In the early 1970s, I attended Simon Fraser University. Early on in my student career, I met the head of Medical Services at SFU, Dr. Ed Lipinski, one of the most impressive men I’ve ever met. He asked if we might meet from time to time, that given my various political involvements of the day, he said he found me “fascinating”, and would like to get to know me better.
Now, as it happens, Dr. Lipinski was a psychiatrist, a dedicated and gifted therapist, for a long period of time the head of the World Psychiatric Association, and someone that every person of influence, in administration and among the student body at SFU, saw on a regular basis. Ed made things happen.
For me, that meant bursaries and scholarships, and paving the way for whatever I needed. In addition, as a journalist / editor at the student newspaper, The Peak, Ed Lipinski ensured that I had access to senior administration officials, who almost inevitably became “unnamed sources” for a series of provocative articles I wrote over the years.
Had Ed not died in a car accident along the Algarve in Portugal in 1981, my life would have been much different. Ed was 100% on my side, he had influence with the Courts, and in the political, banking, and corporate worlds — apart from being a first-rate psychiatrist, Dr. Ed Lipinski, British Columbia’s first forensic psychiatrist knew how to connect influential people to get things done. Dr. Lipinski was, then, our province’s trusted figure.
In 1972, as was occurring more frequently, Cathy and I were experiencing one of several episodes of turbulence in our marriage — I was giving serious thought to leaving her, calling it quits. Here’s what Ed said to me …
“Raymond, imagine that you’re 63 years of age, it’s 3 a.m. on a chilly winter’s morning, and you’re lying in bed all on your own. You’ve been on your own for awhile now. No marriage. No relationships with women who you love. No one to share your life with, just you taking responsibility for yourself. Ask yourself, ‘Do I want to be alone as I approach the latter third of my life, or do I want to share my life with a woman I love?’ Raymond, should you leave Cathy, is that a decision that you will regret? Do you honestly want to face the prospect of lying their at 3 a.m. alone, with no one to turn to, and no one with whom you can share your life?”
The impact at the time of Ed asking me those questions was to return home to Cathy, and make a renewed effort to preserve our marriage.
Now, of course, I am just shy of 69 years of age, and alone. But not lonely.
Would I prefer to be in a relationship with a woman I love? Yes, I would — and you only have to know me to know that for me, hope reigns eternal. I am an optimist about love, as I am about my political involvement, and almost every aspect of my life. When I reflect on my life now, I believe I am, overall, satisfied with my life.
Still & all, when I’m lying in bed at 3 a.m., I think back to that conversation with Ed Lipinski in 1972, and reflect on the fact that I am alone.
In respect of the matter of regret, up until 1997 I was, every moment of the day, as I had been for years, filled with regret and, as it happens, self-loathing. There was so much that I regretted about my life, things I wished I had done differently. Fortunately, I had another gifted therapist, Max, in my life who was able to present to me a logically consistent argument as to why I should look forward and not back, that the decisions I had taken in the past that I had come to regret were things I could do nothing about.
What I could do was each and every day work towards becoming a better, more sensitive and thoughtful, more whole and more generous person.
Glaswegian Paul Buchanan, lead singer and founder of the Scottish trio, Blue Nile.
Still and all, I do reflect from time to time on the regrets of my life, and the better decisions I might have made. As such, the music of Glaswegian Paul Buchanan and his two band mates in the 90s Scottish trio, The Blue Nile, speaks to me in the early hours of the morning, and when I am feeling in a melancholic mood, the song Regret speaks to the deepest part of my soul.
In the spring of 1974, Cathy and I traveled to Europe for a three-month vacation across the vast expanse of the European continent, something Cathy had insisted on — and when Cathy wanted something, she got it.
Within 48 hours of our arrival at Heathrow Airport, and after snuggling down in a small hotel, Cathy — who was two months pregnant at the time, her pregnancy not in any way proving a deterrent to her desire for a summer European sojourn — fell “ill”. Cathy and I took a taxi to the hospital, where she ended up staying a week, miscarrying our child.
In the two months prior to our departure, Cathy and I had talked about whether we should follow through on our summer plans, given that when we had traveled to San Francisco to visit her mother’s cousins, she had miscarried. But Cathy’s mind was set, and the doctor signed off, so …
After leaving the hospital, Cathy needed rest, so we traveled down to and vacationed on the Isle of Wight for a week, before continuing our vacation on the continent, taking a luxury cruise ship from Southampton to Lisbon.
