Category Archives: Stories of a Life

Stories of a Life | 1972 – 73 Movements | The Douchebag Story

June 16, 2018BC Politics, Jude and Megan, Politics, Stories of a Life, Vancouver, Vancouver Votes 2018Raymond Tomlin

Vancouver in the 1970s, a picture taken on the eastside just off Hastings, at night

In 1972, upon returning from our two month sojourn to Mexico, Cathy and I became vegetarians. While traveling through Mexico, we were uncertain about the provenance of much of the food we ate, but were certain that far too much of what we consumed as “meat” was not meat from a cow.
Once back in Vancouver, Cathy and I were made aware of a “buying group” that had been formed by a friend of a friend, a sweet-natured, calm and centered, energetic and idea-filled fellow by the name of Murray Head. Murray had put together a group of 10 couples who would order food each week collectively, mostly produce, top quality from the best suppliers, as well as cheeses and a vast array of food staples of the very highest quality.
Cathy and I joined up with Murray and his wife, and eight other couples in May 1972 into this new, largely vegetarian collective buying group.
As word spread throughout the community about our newly-formed “buying group”, friends, neighbours, dope-smoking Cosmic League baseball players, and activists wanted in, and joined with us to create a much larger buying group, which by mid-July had become the Tillicum Food Co-operative.
With the support of Dave Barrett’s groundbreaking and leftist provincial government — a grassroots-based government if there ever was one, in Canada or elsewhere — $300,000 was granted by the government to the nascent group of activists who were organizing for change around food.
Norm Levi, British Columbia’s first Minister of Human Resources, was assigned the task of liasing with the members of the now burgeoning Tillicum Food Co-operative. A warehouse on Vancouver’s eastside was secured, two blocks north of the Waldorf Hotel, just off Hastings Street.
As the new Tillicum Food Co-op was realized, the food-buying club was re-organized into neighbourhood collectives, organized, run and operated by family groups with friends and neighbours in each of Vancouver’s 23 neighbourhoods, each collective run autonomously, but coming into the Tillicum Co-op warehouse each week to pick up their weekly food order.
Initially, collectives collated and submitted their orders for bulk pre-ordering with the other collectives. Responsibility for ordering and sorting the food for the whole club rotated among the various collectives.
As it happened, and quite fortuitously, the founders’ experiences with activism and community organization brought forward a skill-set that proved useful to starting a co-operative. Together, our collective experience brought communication, group decision-making, and leadership qualities.
Through trial and error, good-naturedly we learned how to start, manage and operate as a truly democratic, grassroots, member-run co-operative.
By September 1972, though, with dozens of collectives now spread across Vancouver, and beyond, moving into all of the cities across Metro Vancouver and into the Fraser Valley, a decision was taken to hire a “co-ordinator,” someone who would oversee the growth of the burgeoning grassroots co-operative movement in Vancouver. The “Co-ordinator” would be the de facto Chief Executive Officer, responsible for liaising with suppliers, organizing the collectives, overseeing the distribution of food, publishing a magazine, and working with all levels of government to grow the movement into a much larger social-environmental justice movement.
The individual who was chosen as the Tillicum Food Co-operative’s first co-ordinator was a 22-year-old Simon Fraser University student, a fellow by the name of Raymond Tomlin. From the time of his hire and over the course of the next year, Tillicum grew into a province and nationwide co-operative movement, with collectives in every town, village, community and city across the province, into the prairies, as well as into Washington state.
The thousand dollar a week buying club that had begun in May 1972, by September 1973 had become a thriving, two million dollar a month business, working with government to create British Columbia’s first co-operative child care centres, securing funding for our province’s first recycling depot, creating the Wild West Organic Co-operative (western Canada’s first organic food distributor), going on to purchase farms, setting up furniture building, tool and automotive co-operatives, and working with the provincial, and more, the federal government, to create a made-in-Canada solution for the provision of member-run affordable housing.
And thus by 1977, Canada saw the approval of our nation’s first housing co-operative, the Amor de Cosmos co-op in Vancouver’s Champlain Heights neighbourhood, followed by the creation of the Kitsun Co-op on West Broadway in Vancouver, Canada’s first solar-powered housing co-operative.
Halcyon days those, when all you had to do was come up with an idea, and with the support of Premier Dave Barrett’s and Prime Minister Pierre Elliott Trudeau’s governments — federally, Mr. Trudeau initiating virtually all of the policies of David Lewis’ federal New Democratic Party — there were jobs aplenty, significant funding for federal job creation programmes for activists, federally administered job programmes like the Local Initiatives Programme (LIP) that gave priority to “funding non-profit organizations that would provide useful services or facilities to the community,” and the longer term Local Employment Assistance Programme (LEAP) that not only created hundreds of thousands of jobs for activists across Canada, but in Vancouver funded almost all of the jobs at the Tillicum Food Co-operative.

1972: A fuzzy picture of a long-haired Raymond Tomlin, and exquisite Cathy McLean

Note should be made that the always brilliant and phenomenally talented Cathy McLean (my spouse and love of my life) wrote all of the grant applications — of which there were hundreds — every single one of the grant applications she submitted approved by the federal government.

1973: Grandview United Church, Venables & Victoria, became Vancouver Free University

The LIP and LEAP programmes were also responsible for helping to acquire a closed and forlorn church at Venables and Victoria Drive, which first became an open university, and soon after became known as the Vancouver East Cultural Centre, and then simply, in recent years as, “The Cultch.”

Paul Phillips, one of the founders of Vancouver’s Fed-Up Food Co-operative Wholesaler

A group of activists lead by Dana Weber, Ros Breckner and Paul Phillips left the now thriving Tillicum Food Co-operative to form the Fed-Up Food Co-op Wholesaler, importing food stuffs from across the globe, and acting as a supplier to the Tillicum Co-op. Fed Up was the first North American wholesaler to sign a contract that would bring sultana raisins from Australia onto this continent. Where Tillicum remained responsible for distributing food throughout the Metro Vancouver region, Fed Up took on the job of distributing food across the province, western Canada and down into the United States, and growing the food co-operative movement globally.

Simon Fraser University’s Louis Riel House, student family 1 + 2 bedroom residence

Meanwhile, there was nascent women’s and LGBTQ movements that were just getting underway. Throughout the 1970s, I recall that each Wednesday evening that Cathy would leave our apartment to meet with almost every woman who lived in Louis Riel House — the 148 one-bedroom and 61 two-bedroom student apartment residence located at Simon Fraser University’s Burnaby Mountain campus — for what was termed consciousness-raising.
The “consciousness-raising” of the day was not limited to white, cis-gendered women, however. No, as I wrote above, there was along with the women’s movement, a burgeoning & activist LGBTQ movement in our city.
And thus, finally on VanRamblings, the raison d’être as to why I am writing today’s Story of a Life, because today’s story is one that has remained deep within me all of my adult life, and helped to define my involvement over the past near 50 years in both the feminist & LGBTQ social justice movements.

