Category Archives: VanRamblings

Stories of a Life | Raymond & Cathy Marry 50 Years Ago Today

December 19, 2020Jude and Megan, Stories of a Life, VanRamblingsRaymond Tomlin

Cathy Janie McLean and Raymond Neil Tomlin were married at Pilgrim United Church in North Edmonton, the church Cathy had attended with her family since moving to Edmonton to begin high school, on a near frozen Edmonton Saturday, December 19th, 1970 afternoon, at 1:30 p.m.
Outside the sun shone, the weather a nippy but not unseasonable -35°. There were several in attendance who expressed their dismay that the sun was streaming into the church during the ceremony, something which I never quite understood. For me, it was like being blessed by God.
The marriage occurred almost a year-to-the-day since I had first met a bedraggled dirty-blonde, long-haired Cathy, very much a hippie, huddling with her friend and University of Alberta roommate, Joy, who were at the Royal Towers Hotel in New Westminster, as we waited for the Greyhound bus to transport us into Vancouver. Long story short, Cathy and I, and Joy and my friend Charles, hung out over the next few days, prior to Cathy and Joy returning to Edmonton. In the spring of 1970, I hitchhiked out to Edmonton, without any prior notice to Cathy of my intention to do so, and stayed with Cathy for a week, when we made love for the first time.
Cathy travelled out to Vancouver with her mother that summer in 1970, and rather than return home with her mother, Cathy remained in Vancouver. By mid-August the two of us were living together. Four months later, on Saturday, December 19th, 1970 the two of us were married.

The best man at my wedding was Bren Traff. Here’s a very brief, 6-second clip of Bren recorded in 1967, as he was starting off his CKLG 20-20 newscast. Later Bren would take over weekend CKLG-AM mornings, and later still, with almost every other deejay in town, move to a renewed CFUN — which had dropped its money-losing CKVN, Vancouver’s Voice of News format, returning to a tried-and-true rock ‘n roll format in the 1970s. Bren had been my best friend from 1966, right through until February 1972, which is a story to be told on VanRamblings another day.

In addition, another friend of mine, Hal Weaver — who, at the time, was the morning rock jock at CKVN — asked if he could be a co-best man at the wedding; I asked Cathy if that was alright with her, and she said it was fine. At some point, I’ll write about the last show, on CJOR from midnight to 6 a.m. Hal performed, a show he called Sunday Morning Coming Down, flat out the best radio programme in all of Vancouver radio history.
Hal Weaver is considered by many to have been one of the best, straight ahead Canadian-born rock jocks — a title he shares with others, including Daryl B. and Terry David Mulligan. Hal had a dynamic personality and voice to match. In 1968, J. Robert Wood hired him at CHUM Toronto, where he stayed for two years before moving to Vancouver’s CKVN in 1970. Hal died of throat cancer at the age of 28 in December, 1971, in Surrey, B.C. At the time Hal asked to be a co-best man, he’d already been diagnosed.

Cathy mother’s Myrtle insisted that Cathy stay at her home, just down the street from the church, in the days leading up to the wedding, while Hal, Bren and I stayed at a nearby hotel. The only time Cathy and I saw one another in the week leading up to our wedding, was when we met with the church pastor to talk about our vows, and our commitment to one another. Most of those meetings with the pastor had Cathy and I arguing with one another — if I recall correctly, the arguments were a consequence of an utter lack of maturity (not to mention, quite a bit of insecurity) on my part.
Cathy also insisted on changing the vows to read, “As long as we both shall love“, from “As long as we both shall live,” a change the pastor opposed, but Cathy dug in her heals on the issue, and of course got her way. That particular changing of the vows should have been the first hint I recognized that this was a marriage not to last for the long term — but I was so head over heels in love with Cathy that the thought never occurred to me.
[A digression. I would like to present photos of our wedding at this juncture in today’s story, but I have no photographs of the wedding in my possession — when we divided up our belongings in the early 1980s, Cathy took possession of the wedding photos, more to please her mother than for any other reason … my children tell me she still has the wedding album]
Nonetheless, Cathy and I were married, spending our wedding night at a fancy downtown Edmonton hotel, a gift from her mother (along with a brand new car she’d bought the two of us — recently, I’ve written about my daughter being a little too bourgeoise for my tastes; that well-practiced bougie aspect of how Megan presents herself to the world, and lives her life, comes directly from her mother & grandmother, the latter a Southam).
As you can see in the photo atop today’s column, I was pretty much smitten with Cathy (I think the only other person I know who looks at his wife as I do in the photo above is Seth Klein, when he looks at his wife, Christine Boyle). Once at the hotel, Cathy and I did what we usually did — we got stoned, which was a major feature of our life together during my university years in the early 1970s, along with a very active sex life.
Together, the two of us watched a Peter Sellers movie (although he had only a small part), The Wrong Box, on TV, snuggling with one another on the bed. About half an hour into watching the show, and nicely buzzed, Cathy retreated to the washroom, emerging in a blue, diaphanous and very short silk negligee — which, as you might imagine, did not remain a part of her dress for very long. We woke up the next morning very tired, indeed.
The marriage was a tempestuous one, not troubled exactly, but demanding at times, and overall for the first seven years, a great deal of fun, filled with love, betrayal, travel, an immense amount of sex (five times a day, every day for a decade, sometimes more), and on my part, a great deal of learning on how to be a productive and influential person in this world, as for all the years we were married, Cathy dressed me (“This is what you’re wearing today.”), edited my essays and other writing, and transformed me from an east side slum dwelling kid devoid of social skills into a presentable, and sometimes erudite young man. No Cathy, no Raymond Tomlin, at least not the Raymond Tomlin you have all come to know.