The vacation was everything and more that we both thought it might be, and by the end of our vacation in the latter part of August, upon returning home (landing in Edmonton, where her mother and sister lived), we were both thrilled to discover that Cathy was pregnant once again!
Over the course of the nine months Cathy was pregnant this time, Cathy took every precaution to preserve her pregnancy: changing her diet to organic foods, plant-based proteins, and upon the advice of the doulas who worked with us during the pregnancy, a great many foods with Vitamin E, including almonds, sunflower seeds, spinach and broccoli, wheat germ and safflower oil, in order that Cathy’s uterus might become more supple.
On Friday, May 16th, 1975, just two days before Jude’s date of birth, Cathy and I took in a concert at the Queen Elizabeth Theatre, with Eric Andersen opening, and Phoebe Snow as the headliner. As it happened, our doctors — Roy, our primary physician, and his wife Dr. Patricia Blackshaw, who also saw Cathy during her pregnancy — were sitting in the row right behind us.
When Eric Andersen took the stage, Cathy went into labour, no Braxton Hicks contractions this time. We spoke with Roy and Patricia during the intermission — Patricia examining Cathy in a private room — with both advising us that it would be fine for the two of us to remain at the concert.
We called our doulas to inform them that Cathy was in labour, and that we’d be home around 11:30pm. Our son to be was on his way, and about to announce himself to the world!
16343 96th Avenue, in the Tynehead area of Surrey. In the early 1970s, a decision had been taken by the GVRD to acquire all the land from 160th to 176th streets, and from 96th Avenue to Highway #1, in order that the regional district might create a large regional zoo. While discussions were ongoing, the GVRD acquired all of the land, renting it out to any who applied — which Cathy and I did early in 1973, living on the farm until August 1975, after which we traveled into the Interior for me to begin a teaching job.
At the time Cathy and I were living on a five-acre farm in the Tynehead area of Surrey, renting our farm home (pictured above) from the Greater Vancouver Regional District, for $125 a month. Between boarding horses and selling hay (and the eggs from our chickens out back), we ended up living rent free on the property for more than two years.
Upon arriving home, our doulas were waiting for us, taking Cathy up to our bedroom to examine her. Cathy was only 1cm dilated, and birth didn’t seem imminent. We had prepared for a home birth and kept up our communication with Dr. Roy Blackshaw (who visited the next day), as Cathy’s labour continued throughout the Saturday, and into the evening.
Cathy’s mother called on Saturday morning, the phone answered by a friend of ours (who we had instructed not to tell her of the pending birth — Myrtle was opposed to the home birth, despite our precautions, and we felt sure that were she present, she’d harass us into going to the hospital).
Myrtle knew that something was afoot. When she hung the phone up at 10am, she almost immediately had friends take her to the Edmonton airport. By 2pm, she was bursting through the front door of our house, all but screaming, “Where’s my daughter? Where’s Cathy? I want to see her now,” yelling this in a packed front room of 20 of our closest friends.
Now, you can see a picture of Cathy above in the week before Jude’s birth — Cathy gained massive weight, going from 110 pounds to 185 pounds. By the time her labour pains started, she was more than ready to give birth — but truth be told, both a little uncertain and a little scared at the prospect.
We had made the decision for a home birth in large measure because: Cathy wanted me present and in the room for the birth, which at the time no hospital would allow, and because we didn’t want drops placed into our child’s eyes, and his care taking place in an antiseptic hospital setting.
From the time Myrtle arrived on Saturday til noon on Sunday, she was like a broken record: “Get Cathy to the hospital now. What are you trying to do, kill my daughter?” Myrtle threatened to sue the doulas, and have me charged if any harm came to her daughter. To be fair, had I the opportunity to do it all over again, I would opt for a hospital birth, despite the attendant “problems” that a hospital birth would have conferred on us, and our baby.
Finally, at noon on Sunday, after speaking with the doulas and on the advice of Roy Blackshaw, we made the decision to have the birth at Surrey Memorial Hospital, who were ready for us upon our arrival, placing Cathy in a wheelchair and whisking her to the maternity ward, and into a surgical room where Roy and three nurses were waiting for us.
The room was brightly lit (not what we wanted), the nurses overly officious and insisting that everything be “done by the book”, ordering me out surgical room with Cathy screaming, “No, no, no! He stays!”