In the autumn of 1972 I made the acquaintance of a group of activist women who had formed their own collective in the Tillicum Food Co-op.
Young, bright, passionate, articulate, as I am wont to do, I fell in love with each of these women who supported me in my various endeavours, tough, strong, take no guff women who were surprisingly gentle and supportive of me, giving instruction to me as it was necessary (which was probably more often than I would admit even now). The group of us became fast friends, as we worked together to build a fairer, more just and inclusive society.
Now, each of these women, average age about 22, were strikingly attractive in the most usual sense, and drew a great deal of unwanted attention from men. To say that the early 70s were the days of rampant sexism is to understate the matter. These were antediluvian times in the history of the women’s movement, and in our collective history. The women in the Women’s Collective were able to handle whatever situation came their way, though, and nothing too untoward ever occurred, until …
The Women’s Collective was an overtly political collective. Not only were they progenitors of the women’s movement in Vancouver, they also wished to be progenitors of the LGBTQ movement, although all the women were white, educated and decidedly heterosexual.
The Women’s Collective, though, still took on the goal of championing LGBTQ issues, and lesbianism in particular, by adopting lesbianism as a personal and political endeavour. To thwart any interest by men, a decision was taken by each woman, who when I first met them weighed in at about 110 pounds sopping wet, to gain 60 pounds apiece — and they did.
By February 1973, each woman weighed in at about 185 pounds.
In addition to gaining weight, and becoming an overt, in-your-face lesbian collective, the Women’s Collective undertook a military-style training regimen, a three-month long boot camp that even though the women were now of hefty frame, they were also as strong, in actuality much stronger, than any man involved with either Tillicum or Fed Up Food Co-operative.
From autumn 1972 to winter 1973 I saw the transformation, and it was something to behold, a form of experiential personal theatre made live that was amazing to watch unfold. The women continued to be kind, tending to a quiet and less boisterous nature — although fun to be around, and at the monthly drunk-a-thon dances we had in the Tillicum warehouse, great dancers each and every one of them, lithe despite their new bulkiness.
Still, as I say, these were sexist and regressive times in the early 1970s.
Women were undermined as a matter of daily intercourse in the life of our society, tended to have what they said readily dismissed, and were regarded by most men of the time as little more than sexual playthings.
Not so for the politically active lesbian women in the Women’s Collective.

In Vancouver this past year, a new movement of change has emerged, the sort of revolutionary change many of us felt and lived in the late 1960s and early 1970s, this new Vancouver-based movement identifying themselves as TeamJean, a cadre of activists who have organized around Order of Canada recipient and veteran community and anti-poverty activist, Jean Swanson. What I find so becoming and hopeful about the, mostly, young people involved with TeamJean is not just their revolutionary fervor and their work towards creating substantive change in our society, and change now, but in how much fun they’re having in organizing for change, how each of them see the necessity of theatre as a necessary communications tool to get their ideas across in a humanist and non-threatening manner.
There is an excitement within TeamJean that is wholly inspiring, an excitement I haven’t seen, felt and experienced in more than 40 years.
In the 2018 Vancouver municipal election, I have been writing that Derrick O’Keefe, working with organizers within TeamJean like Sara Sg, Chanel Ly, Fiona York, Maddie Andrews, Duncan Martin, Selina Crammond, Riaz Behra, Luis Porte Petit, Ngaire Leach (the graphic designer behind the Jean Swanson logo, and all of TeamJean’s visual design), Shawn Vulliez, Aiden Sisler, Darlene Alice Bertholet, Beverly Ho, Devin Gillan, Alex Kennedy, Ishman Bhuiyan, Jorj Tempul and Qara Maristella believe not just in activism and activism with a conscience, but in the transformative power of theatre, art, song, dance and plain good fun towards changing and helping minds grow, to bringing people along with them into a new era of peace, social justice and inclusion, that aims to serve the many over the few.

In February 1973, a meeting of the collectives involved in the Tillicum Food Co-operative movement was called, the meeting taking place in a workshop space on 2nd Avenue just west of Main. These meetings were held monthly, chaired by me, where we shared ideas on how to grow the co-op movement, not just the food co-op movement, but movements in general.
Of course, a cadre of my favourite women in the Women’s Collective were present, all bulky and fine and in good spirits, on their home turf in their workshop space, and ready with a plethora of ideas on a panoply of activist fronts. The Women’s Collective had proven central to the success of the Tillicum Food Co-op, and the soon-to-be Fed Up Co-operative — without their support, counsel and energy, I’m not entirely sure that the Tillicum Food Co-op would have grown as it did in the first year, and beyond.
So, there we were on this chilly Tuesday evening in early February 1973, in a dimly lit workshop space, approximately 75 chairs set out, me at the front, collective members from across the Lower Mainland settled into their chairs, the women in the Women’s Collective “patrolling” the meeting, none of them seated, almost a security force, in case such was needed.
There was talk of forming a camping and adventure equipment co-operative, which eventually became the Mountain Equipment Co-op. There was talk about working with the provincial government on creating child care in our province, which occurred in 1974, when Norm Levi assigned $100 million to the creation of child care centres throughout the province. As usual, the meeting was positive and directed, orderly and respectful.
Except …
There was one man, sitting off to my left, in the second row who, when one of the women in the Women’s Collective offered up an idea that met with support, but debate from some of those present, that when it came time for this man to speak, he looked directly at the woman who had made the suggestion, and started off his address to her, saying, “Hey, douchebag …”
In a millisecond, a woman in the Women’s Collective who’d been standing behind him, pulled his chair back on its back legs, his feet now dangling, while another woman in the collective approached him, pulling down his pants and his underwear, and when this was accomplished, yet another woman in the collective grabbed his flaccid penis, pulling it taut while also pulling up his scrotum, and then placing the tip of a knife under his scrotum in the perineal region midway between his anus and his genitals, the woman who had pulled down his pants and underwear now looking directly at this now formerly recalcitrant man, and asked, “Did you want to repeat yourself? Did you want to address my friend using the pejorative you employed just a moment ago? You called my friend what? I’m waiting …”
All of the above had occurred in much under 60 seconds.
The formerly surly man of intransigent nature was mute, not frightened exactly but more contemplative than anything else. He shook his head, and finally uttered, “No, I have nothing to say other than, I’m sorry. It’ll never happen again. I promise.” And, in all the time to come it never did.
As quickly as the errant man had been approached, the women withdrew, his chair let down, aid given to pull up his pants, those 75 Tillicum members in attendance acknowledging what had occurred between the Women’s Collective and the disagreeable man, for what it was: theatre.
Of course, change doesn’t happen in a day, it is long and arduous and hard fought for — but occurs most often with action and a degree of humour.
Some year later, I recall working in the offices at the Fed Up Food Co-op on Scotia Street, and walking down into the warehouse, where 80 pound sacks of oatmeal were being carried from one end of the warehouse to the other. On one memorable occasion, I saw a young, petite woman quite easily carrying an 80-pound oatmeal sack on her back, as a man came up to her and, gallantly I’m sure he thought, looking at the woman, saying to her, “I can do that for you. I’ll take the sack, if you’ll let me.” And she did.
The man took the cumbersome 80-pound oatmeal sack, and struggled to carry it across the warehouse. Meanwhile, the woman who had given up the oatmeal sack had gone back to pick up a 100-pound sack of wholegrain flour, and as the man continued his struggle with the heavy oatmeal sack, the woman sailed on past the man with a light as a feather 100-pound flour sack on her back, glancing back at the struggling man saying, “Thank you,” and then proceeding to the other end of the warehouse with her burden that was not a burden at all, but a metaphor for change and growth, and the doctrine of a necessary and revolutionary change of consciousness.