Stories of a Life | When Megan Was 7 Years of Age | Marriage

December 11, 2020Jude and Megan, Stories of a Life, Vancouver, VanRamblingsRaymond Tomlin

Unless I’m mistaken, and I don’t think I am, the photo of Megan above was taken by her mother, when Cathy was taking a photography class she very much enjoyed. As you can see in the photo, Megan is a distinct personality. Look at those wondrous eyes of hers.

When out for a walk in our Kitsilano neighbourhood when Megan was 7 years of age, as we were walking down the street heading towards Jericho Beach, Megan stopped and turned to me, and said in a matter-of-fact and portentous manner, “Dad, when I grow up, I’m going to get married.”

“Good for you,” I said to Megan in response.

As we were nearing McBride Park on that sunny summer 1984 Saturday afternoon, Megan pulled me over to sit on the grass opposite the tennis courts to begin a discourse on her thoughts on marriage …

“I could marry a poor boy, and I would love him, and he would love me, and we would have children together, and be as happy as happy could be every moment of our lives together, for many, many years of wedded bliss, happily raising our children together, all of us loving one another.”

“On the other hand, I could marry a rich boy, someone with whom I could love with all my heart, and we would have children, and love our children as much as it possible for a parent to love their children — which, if you and mom are any indication as to how much love there is to be given to their children, is a huge love, one of immense and sustaining proportion.”

“Now, if I was to marry the rich boy, and we were to have children together, as we most assuredly would, each of the children would have their own bedroom, and my husband and I would have ours. My children would not want for anything, ever, we could travel, and every day of our lives together would be filled with joy untold, our love for one another carrying us through all of our days, in a life of immense satisfaction and happiness, in comfort and without concern to distract from our lives.”

“Y’know, Dad, if I have a choice, I am going to marry the rich boy.”

Megan’s extemporaneous but thoughtful treatise on marriage was surprising for a number of reasons, the most prominent being that her mother and I were in the midst of an overtly contentious and very ugly divorce and custody battle that had gone on for some years — which both Jude and Megan found themselves precipitously and distressingly in the middle of — so I found it to be a bit more than surprising she would ever want to marry, given what she was experiencing with her own parents, that she had quite obviously given the matter some thought, and how pragmatic she was about whom she might choose to marry, and the — forgive me for saying so, but somewhat mercenary — criteria she had set for her future intended, and the tenor of the married life she felt assured would follow.

Make no mistake, Megan was raised as a feminist and a socialist — at least by me, her mother’s “politics” post marriage reverting to the conservative politics of her parents, and the peers of her distinctly privileged youth.

Over time, Megan and I returned to the topic of her future marriage — still many, many years away — as I took pains to impress upon Megan the necessity of agency, that she should always be true to herself and to her values of compassion and contribution, that love must be a part of her life always, but not if it were to come at the expense of her independence and place in society as a difference maker striving to make ours a better and more just world for all. From time to time, Cathy would catch wind of my philosophizing and say to me, “Stop lecturing the kids. They don’t like it!”