Roy took charge, and ordered the nurses out of the delivery room, telling me to stay, and asking that I dim the lights. By 1pm, Jude was ready to announce himself to the world, with Cathy’s screams of pain piercing the room, with me not knowing what the heck was going on, and Roy keeping the both of us calm, and focused.
At 1:42pm, on a warm, sunny and wondrous Sunday, May 18, 1975 afternoon, Jude Nathan Tomlin was born — the single most transformative and most joyous moment of my life (and Cathy’s, too, as within seconds of Jude’s birth, Cathy looked at me to say, “I want another baby right away!”).
Roy recommended keeping Cathy in the hospital overnight, with Cathy and I discussing a middle name for our new baby boy. Earlier, we had decided on the name Jude — one sunny afternoon while visiting friends a couple of months prior to our son’s birth, as we were conversing around the dinner table about what we would name our child, something miraculous occurred: at the very same moment, the song Hey Jude came on the radio, the recently drafted Montréal Canadiens centre Jude Drouin, scored a goal (the hockey game was playing on the TV, which could just be heard in the background), and at the very same moment, Cathy and I simultaneously spotted a copy of Thomas Hardy’s Jude the Obscure on a side table. Almost in unison, Cathy and I screamed out, “Jude, we’ll name our child Jude!”
And so we did.
In her hospital room early on Monday, with me by her side, Cathy and I discussed what name we would choose for Jude’s middle name. At the time, Cathy was reading Nathaniel West’s Miss Lonelyhearts, West’s widely regarded masterpiece, the book on the table by her bed (Cathy had asked me to bring the paperback to the hospital later on the Sunday afternoon of Jude’s birth). I suggested to Cathy, “How about Nathaniel as the middle name?” Cathy considered my suggestion for a moment before saying, “Nathan, let’s choose Nathan, instead, for his middle name.” And so we did.
By 2pm on Monday afternoon, just 24 hours after Jude’s birth, Cathy and I left the hospital to return to our home (Myrtle traveling in a taxi, right behind our car). Once home, Cathy rested, and I assumed Jude’s care, along with his maternal grandmother, who was now calmer, and … elated!
Cathy’s mom stayed only through Tuesday afternoon (Cathy insisted she leave — Cathy wanted the experience to be ours, sans her mother). On Wednesday, we left our farm house to go shopping at the Woodward’s food floor at the nearby Guildford Shopping Centre, Jude’s first foray into his bright new world — from the time we got out of the car, until we reached the entrance to the food floor, at least a dozen people stopped us to look at our newborn son, with Cathy & I beaming like the proud parents we were!
Jude Nathan Tomlin, the boy now man, in the winter of 2017, snow boarding up on Grouse Mountain. Happy 44th birthday, my most beloved, precious and much-loved son.
Sisters & country musicians Shelby Lynne (l) & Allison Moorer share the pain of tragedy
When Allison Moorer was but a young strip of a girl, just turned 14 years of age and in Grade 9 at Theodore High School in Mobile, Alabama, and her older sister, Shelby Lynne, who was at age 17 preparing for the prom and her upcoming graduation, their estranged father, Vernon, an itinerant musician and English teacher at the girls’ school, turned up at their home.
Outside the house, he and the girls’ mother, Laura Lynn Smith — who had long had an intensely loving yet troubled relationship with Vernon — became involved in a heated squabble. Vernon wanted to return to the family home, a prospect Laura Lynn told him she was unwilling to consider.
Meanwhile, with their mother ordering the two girls to stay in the house, with Shelby and Allison now cowering inside their home just by the bay window looking out onto the front lawn, Vernon pulled out a gun and shot their mother dead, turning the gun on himself and taking his life, as well.
It’s the kind of horrifying loss that, as Moorer has said, some teenagers might not have survived. But Moorer and Lynne did more than survive. Both went on to successful careers in the music industry, becoming huge names and best-selling progressive artists most closely associated with the country music genre, each with their own, distinctive & stellar solo careers.
Allison Moorer, 46, is hardly the first artist to emerge from Nashville with songs defined by darkness and desperation; one recalls the brief lives of Hank Williams, addicted to painkillers & booze, dead at 29; and Patsy Cline (‘Oh Lord, I sing just like I hurt inside’) who at 30 died in a plane crash.
With the help of her grandparents and her sister, Allison Moorer completed high school, going on to attend college at the University of South Alabama, where she graduated with a B.A. in Communications in June of 1993.