Stories of a Life | An Impromptu Trip to Mexico | February 1972

June 9, 2018Stories of a Life, Travel, VanRamblingsRaymond Tomlin

An early 1970s Mexican Adventure, Part 1 of 4
Simon Fraser University to Los Angeles, then Mexico
I loved university. In the 1970s, I loved attending classes at Simon Fraser University, talking hours on end with classmates sharing obscure insights into arcane literature, or why anarchism is the most humanist political philosophy, or spending hours in the library, or finding some quiet corner to type out the dozens of essays that were due each semester.
Surprising myself, I was so curious about the world around me, so committed to learning everything I could on any given subject presented to me by my various approachable and erudite professors and radicalized teaching assistants, in the books I was reading or from folks in the pub at whatever stage of their university career, who over a beer would good-naturedly engage with me in philosophical arguments, whatever the topic of the moment. Attending classes and living at Louis Riel House — sometimes not leaving Burnaby Mountain for months on end — attending Simon Fraser University was for me the happiest and most rewarding time of my life.
Not so much for Cathy, my long-suffering wife.
Ever since we had met, and as would remain the case for years to come, there was no disappointment to be found in our love-making, when we arose from our overnight slumber, between classes or when I came home for lunch. Before and after dinner. And, of course, before bed, which was always the longest period we dedicated to connubial bliss. Quite simply, we couldn’t get enough of one another. And that was good, for the both of us.
Still, after Cathy left her employment at Grayce Florists, and although Cathy worked with me and our friends publishing weekly at The Peak, where I was the Arts & Entertainment Editor, writing 10,000 words each and every week, in addition to my regular daily afternoon radio programme on CKSF, and all those classes, and tutorials, and essays, Cathy often attending classes with me, attending protest rallies and reviewing my essays before I handed them in — given that Cathy had consciously chosen not to re-enroll in school, to continue her university into its third year, there was something missing in her life and in her wanderlust nature.
Travel.
Cathy made no secret of the fact that she wanted to get away, to explore new lands, to be adventurous and anonymous thousands of miles away.
In February 1972, I was enrolled in my fifth consecutive semester at SFU, having early on identified my areas of interest for my studies — political science, sociology and anthropology, part of the radical PSA department at SFU, as well as English literature.
Much to my astonishment, I was achieving straight A’s in school, my grade point average past my first year 4.0, and in this fifth semester I was on a roll, most of my course work completed by early February, as I prepared to ready myself with the reward of five more A’s, bursaries and scholarships, and further down the academic road enrollment in a Master’s programme.
Arriving home mid-afternoon Tuesday, February 8th, 1972, opening the door and walking into our student apartment, Cathy standing in the living room, rather than approaching me to give me a kiss, she stood stock still, looking down, then looking up and directly at me, and said, “We’re leaving for Mexico next Monday, for two months. Get your head around it.”

Cathy and I traveling along the Oregon coast, headed to California, and then Mexico

I knew there was no arguing with her about her dictum. Cathy had sacrificed so much for me that it was quite clear: it was her turn now. The next Monday morning, early, we jumped into our 1970 Datsun 510 — a wedding present from her mother — and only hours later we found ourselves barrelling down the coast of Oregon heading towards Los Angeles, where arrangements had been made to stay with our friend, Bachi — with whom I had attended almost all my classes my first four semesters, and who was my best friend, Manuel Vittorio Esquivel, handsome, swarthy, adventuresome, and the best friend anyone could wish for.

While in Los Angeles, Cathy & I listened to KRLA, southern California’s rock ‘n roll giant

Cathy didn’t like driving, so I drove the entire 1500 miles (I love driving!) to our L.A. destination, arriving two days after we’d left our Burnaby Mountain home, as we found our way to the Chicano area of Los Angeles, a Latino and Latina East L.A. of boom boxes and low-riders, a vibrant Mexican community with which we fell in love, as we did Bachi’s mother’s cooking — eating mole chicken and lime-cilantro rice for the first time while consuming gallons of fresh-squeezed orange juice available at farmer’s markets in two quart containers, for only a dollar, driving along the freeways in the jasmine-scented night area, KRLA radio at full volume blasting into the warm night air, free and in love, and enjoying the time of our young lives.

The sunny, open air shopping mall located in wealthy, beach-fronted Santa Monica

All was not perfect, though. One afternoon while awaiting dinner and sitting in the living room, Bachi’s 18-year-old sister, Maria — one of the most beautiful and self-possessed young women I’d ever met, who was enrolled in her second semester at a nearby college, and who worked as a sales clerk at a department store in a mall in the wealthy Santa Monica neighbourhood to help pay for her tuition — came home crying, sobbing, inconsolable, wracked with pain, broken and disconsolate, collapsing onto the sofa, curled up into a heaving ball of sobs and pain, bereft of hope, for the moment not of this world, not of any world, alone and withdrawn.
Maria worked in the shoe department at Macy’s. Earlier that afternoon, a wealthy woman in her early 30s had arrived at the shoe department, miserable, abusive, racist, on the attack and demanding service — now pointing at Maria — to “that dirty Chicana over there, who oughta be sent back to where she came from, but if she’s gonna be here, she damn well better serve me, and get her ass over here. Now!”
The manager stood nearby, but didn’t come to Maria’s aid, instead directing the abusive woman over to where Maria stood, now quivering, saying to the irate-for-no-good-reason shopper, “Of course, ma’am. Maria is here to serve you. She will find you anything you need. Now hop to it, Maria.”
The situation devolved from there, with Maria finding one pair of shoes after another for this racist and abusive early-30s woman, responding to the demands of the woman to, “Get down on your knees, don’t look at me, put those shoes onto my feet now, don’t look up, and you better be careful when fitting those shoes, or I’ll have your job.” The woman remained in the shoe department for an hour, loudly and abusively making Maria’s life a hell on earth, before finally leaving the department store harrumphing, having made no purchase. Maria finished her shift, and drove home.
Once home, after her mother intervened, Maria spent the rest of the evening in her bedroom, while Bachi, Cathy and I left his home, leaving Maria — whose young life had been a litany of the kind of abuse she had suffered that afternoon — in the care of her mother, as the three of us drove to a nearby drive-in for a burger and fries, staying away until late.
That evening, Cathy and I decided we would leave for Mexico the next day.
After an early breakfast of heuvos rancheros prepared by Bachi’s mom, Maria still in her bedroom, not wishing to join us at the kitchen table, leaving our car in the garage attached to Bachi’s home, Bachi drove us in his own vehicle to the Mexican border, just north of Tijuana. Cathy had mapped out our journey, involving us taking a bus to Mexicali, where we would board a train for the 2,000 kilometre journey to Guadalajara.

