatory dialogue that one might expect from a youthful first-time novelist. In the conversations, in the historical depth behind each character and event, and especially in the visual depiction of this time and place, this book conjures a world that a reader can inhabit and feel. By times, I wanted just a little less pre-history and geographical detail; it reminded me a bit of Tolkien’s The Silmarillion in that way. Sometimes the narration got dense. The novel certainly wants a map, and I suspect that Jon August McRae has drawn several of them that are not available in this early edition.

Jon describes this self-published effort as a “zero print-run” edition to a speculative fiction series that he will continue to pitch to mainstream publishers. I hope it is someday able to appear in full, cartographically illustrated form, because it is good, good stuff. Io rewards a thoughtful reader, and if you like fantasy – there are full-bodied echoes of the best of Tolkien here, too – you’ll be impressed by this maiden voyage. While the book awaits a more fitting publication, you don’t have to wait. It’s easy to order your own copy of a well-imagined adventure (and a decidedly unusual love story) by simply e-mailing the author at jon.august.mcrae@gmail.com . I recommend it.