Having grown up in a musical family, where she started singing harmony as early as age 3, throughout her time at university Moorer earned tuition and living expenses by working as a backup singer to various Nashville artists, along the way meeting and falling in love with a guy, Doyle “Butch” Primm, who became her collaborator, co-writer, co-producer, and husband.
In 1998, with Doyle producing, Allison Moorer recorded her début album, Alabama Song, which went on to become the best-selling progressive country album of the year, the first song released from the album, A Soft Place to Fall, chosen by writer / director / actor Robert Redford as feature song on the soundtrack of his Oscar-nominated film, The Horse Whisperer.
Subsequently, the best-selling A Soft Place to Fall went on to a receive an Academy Award nomination for Best Original Song, with Moorer singing her hit song on the Oscar telecast in March 1999, trying not think about the then one billion people who were tuned in to watch the Academy Awards.
Over the years, both Allison Moorer and Shelby Lynne have found a place of significance in my music collection, for nigh on 20-plus years now.
The woman you see pictured above is the love of my life.
In the summer of 1988, Lori and her son Darren, and my two children, 11-year-old Megan and 13-year-old Jude, travelled over to the west coast of Vancouver Island, where we rented a cabin near Tofino, and where we enjoyed the time of our lives, a memory that resides deep in me still.
This will not be the last time I write about Lori — today’s Stories of a Life will focus only on the first four days of our acquaintanceship.
Photo of Megan Tomlin, taken at the cabin near Tofino where we stayed in August 1988
As the children were growing up, given that (for the most part) during the first few years of their lives I was the sole custodial parent, sharing custody with Cathy as the children grew older, my relationship with my children was close. We talked about everything, and as far as was possible I answered every question put by them to me, as honestly and as fully as I could.
While Jude was an energetic boy of the world, making friends with anyone and everyone, full of joy and laughter, out and about in the neighbourhood and across the city (and in the mountains), skateboarding and skiing and as athletic as he could possibly be, Megan was a much quieter child, no more reflective than Jude, just more prone to staying close to me, and wanting always to converse on the broadest range of topics, and anxious to learn as much about the world (and all its complexities) as she could.
Megan was curious about the state and nature of the world, about politics and political structures, about the nature of governmental decision-making, both children attending the peace marches with me each year, as well as meetings of the progressive, left-of-centre Coalition of Progressive Electors Vancouver civic party, and various of the NDP meetings, and otherwise as engaged as she could be as a budding young feminist & community activist.
Megan, as with my mother, was also possessed of a preternatural ability.
Photo, Broadway campus, Vancouver Community College, taken from Chinacreek Park
Over the years, as we shared our lives with one another, both Jude and Megan were always curious about my “work”, what I was up to when I wasn’t with them. Arising from that interest on their part, I always sought to make them a part of my work life, taking them to the places of each of my employments, to my office in SFU’s Faculty of Education when I was working on my Masters, to attend in the elementary school classes where I taught (when they were on a ProD day), at Vancouver Community College, and later in my work at Pacific Press (which paid phenomenally well for very little work, allowing me to continue work as an arts and entertainment editor, and later, Director of Special Projects at Vancouver Magazine).
Early in the 1988 summer semester at Vancouver Community College (which I wrote about last week), Megan attended my first Monday class, sitting quietly near the back, erudite and well-read as always (better read than me, true then, true still), interjecting only occasionally to clarify some bit of information, for me or for one of the students in my English Literature class, unassuming and friendly, but clearly informed.
Midway through the three-hour class, we took a 15-minute break, most of the students leaving the classroom, with Megan standing with me outside my office, opposite the classroom, when the following occurred …
“Daddy,” said Megan, “do you see that woman standing just on the other side of the glass doors, the blonde-haired woman leaning on the railing?” Then a pause & the proffering of a question, “What day of the week is it?”
“Monday,” I replied.
“Hmmm,” she said, looking somewhat quizzical. “Monday, huh?” At which point, she seemed to find herself lost in thought for a moment, then turned to me to say, “By Thursday, the two of you will be living together.”
“Megan,” I protested, “I don’t even know who that woman is. And besides, she seems much younger than me.”
And at that, we dropped the subject, shortly after returning to the classroom, where she set about to correct me on aspects of my teaching presentation style, and information that I had imparted that she felt was not clear enough, and should have been better clarified by me, adding …
“Given who these students are, you seem not to be taking into consideration that they’ve been out of school for awhile. Your use of language, the words you choose could be better chosen to impart your message. And, oh yeah, you were telling the students that they would be expected to write papers during the semester. I want to be present when you’re grading those papers, and I want to read the papers you’re unsure as to what grade you will give. Overall, I trust your judgement — I’m just not sure I feel all that confident that your command of what constitutes good essay writing is as well-developed as it could be.”