The train above, very much like the train Cathy and I traveled on throughout Mexico

Both Cathy and I, once we’d boarded the train in Mexicali for the first leg of our Mexican adventure — we were planning on staying in Guadalajara for a few days, then planned to make our way over to the coast, and come back to Guadalajara before heading to Mexico City, but it was still a largely unplanned adventure, where we both felt secure that we’d meet good folks, and learn something about a country about which knew little — were surprised that there were 20 young Americans traveling in the same car as us, hippies who’d shorn there hair, as I had, in order to get a visa, the men letting their hair and beards grow once we’d made it across the border.
As is almost always the case when traveling in a group — not that any one of us knew one another, or anyone else in our car — one of our 20 ‘fellow travelers’, in this case a gaunt young man with an adventurous spirit who’d traveled to Mexico before, suggested to us all that upon arriving in Guadalajara, we immediately make our way over to La Peñita, along the coast, 72 kilometres north of Puerto Vallarta, where we could stay for as little as a dollar a day, swim, get to know the townspeople, and enjoy ourselves away from the hubbub of the tourist trap to the south.
Sounded good to all of us — we now had a destination.
Now, traveling as a financially itinerant train and bus traveler in the 1970s was fraught with adventure. Why fraught? Well, because revolution was the order of the day, throughout Europe, throughout central and South America, and most certainly in Mexico, where guerilla groups fought with the Mexican army, farmers led by ex-teacher Lucio Cabañas fighting against landholder impunity and oppressive police practices in rural Mexico, the guerillas carrying out ambushes of the army and security forces, and blowing up train tracks throughout northern Mexico — as proved to be the case on the first leg of our collective journey into the heart of Mexico.

Above, a contemporary photo of Benjamin Hill, in the northern Sonora state of Mexico

Upon arriving in Benjamin Hill, in the northern Mexico state of Sonora, approximately 714 kilometres south of Mexicali, the train conductor informed us that there’d be a day or two layover in Benjamin Hill, as the tracks 30 kilometres south had been blown up by guerillas. When we arrived in Benjamin Hill, midday, the sun was bright, the day sweltering. We all alighted the train to take a look around at the dusty little village.
We debated whether or not we’d each rent a room in one of the mud shacks off the main street. One of our companions, who had kept a close watch on me since we’d boarded the train in Mexicali, a ‘sexual freedom leaguer’ traveling with her boyfriend, she a stunningly gorgeous Asian woman, her boyfriend a nerdy-looking, quiet guy, looked at me and looked at Cathy, and then set about to announce to everyone gathered around in the boldest possible fashion, “I want to fuck him,” then looking at me said, “I want to fuck you. Let’s go find a room in that building over there.”
I looked over at Cathy, who was rolling her eyes, looking heavenward, then looking at me, exclaimed, “You want to fuck her, go ahead. I’m not fucking her boyfriend, though.”
Me, I’m not good in situations such as the one I was now being confronted with. Would I liked to have gone off with this beautiful young woman for a sweaty afternoon of sexual frolic? Sure — but that would mean leaving Cathy behind, and I wasn’t prepared to do that, so I just said, “You’re invitation is very kind, and I appreciate it, but I’m going to stay with Cathy,” at which statement the young sexual freedom leaguer grabbed her boyfriend’s hand, marching off to rent a room in a sun-baked mud building.
As it happens, the twenty-two of us remained in Benjamin Hill for only about six hours, as the authorities had identified an alternative route to get around the tracks that had been destroyed. By late evening, we were all on our way again, the night chill, Cathy wrapped securely in my arms, under a blanket we’d purchased in town for about three dollars.
Two days later, we arrived in Guadalajara, the twenty-two of us alighting the train, seeking food and drink. “No water,” our appointed leader told us — ”Stay with Coke, you’ll be better off. You can trust it because it’s bottled by Americans under strict standards. Drink the water, or anything washed in local water, and you’re going to find yourself in trouble.” So, we found a food cart along the street — all along the way from Mexicali to Guadalajara, we’d fed ourselves from the food carts at stops along our journey south.
We looked for, and found the bus station, all of us purchasing tickets to La Peñita for the five-hour, 262 kilometre pilgrimage to our coastal village destination, arriving around 7pm, by which time it was night, although the near full moon above shone bright. Once in La Peñita, we secured our accommodation — spacious houses about 200 yards back from the beachfront water, several of us staying in each of three houses we rented for what would be our one-week stay in the rural village, our new home.
Having left our pack sacks in our new domiciles we all went back into town, where we were accosted by a group of 6, 7, 8 and 9-year-old boys who wanted us to play foosball with them, for a peso a game — if they won, we gave them a peso (equivalent to about one cent), the game free to play.
The first game I played was with one of the 6-year-old boys, who wasn’t tall enough to even see the top of the foosball table. “This is gonna be easy,” I thought to myself, “Poor kid.” I meant to win, and show this boy how it’s done — although I’d never played foosball before. Five minutes in, the game was over, I hadn’t scored once, the boy’s facing beaming, looking up at me saying, “De nuevo, señor, de nuevo.” Over the course of the next hour, I played each of the boys, as did the men in the group, losing each game successively more quickly, as was the case with each of my companions, now 20 pesos poorer than when I’d begun the night, the women standing nearby by shaking their heads, going off to look at the “shops” nearby (stalls, really), the young boys now gleeful.

Our leader, the gaunt young American man, rounded us all up, and said, “Let’s go for a swim,” and we did, some of the women going back to our new homes to find blankets to lay on the sand, but not swim suits, as this was to be a naked swim in the ocean, all twenty-two of us running toward and splashing in the warm, sparking water, the moon above glistening in the purple night sky, the light of the moon reflecting off the water.

Stories of a Life | My Mother’s Frustrated Dreams | Country Music

June 2, 2018Jude and Megan, Stories of a Life, Vancouver, VanRamblingsRaymond Tomlin

Mike, Mark & Jack, New Westminster’s The Rhythm Pals, Canada’s best country group

In the 1950s my mother sang with the The Rhythm Pals, a New Westminster-based country music trio that was all the rage in the late 1940s, 50s and into the 1960s, in 1965, 1967, and 1968 winning the Juno Award as best Canadian country group, a few years after which they were inducted into the Canadian Country Music Hall of Honour, in 1989.
In my household growing up, it was Mike, Marc and Jack this, and Mike, Marc and Jack that, my mother keeping up her friendship with The Pals throughout the entirety of my young life. My mother loved to sing, sang all the time around our home and in the car, loved music of every description — when she was home there was always music in the house, Patti Page and Teresa Brewer her two favourite 1950s singers, later turning to Patsy Cline, all of whose music invested almost my every waking moment for years.
Looking back on it, I suppose my love for female vocalists originated with my own mother’s, if not exactly angelic but still melodic voice, her entire demeanour the very definition of joy when she sang. Driving around with my parents in the family car, the radio was turned up loud, my mother singing along with all of the artists of the day, save Nat King Cole, who she worshipped, and would not as his daughter did years later, ‘duet’ with him.
Above all else, though, my mother loved country and western music, a mix of Americana, folk and roots music that spoke of struggle and love lost, of tragedy and wont and lives not fully realized, the heartfelt music I grew up on and which, later in life, would emerge as my favourite musical genre, coming around to appreciate country music, after having as a teenager and for many years after rejecting the music my mother loved, finally coming around in my early 40s — I’ve loved Iris DeMent, Alison Moorer, Shelby Lynne, Kasey Chambers, Lucinda Williams, Lori McKenna, Miranda Lambert and Kacey Musgraves ever since. whose music has become the melancholy and thoughtful soundtrack that has informed my life this past 30 years.