There is so much more that I would wish to write on the subject I’ve begun to explore above, but perhaps I’ll save that for another day.

And Megan?

Yes, Megan married the “rich boy”, the two very happy together, their children perhaps not quite so much (children, as we all know can be, and often are, rebellious, as Megan was with her mother most of the time she was growing up, and as she often was with me — honestly, it’s to be expected), although her children (and her lovely and successful husband, Maz) love her to distraction, Megan in “middle age” quite the sophisticated (if too bourgeoise for my tastes, if I might be so bold as to say so) woman of 43 years of age, her life not having taken the path of her best friend growing up, Kasari Govender (she/her/hers, who took office as B.C.’s first independent Human Rights Commissioner on September 3, 2019), but for Megan, her life still one of meaning and substance, if not quite the degree of societal contribution for which she possesses an unparalleled aptitude.

Merry Christmas & Happy Hanukkah | Holiday Lights Tour 2020

December 10, 2020Diversions, News, Stories of a Life, Vancouver, VanRamblingsRaymond Tomlin

2020 represents the 50th anniversary of VanRamblings’ annual “Christmas” (holiday) lights tour — a seasonally appropriate and joy-filled tour we’ve conducted with our spouse, children, family and friends dating back to 1970, an utterly free, quietening, joyous and much-look-forwarded to event on the Tomlin household calendar lo these many joyous holiday seasons.

DuPlessis Family Christmas Display, 8222 Burnlake Drive, in Burnaby | nightly from 4:30pm til midnight, through until January 10th, 2021

In the 1980s with my two children, Jude and Megan, we’d begin our holiday lights tour in Burnaby, and wend our way back to Vancouver hitting all the spots you’ll find listed on the holiday light display tour, and before heading into Stanley Park for Bright Nights and a ride on the Christmas train, we’d stop in at the (now closed) White Spot on Georgia Street — after which we would continue our tour, alighting at each stop to admire the light display, the children placing monies into the various donation boxes along the way.

During our annual holiday lights tour, in most instances we would forego paid displays — such as the annual Van Dusen Festival of Lights (currently postponed), to which we would dedicate a whole night out at some point during the holiday season — and stick to home-style family light displays.

By the time Megan hit 9 years of age, being the decided personality she is (read: Megan must always get her way … everyone who knows her accepts that as a fact of life), Megan decided that while our annual Christmas Lights Tour would begin in Burnaby, and after completing our tour of Dundarave, West and North Vancouver, and Trinity Street, we would next head out to Coquitlam, and then out to Surrey — which meant that the holiday lights tour wouldn’t end until somewhere around 3 a.m. Then it was home.

Three of the city’s most popular seasonal events — the VanDusen Botanical Garden’s Festival of Lights, the Capilano Suspension Bridge Park’s Canyon Lights, and Stanley Park’s Bright Nights, and the Christmas Train — have all been cancelled this COVID year.

For the purposes of this year’s Holiday Lights Tour column, we are going to limit ourselves to writing about holiday light displays and attractions in Vancouver, and West and North Vancouver — offering you the opportunity to enjoy a socially safe distanced tour that is filled with much light, and even more joy — while linking to posts made by other media that go farther afield. In the main, in 2020, we have relied on the good folks at News1130, and their holiday lights tour guide — although, we organized our tour in a logical manner as if your are driving in a vehicle, and making your way around the Metro Vancouver region.