The class was over at 9pm, I met with a handful of my students, some in the classroom, others in the hallway, and a couple in my office (with Megan waiting outside in the hallway, engaging with some of my students).
When the class had come to an end, I reminded the students Tuesday’s class would take place downtown, at a venue where a play I’d be teaching was currently being performed; student attendance was mandatory.
Megan and I left the campus around 9:30pm, stopping off at Mike and Edith’s (friends of ours) Cheesecake, Etc. on Granville Street, near the south end of the Granville Street bridge, where Megan enjoyed a piece of cheesecake topped with fresh, organic strawberries, and I had my usual fresh-baked, and toasted, baguette with butter and jam.
Both VCC Broadway campus English Literature classes attended the performance of the play, which took place upstairs from what is now part of the Vancouver Film School. My class sat close by me, while students who were taking my colleague Peter’s English Lit class sat nearby him, except …
When the lights went down, and the play began, I felt a warm hand move over my right hand, and looked over to see an absolutely radiant, beautiful young blonde woman, with her arm rubbing up against mine. I thought to myself, as I am wont to do in similar situations (which always come as a surprise me, having occurred quite frequently throughout my life) …
“Raymond, it’s a figment of your imagination. There’s no one sitting next to you, and most certainly, no one has their hand on top of yours.”
I didn’t give it another thought, returning my attention to the play.
On the Wednesday, I taught my Writing class (grammar! … I am the last person you would want to have teach you grammar … I am capable of doing it … grammar just seems so restrictive to me … but I suppose you need to know the rules, before you can break them).
Thursday I returned to teach my English Literature class.
After classes were over, and after meeting with a few of my students, a blonde-haired woman walked up to me — who I may, or may not, have been made aware of earlier in the week — saying to me …
“I’m working on a paper on apartheid, and have been told you might be of assistance in helping point me in the right direction to research the paper, and provide me as well with how I might best formulate my argument.
I’ve heard that you like to walk, particularly along the stretch of beach over by Spanish Banks. I was wondering if we might walk and talk, which would afford you an opportunity for some fresh air after three hours in a stuffy classroom? It is, after all, a lovely full moon night, don’t you think?”
I thought the idea of the walk was a good idea, and (as anyone who knows me soon realizes, I am more than voluble about conversing on issues of interest to me). I grabbed my coat out of my instructor’s office, and the two of us headed off in the direction of my car.
But I was famished.
I asked her if we might stop in for a brief moment at Cheesecake, Etc. on the way to the beach — we could discuss her paper over a bite to eat. When we arrived at Cheesecake, Etc., after consulting with her, when Mike came up to take our order, I requested two orders of the toasted baguette with jam. “Oh, you mean the usual,” said Mike. Both Mike and Edith flitted around this woman and I for the half hour of so we were in the restaurant, with Mike taking a break to begin singing at his piano, his songs seemingly directed at this young woman and I.
Just before 10pm, this young woman and I left the restaurant, climbed back into my car, and headed towards the beach, traveling down West Broadway, during which glide along the street, she turned to me to say, “You live near here, don’t you? I noticed it’s getting kind of chilly. I was wondering if you might have a sweater I could wear?” Within a couple of minutes, I pulled up in front of my housing co-op, turning to her saying, “I’ll grab you a sweater and be right down,” with her responding, “I’ll come up with you, if that’s alright, to find the sweater best to my liking.”
Upon entering my apartment, while she stood in my living room, I entered my bedroom to look on the shelving where I kept my two dozen sweaters (what can I say, I’m a sweater person). Upon returning to the living room, holding up a warm sweater I thought she would like, standing opposite her she approached me, and standing on her tippy-toes, she kissed me.
Once again, I thought to myself, “Raymond, she didn’t kiss you. That’s just a false projection. You just better give her the sweater, and head off to the beach.”
While I was having this inner dialogue with myself, she once again stood on her tippy toes, pulling my face closer to hers, and kissed me again, a long, luxurious kiss, a kiss unlike any other I’d ever experienced.
Glaswegian Paul Buchanan, lead singer and founder of the Scottish trio, Blue Nile.