In the late summer of 1958, my parents moved the family to Edmonton, to be closer to family and to be closer to the soundtrack of my mother’s life, roots and classic country music being far more popular on the Prairies than would ever be the case in the Lotusland Vancouver has always aspired to.

12221 81st Street, in northwest Edmonton, my family home from late 1959 through 1961

In 1960, with the help of my tall oak of a grandfather, my parents bought a house in northwest Edmonton, at 12221 81st Street, a working-aspiring-to-middle class neighbourhood, where I attended Eastwood Elementary for Grades 5 & 6, the new school and neighbourhood a step up from inner-city Edmonton, where we had rented for a year, and where I attended Sir John A. McDougall school in Grade 4 befriending all of the tough kids in school, helping them with their in-class & their homework, in exchange keeping me safe — to say it was a rough neighbourhood is to dramatically understate the matter. Still, I made it out in one piece, and was glad for the move.
As I say, my mother loved country roots music, the music of her youth, the music she sang, and the music that most spoke to her, that I believe kept her alive and her mind and spirit active — amidst the three back-breaking jobs she always held down, working at a puff wheat factory overnight for the entirety of our three-year tenure in Edmonton, working at a local bakery during the day, and the Swift Meat Packing Plant in the late afternoon and throughout the evening, ambitious and anxious to get ahead, or at least keep hers, and our heads above water, my father continuing his work at the Post Office, and surprising to everyone stepping up to the plate as our increasingly competent and loving father, to whom I’d help teach the ability to read, and with whom I’d spend endless hours quizzing him on aspects of his employment, in preparation for the quarterly tests of competence imposed by a draconian employer, the Canada Post Office.
Every now and then, though, my mother would get an evening off — she didn’t want to sit around the house “wasting time”, as she put it, she wanted to go out into the evening, be with people, to live and to feel free and to feel a part of the community, and if there was a country music concert at the nearby and walkable Edmonton Fairgrounds, all the better.
My mother loved to walk. One early Tuesday evening, she told my sister and I to put on our coats, that we were going out, saying to my father, “You’re coming along, too, to keep the kids out of mischief, to keep an eye on them so they don’t run away” — not that my sister and I ever did, we were homebodies, most evenings both my father and mother off at work, my sister and I at home watching TV or doing our homework, or visiting with friends in the neighbourhood, but back at home never later than 8pm.
On this particularly chill October 1960 evening, we made our way down to what appeared to us to be a deserted Edmonton Fairgrounds, although once inside the grounds and the closer we got to as our yet unknown destination, the clearer were the sounds of guitars being tuned up, and voices testing microphones — until we found ourselves arriving at a small tent, chairs for about 75 people, over the course of the half hour we waited for the evening’s festivities to begin, much to our mother’s displeasure, kicking around the sawdust on the floor, while looking around at the others who were in attendance, a few ragtag kids, but mostly adults in heavy, working class clothing, most drawn and seemingly weary with life, until …

Classic country music artists extraordinaire, The Wayfaring Stranger, Burl Ives; Montana Slim, otherwise know as Wilf Carter, and the Singing Cowboy himself, Hank Snow.

“Howdy, my name is Burl Ives, and this here to my left is Wilf Carter and standin’ next to him, the singing ranger himself, Hank Snow.”
And with that introduction, the small but fervently enthusiastic crowd came alive, as we were treated to a concert, and musicianship the likes of which I would not hear again till 1998, at a Lucinda Williams concert at The Vogue.
For the first and only time in my life, I saw my mother happy, in her element, dancing off to the side, a look of bliss on her face, her tired and aching bones revitalized with a renewed energy and strength, two and a half hours in my mother’s life that neither she nor I would ever forget, one of the best nights of my life, when I felt safe and loved amidst the music that had long been the soundtrack of my life, as it still remains to this day.

Stories of a Life | Love at First Sight | September & October 2012

May 26, 2018Jude and Megan, Stories of a Life, VanRamblingsRaymond Tomlin

Anyone who knows me, knows that I live for film, and for the past 37 years have attended the annual Vancouver International Film Festival each spring (in the early years) and autumn since the inception of VIFF in 1981.
For me, VIFF has provided a sense of connection to the larger world around me, and occurs as a humanizing event in my life, helping me to remember that no matter where we live across our planet – be it in Kenya, Kazakhstan, Lebanon, Chile, Italy, Sweden, Vietnam, Guatemala or Iran – the issues we all confront in our daily lives are the same: wont and need, reconciliation with family and the need for understanding, pending environmental collapse, housing as a human right, love, tragedy, personal disaster, rage, injustice and how over time it becomes clearer and clearer how necessary it is that we all work together for change to improve the conditions of our lives, our family’s life and the lives of those around us, to make ours a more inclusive and more socially just world for all, no matter where we live, no matter our ethnicity or sexual orientation, or our economic circumstance, we are all one, and must learn to work together.

The Vancity Theatre … early morning lineups for the early September advance screenings, at 2012’s 31st annual Vancouver International Film Festival (VIFF)