Now onto the 2020 Holiday Lights Tour …

Continue reading Merry Christmas & Happy Hanukkah | Holiday Lights Tour 2020 →

Stories of a Life | Late, Late for a Very Important Date

November 21, 2020Stories of a Life, VanRamblingsRaymond Tomlin

In the 1980s, I was perpetually late on almost every occasion where I was depended on to be on time. Now, as many would say, lateness is a sign of passive-aggressive behaviour, and a statement to those who are waiting for you to arrive that your time is more valuable than theirs — while others believe that being late is a barely concealed power play on the part of the person who is late, designed to “put you into your place.”
Most people won’t bear a grudge if you’re 5 minutes late — but to be more than 5 minutes late, when people might start getting annoyed with you is a whole different kettle of fish. Lateness betrays a lack of respect and consideration for those who you are inconveniencing with your lateness.
In the inverse, although being late insults others, it also undermines the person who is late, because it may betray a lack of intelligence, self-knowledge, will power, or empathy. Or, it may be that the person who is late has set unrealistic goals and over-scheduled her day, or underestimated the time that it takes to travel from one place to another.
But there may be more perfidious and faithlessly treacherous reasons for being late than mere mediocrity. Some involve anger and aggression, and others self-deception. Anger expressed as passive-aggressive behaviour is a vigorous means of expressing aggression covertly, and doing so without incurring the full emotional and social costs of a more overt aggression.
As written above, being late, especially egregiously or repeatedly late, sends out the message, “I am more important than you”. Of course, one can, and often does, send out a message without it being true.
A person may be late because she feels inferior or unimportant, and being late is a way for her to impose herself on a situation, attracting attention, even going so far as to “overtake” an event, situation or proceeding.
At this point, it should be pointed out that being late is not necessarily an unhealthy trait, or pathological in nature.
Sometimes, being late is your unconscious (intuition) telling you that you don’t actually want to be there, or that it would be better for you not to be there — for instance, it could be that a meeting (or even a job) is not the best use of your time, or will inevitably work against your own best interests. Note should be made that headaches can serve a similar function.
There are few habits as infuriating as someone making us wait, though.
But, despite what may be running through your mind as you’re kept waiting again, it’s unlikely your friends or colleagues who are persistently late are just being selfish. It is only when the latecomers make the decision to be punctual that they change. It must be a conscious decision, though — if they merely make a woolly attempt to “try” to be on time, they won’t be.

“Lateness is really a commonly misunderstood problem,” says Diana DeLonzor, author of Never Be Late Again, who has conducted her own research on the perpetually tardy. “Yes, it’s a rude act, but I’ve interviewed hundreds of people and the vast majority of late people really dislike being late, they try to be on time, but this is something that has plagued them throughout their lives.”

In 1982 an event occurred in my life that ended my lateness forever.
Now, in my contemporary life and with rare exception, I always arrive on time — or early, but hold back on knocking on the door or depressing the buzzer until the exact minute of my proposed arrival time occurs — and over the course of the past 38 years, I’ve felt all the better for it.

In the autumn of 1982, having finished work on my Masters, I found myself employed in a suburban Metro Vancouver school district as a secondary school English and Drama teacher. When I’d visited my mother on a mid-autumn weekend, she invited me for dinner in her North Vancouver condominium apartment, in the coming week. “Arrive at 5pm, Raymond,” she said to me. “You know I like to eat dinner early.”
On the mid-week day of the appointed dinner date, I skeddaddled out of the school at 3:45pm, a little later than I’d planned, but I figured that 75 minutes to travel from the Tri-Cities to North Vancouver should get me to my mother’s house in good time. Such, however, proved not to be the case. Traffic was particularly bad on the Highway One that day, there was an accident on the Ironworkers Memorial Bridge that slowed my travels, as traffic moved along at a crawl. Now, this was in pre-cell phone days.
So, there I was stuck in traffic with no way to contact my mother to let her know I’d likely be a few minutes late. Long story short, I arrived at my mother’s door at 5:20pm — late for sure, but I had a good reason, or so I thought. I knocked on the door. My mother’s newest boyfriend, a tall and imposing husky bear of a man, a retired commander in the Canadian Armed Forces Navy, as it happens, looked at me standing in the hallway, and as I made my way into my mother’s condo, he grabbed me, lifted me off my feet, and shoved me up against a wall, my feet dangling below me, and set about to lecture me on how rude I’d been in arriving late, that on behalf of my mother, he simply wasn’t having any of it.

“This is the last time you’ll be late for any event, ever, for any reason,” he roared at me, my feet still dangling below me. “From here on in, not only will you arrive on time, you will arrive early — but wait until the appointed time to make contact with those with whom you are to meet. You will plan all of your excursions and travels, and in so doing will always leave more than enough time in order that you might arrive at your destination not just on time, but early. Do I make myself clear to you?”

I nodded my head meekly, and said quietly, “Yes sir, I do.”
And, you know what? From that day to this, I have always made a point of leaving early, allowing myself at least an extra half hour of travelling time, often more — whether I’m travelling over to Vancouver’s east side from my Kitsilano home to visit newly-acclaimed author Jak King, as I did yesterday, or my friend who lives nearby Jak, the kind and generous Patrick Mokrane — or meeting someone for lunch or dinner, or a couple of beer, or for any other reason I am to meet with someone of my valued acquaintance.