In the first week of each September dating back to 2005 — when the Vancity Theatre opened — VIFF administrators have held an early morning press conference mid-week at the Vancity Theatre. Some 365 films are introduced, programmers talk excitedly about the films that will be coming to that particular year’s festival, a teaser trailer is shown, Festival Director Alan Franey — if you beg and plead — will provide insight into his favourite films that will screen during the Festival, after which about 120 folks, including actors, directors and producers of Canadian films that will screen at the Festival, repair to the reception area to consume delicious noshing canapés (“hey, we’re indigent writers & actors, it’s our meal for the day!”).
And then the fun really begins …
The very next day — on Thursday — starting at 10am, VIFF commences advance screenings of films where directors, actors and producers for the advance screening films will be present during the Festival. About 30 members of the press, complemented by about 80 festival pass-holders line up outside the Vancity, and after we’ve done our waiting in line, scurry in to find the seats where we’ll remain for the next six hours, losing ourselves in the cinema of the world, the cinema of despair, the cinema of hope.
2012. Noon. Break between films. Vancity Theatre. Sitting in the back row is Len, a Richmond-based filmmaker, and veteran Vancouver Film Festival attendee. As we rise together — I’m sitting in the fourth row from the front of the theatre in the middle of the row, Len is sitting in the back row near the south exit. Except this year for the first time, there is a woman nudging beside him as he stands — would it be fair to say, a beautiful woman, a goddess with an aura around her, an entirely angelic beneficent presence, for she is all of that, a young Botticelli madonna brought to life.
Love, at first sight. Kismet. Magnificent, life-changing, transcendent love.
As I make my way to the south stairway to rise toward Len, looking at me he says, “This is my friend, Julienne. We’re making a film together, a documentary. This is Raymond — he writes about the Festival.”
Julienne is grace in human form, polite verging on deferential. The three of us engage in a repartee, on which subjects I cannot recall.
Julienne looks at me. Clearly, she sees that I cannot move. I am awestruck in her seraphic presence — which I hope against hope she has not sensed, but who am I kidding .. of course she has. But Julienne does not let on, as she sets about to create a protective space, so that my heart will not break.
Each day for the next three weeks, it proves much the same — three, as many as five films screening in advance each day Monday through Thursday, polite conversation between films, talk about the documentary Julienne and Len were making. And I behaved myself — which is unusual for me, because most years I am utterly out of control for the duration of the film festival period, so alive, so lacking in sleep, moved to tears by so many films, in so much despair yet feeling so much hope, falling in love every minute with the women on the screen, with the young, socially gifted women VIFF volunteers — joy verging on madness. But 2012? I was calm.

As is the case with a great many film festival devotees, in the week before the festival is officially to get underway, I create a daily schedule for the 16-day duration of the festival — usually five films, sometimes six or even seven films — that I will see each day, the film schedule based on input from Alan Franey or other festival staff, buzz from film-goers, awards from a dozen other film festivals, and reviews in the New York and Los Angeles Times, Variety, The Hollywood Reporter, Screen Daily, Britain’s The Guardian and The Telegraph, and a retinue of other print & online sources.

Showbiz Shayne, and the ineffable Mr. Know-It-All

My friend, J.B. Shayne, for two decades and more accompanied me to the Vancouver International Film Festival, giving me the nickname, Mr. Know-It-All (J.B. billed himself as Showbiz Shayne). One doesn’t know the meaning of the word insufferable until you’ve encountered me pontificating on one film or other, or what to see that day, or some inside festival scoop, while waiting endlessly in line to gain entrance to one venue or another.
The first day of the 2012 Vancouver International Film Festival, J.B. and I were a little blurry-eyed, lined up outside the Granville 7 cinema waiting to pick up our entrance tickets for the day’s screenings, the first one of which would unspool at 10am. As per usual, in a state of near madness, personalized festival schedule in hand, 100 hundred films lovingly and carefully chosen for both J.B.’s and my viewing pleasure (although we don’t attend all screenings together), me in an excited state of near derangement, dogmatic about the films, “You just must see, take my word for it …” offering my opinion on the work of a particular European director or other, her or his oeuvre and body of work, a crowd gathering around me, present for this early morning devolution into insanity … when …
Julienne, standing in line some ways in front of me, unseen by me, approached. Approached to correct me.
What followed was a professorial treatise on the history of film made ‘live’, and where this particular director fell into the timeline of the history of film and the arts, whose work he was drawing from, the lighting technique innovative and all his own, lambent always with just a touch of sheen, his use of time and space, how he moves the actors around on screen … making it quite plain to everyone standing around that I was but a mere novice on the history of film, a charlatan, an imposter, a pretender, perhaps even a buffoon. And for the first time in 20 years, I was truly in love.
Julienne was angelic in her presentation of information, her love and respect for me infusing her every word of criticism, each word a hug, a kiss, a warm embrace. Here was someone who truly loved me, cared for me, wished to make her presence known and felt, her words a devotion to me, fealty made extant, as real and palpable, as moving and transcendently lovely as anything I have ever experienced in my life, every word uttered by her one of utter respect, and true love and appreciation.
After Julienne completed her discourse on cinematic history, those around us turned away, as it was clear that for Julienne and I there was only the two of us, Julienne and I now standing close, standing side by side, almost touching, Julienne asking to see the schedule of films I had in my right hand. Turning over my personalized VIFF schedule to her, Julienne did the same for me. As she perused my VIFF schedule, I looked at her film schedule — barely recognizing any of the films on her filmgoing agenda, all of the films on my schedule vetted through weeks of painstaking research.
Without hesitation, looking at her list of scheduled VIFF films, I made a decision: for me, this would be the Julienne festival. I threw away my film schedule, knowing that it was essential that I attend at a screening of every film on Julienne’s list. And so it was. We attended every one of her chosen films together, well more than 80 films over the course of sixteen days, never sitting even remotely close to one another at any one of the screenings, for as it is me for me, it is for Julienne: the Vancouver International Film Festival represents the church of cinema …

” … the church and the cinema create a sense of sacred space with their high ceilings, long aisles running the length of the darkened rooms inside, the use of dim lighting, the sweeping curvature of the walls, and the use of curtains to enhance the sacredness of the experience.

The seating, and the opening introduction by a VIFF manager constituting a liturgy for one and all, not dissimilar to the welcoming ritual that occurs in a church service prior to the sermon.

There is, too, the notion that as the film limns your unconscious mind you are being transported, elevated in some meaningful way, left in awe in the presence of a work of film art.

At the Vancouver International Film Festival, there is the vague, unshakable notion that the eternal and invisible world is all around us, transporting us as we sit in rapt attention. We experience the progress and acceleration of time, as we see life begin, progress, and find redemption. All within two hours. The films at the Vancouver International Film Festival constituting much more than entertainment; each film a thoughtful meditation on our place in society and our purpose in life.

Cinema emerging as that place where we might experience life in the form of parable, within a safe and welcoming environment, that place where we are able to become vulnerable and open, hungry to make sense of our lives. Cinema delivers for Julienne and I, as it does for many, access to the new spiritualism, the place where we experience not merely film, but language, memory, art, love, death and, perhaps even, spiritual transcendence.”

And so it went, from early morning til late at night, until one morning while the two of us were in line, a friend came up to Julienne and I, saying …

“What the two of you are doing is disgusting. Raymond, Julienne is 30 years younger than you. She’s a married woman, yet the two of you carry on like you are lovers. Leave her alone. The two of you have no business spending any time together. Stop it. Stop it now!”

Even before Diana finished her denunciation of the two of us, Julienne was crying, tears trickling, then cascading down her cheeks, unable to catch her breath, unable to reply. I wanted to hold Julienne, tell her that all would be fine. But I had not touched Julienne, nor had we or did we intend to have any sort of physical contact, ever. Ours was a love that existed on another plane, our relationship — by which I mean to say, that we related as friends and colleagues, our respect for one another based on an intellectual and spiritual rapport. But physical love? Never would that occur, Never, ever would we together disrespect Julienne’s lovely and generous husband, Bill.
Julienne, finally gathering herself together, her voice catching, was able to utter the words …

“I am so, so sorry, Diana. Raymond and I are friends, that’s all. He has a keen intelligence. I have two PhDs, one in economics and one in medicine. I have taught economics at the Sorbonne, and worked at the Mayo Clinic, yet most days I am unable to keep up with Raymond, his mind is so vibrant, his vast knowledge on the broadest range of academia — save the sciences, where I am wont to point out to him, his knowledge is quite lacking — our rapport entirely intellectual, the joy we experience in one another’s company based solely on an intellectual plane of curiosity, and the desire to learn more, to know more, to be challenged. Somehow the two of us have found one another in time and space, perhaps knowing one another in another life, kismet as Raymond has called it. I would say that is all it is — but all that it is is so great, and so very much appreciated by the two of us that I am taken aback, and profoundly hurt that you would judge me, that you would judge the two of us, that you would think for even one moment that we would ever wish to cause harm, to cause anyone harm. You have referred to Raymond as your friend, in past conversations with me. Diana, a friend does not speak or use the language of judgment you employed in setting about to destroy what is for Raymond and I beauty in our lives, a meeting across the universe.”

And with that, Julienne turned and walked away, the two of us not spending one more moment together for the remaining nine days of the festival.
Then ten minutes following Diana’s denunciation of Julienne, in particular, and me only by association, Diana and her companion, Graham, J.B. and I foregoing the 10am screening found ourselves at the Granville & Smithe Starbucks looking for a coffee, certainly not to calm our jangled nerves, silence between the four us, until we were all seated, me now rising …

“What the fuck did you think you were doing, Diana? You made Julienne cry, Julienne who is as close to an angel on Earth as I have ever encountered. Julienne the personification of loveliness and grace, who would never hurt anyone, nor cause anyone a moment’s concern.

What the fuck were you thinking confronting the two of us on the street? And what business is it of yours, anyway, what I do or don’t do with any person of my acquaintance, particularly when it is as clear to you as it would be to anyone with eyes and a heart, that there is — now was, I fear — a joy that was passing between the two of us, when joy is a commodity in rare possession these days. What in hell would cause you to interfere? Did you, perhaps, think that you were defending Bill’s honour, Bill with whom Julienne and I attend evening screenings together, with me sitting on the other side of the cinema, as per usual, from where Bill and Julienne are sitting. Do you think so little of me, do you think me so lacking in honour and integrity and human compassion, so self-serving and unconscious of the love that Bill and Julienne have for one another that I would, or that Julienne would, engage in behaviour that would be ruinous and contrary to both our natures? Diana — fuck off, never pull that shit around me again. Keep your sick and twisted thoughts to yourself, and never ever speak to me again in the way you did on the street just minutes ago. And one more thing — stay the fuck away from Julienne, don’t ever hurt her again.”

And with that said, I left the Starbucks.
Julienne and I did see one another at the annual Saturday morning, post-festival brunch at The Bellagio, on Hornby at Robson, across from the Vancouver Art Gallery, where 20 or so diehard festival-goes gather each year to debrief on all that has occurred at VIFF over the course of the past month and more, the food and service great, the company — almost everyone present more accomplished than myself, healthy of body and mind and intellect, and inveterate life long lovers of cinema, particularly world cinema — Julienne sitting on the other side and at the end of the table, distant from me. The two of us did not speak. Nor did our eyes meet.
Bill and Julienne and I did get together three more times in the weeks after the festival had ended, for dinner, for a coffee, and for a dessert one late evening. We all got along famously, but it wasn’t too difficult to discern that what had transpired between Julienne and I from early September to early October 2012 could, and would, no longer occur. And, of course, there was the Diana incident. Julienne took a job that required much of her time, and although we communicated from time to time, sometimes in a phone call, more often — but only sporadically — by e-mail, never initiated by me. And then, barely noticing it, the two of us drifted apart … until …

In mid-summer of 2016, I contracted hilar cholangeocarcinoma, a terminal, inoperable form of cancer that was most assuredly going to kill me, sooner than later. Do you recall reading earlier in this story that Julienne had acquired a PhD from the Mayo Clinic?
Turns out that Julienne had trained at the Mayo Clinic under Dr. Gerald Klatskin, best known for his work on the biochemical and biological abnormalities and the clinical features of the diseased liver, but who was also the doctor to first identify and develop a treatment — an operative intervention actually, a rebuilding of the entire bile duct and intestinal system, and replacement of the liver — for hilar cholangeocarcinoma.
Hilar cholangeocarcinoma is often called Klatskin’s tumour, where the bile duct system — a series of tubes or tracts, sometimes called the biliary tract — connects all the elements of the intestinal system to the liver in order that the body’s proteins and materials the body can’t use are eliminated.

Now, I already had a scientist friend — another of the great loves of my life, Alison Fitch, who for the past 10 years has run a multi-billion dollar biotech lab in Seattle, and wouldn’t you know that one of the projects her lab was working on was a cellular intervention to mitigate the growth of cancer cells in the intestinal system, and in the biliary tract and bile duct system, in particular. You wonder why I’m still alive when I was supposed to be dead, at the very latest, a year ago today?
Both Julienne and Alison played key roles in my recovery — one can have great doctors and surgeons, and I did, but it is quite another thing to have women who love you, women who are skilled and are scientists and who love you, who are committed to finding treatments to prolong your life, and working on a “cure”, or at least an intervention that will allow you to live in good health for the next 30 years, while keeping the cancer at bay, women who are on your side, adamant that as long as they’re around, you will be.
In February 2017, when it still appeared that I was a goner — not that Alison or Julienne were going to let that stand — Julienne asked if we might go to lunch at Baguette and Co. on West Broadway, near my home, that she wanted to introduce me to David, whom she and Bill had adopted in Chile, where Julienne was born, and where she and Bill had spent the better part of a year working through the adoption process (why and how it was that Julienne and I had lost contact, she and Bill needing months to help David adjust to his new home in Canada).
David, 2½ years of age, when we were at lunch together — a lunch that lasted some three hours, Julienne and I having much catching up to do in this leisurely setting — focused only on ourselves and David, with no talk of cancer, but only of joy, a joy that was clearly evident in David’s demeanour, a joy his parents shared with him, David an angel on Earth as much as is the case with his mother, Julienne. Julienne told me that Bill and she had attempted to, and believed they were successful in helping to, create a sense of safety and love for David, that since his arrival in Canada the year previous, he had not cried, nor experienced any emotion other than joy, his life so full of love and goodness and warmth and the love of his parents — to see Bill together with David is to witness the same love that Julienne has for her son, the most hopeful love it has been my privilege to witness.
David’s record of no tears was about to come to a bitter — and, really, there’s no other way of saying it, tragic — end, a part of one of ugliest incidents I have ever been party to, and all arising from an unforgivably heinous, revolting and extremely ugly intervention by my daughter, Megan.
With whom I had spoken at some length over the summer, she telling me, “Dad, I’m raising my sons (my two grandsons, Sasha and Leo) the same way you raised me,” about which she went into some detail, and with then Vancouver School Board trustee Christopher Richardson by my side at the opening of the new General Gordon elementary school — where my two grandsons are enrolled — with Megan, her engineer husband, Maz and Leo nearby, Megan saying my two favourite words, “Hi, daddy,” then putting her arms around me, and then her arm in mine, Maz standing opposite, Leo playing, Christopher standing off to the side, as pleasant and as warm & loving an interaction as any father would wish to have with the daughter he loves with all his heart, who he has known since birth to be the toughest, brightest, most heart-filled person I’ve ever encountered (in all the years I raised her, Megan was the most transcendently lovely and intellectually acute person of whose life I had ever been a part — but tough, omigawd tough, as well as the most socially skilled person I’ve ever known).
When I was diagnosed with hilar cholangeocarcinoma in the late summer of 2016, I spoke with my son, Jude — who was supportive and loving through my months long cancer journey — leaving a message for Megan that I wished to speak with her, calling her mother, Cathy afterwards to ask if she might intervene to mitigate any pain Megan might feel in hearing of my terminal, inoperable cancer diagnosis.
I have yet to write about my cancer journey, and will likely set about to do so once the current Vancouver civic election is over, but for the purposes of this Story of a Life, suffice to say that subsequent to the call I made to Megan in September, and the half dozen or so calls I made to her in succeeding months, when the news about my cancer was getting worse and worse and worse, me needing to hear her voice on voicemail, that Megan had no contact with me, did not as I suggested to her visit with our family physician, Dr. Brad Fritz, or in any other way intervene throughout the eight months I was told my cancer was terminal, my death imminent.
About 2:45pm on that early February afternoon Julienne, David and I were meeting, on this unseasonably warm and sunny February day, after our lunch Julienne asked if I might walk with her and David to Macdonald Street, in order that she and David might catch the bus home. While we were walking up 7th Avenue toward Macdonald, Julienne asked if there was a school nearby, and I said there was, General Gordon, where my grandsons were enrolled. Julienne told me that she and Bill were looking at moving into the neighbourhood, in order to find a good school for David to attend kindergarten — Julienne thought she might drop into the school to speak briefly with the principal, to set up a meeting for a future date.
But that did not happen.
Instead, shortly after 3pm when Julienne, David and I were near to General Gordon school, David spotted the playground and the playground equipment, and ran over to play on the slide and teeter-totter, round-about and other playscape items on the school’s grounds. While David played, a number of kindergarten age and younger children playing nearby, David was full of smiles, as was his mother, the moment one of joy, until …
Megan — my 41-year-old daughter, who I held in my arms for the first 10 minutes of her life, as Cathy was still under anaesthetic, who I raised from the time she was a baby, through her years at UBC — walked up to Julienne and I, her face twisted and unforgiving — something I’d never seen before with Megan, a monstrous look — looking at me, saying in a bare whisper, “I love you,” after which she turned to Julienne, not introducing herself so Julienne had no indication as to who was speaking with her, and said …

“He’s probably told you that he’s going to die. That’s bullshit. He’s only looking for sympathy. Look at him. He looks the same way he always has. There’s nothing wrong with him. You’re being a fool if you believe that there’s anything wrong with him, other than he’s sick in the head …”

At which point David looked over — Julienne’s attention consumed by Megan’s vicious diatribe, Julienne now in tears — a look of alarm on David’s face, a crestfallen look of fear. I immediately went over to David, who was the priority in this circumstance. David wanted his mother.
Megan was still yelling at Julienne, Megan an out of control madwoman, Julienne in response now subject to heaving sobs, David running towards his mother, David now crying, too, inconsolably, both mother and son so emotionally flooded that even in her state of madness, with one adult and one child before her crying in pain, Megan left, yelling some epithet or other at Julienne.
Julienne looked at me, and through tears and sobbing, said, “Raymond, you didn’t say anything.” I took Julienne and David over to sit down, to calm Julienne, David now wailing and inconsolable, David wrapped tightly in Julienne’s arms. I was able to calm Julienne, which took a good five minutes. With Julienne now calm and no longer crying, with David still crying and inconsolable, but quieter now, his face buried in his mother’s chest, I responded to the statement Julienne had made only minutes earlier …

“Julienne, this past six months has brought one piece of tragic news after another. I decided early on that if I was going to live, I would need to establish an equilibrium in my life, and never react to any situation, never give up any control in my life over which I have jurisdiction. If I reacted to all the news I’ve heard on almost a daily basis these past six months, I’d be dead, from fear. I decided a long time ago I would not allow fear to rule my life through my cancer journey, and afterwards should I find myself subject to a miracle. I will not relinquish what little control I have over my life, I will not react, as I did not react this afternoon. If I were to do so, I feel quite assured that I would be sounding the death knell for my life.”

At which point, Julienne — David in her arms, arose saying, “We should go, Raymond. I have to get David home. I’ve got to put some dinner on.”

But it took another 15 minutes to make it the one block to Macdonald, Julienne and David stopping along West 7th Avenue, she concentrating on David’s recovery, his sobs still prominent, his demeanour inconsolable. Finally, David released his tight hold on his mother, putting his feet on the ground, putting one step in front of the other, his body still heaving.
The three of us did make it Macdonald Street, now back in the sun, the time close to 4pm, Julienne now saying that she wanted to walk with David and I over to West 4th Avenue to catch the Macdonald bus — which she did, but not before turning to me, for the first and what would assuredly be the last time, placing her arms around me in an embrace, a tight hug that said, “Raymond, I need assurance that all will be well.”
And then, Julienne and David were gone.
I have told you that I love Julienne. And I do with all my heart — but as I told Bill the next day …

“It seems fated that Julienne and I cannot ever have a relationship. It’s just too dangerous for her. I wish it wasn’t so, because as you know, I love your wife, and there exists between us a rapport of kindness and connection, and an intellectual curiosity that is challenging and rewarding for the two of us. But I will never see Julienne again, nor you or David. I am so very, very sorry for what happened to your wife yesterday. I wish I knew what to say. I simply can’t find the words.”

After walking with Julienne to the bus that tragic afternoon, while slowly making my way home, I called my son to tell him what had happened. Jude was generous, kind and supportive, saying to me by way of explanation …

“That wasn’t Megan speaking today. That was mom speaking. Mom has filled Megan’s head so full of lies and hate, Megan is so conflicted, the entire circumstance of the dysfunction of our lives arising from Cathy’s morbidity, that I don’t know what can be done to repair a family situation so rent that there seems no way of putting the pieces back to make us whole again. I love you. Megan loves you. Maybe some day Megan will get away from Cathy’s influence, maybe some day Megan will make her way back to you in a healthy and whole way — but first she’s going to have to get away from the influence of mom, who will just keep on buying Megan off with trips and the promise of purchasing a new home for her, and as she has always set about to do, buying Megan’s affection, but surely not her love, because although mom is many things, one of those things is certainly not lovable. Forget about what happened today. Concentrate on getting better, or if you’re not going to get better, if your time on this Earth is fated to end soon, then enjoy every day you have left.”

No Julienne in my life, a woman I love. A caring and loving son, though. A conflicted daughter. And, an ex-wife who seemingly wants to destroy me.
And, another story of a life.