by Erin Davis
I started out as a newscaster and moved into co-host positions in nearly every station where I worked, and the rewards—bonuses, excellent salaries and a high station profile—were eventually worth every breakdown, every dollar and every hour spent in the therapist’s office. But what would this industry do to—or for—our daughter? She was soon to learn that the bank vault doors had slammed shut in a business that had increasingly been swallowed up by telecommunications giants. With a few notable exceptions, and many of them are now considering or approaching retirement, there were no more radio headliners being paid the kind of salaries that her mother had earned. One person was now doing the job of several, and making money that often meant a part-time job was necessary if the bills were going to be paid. Contrary, perhaps, to the lyrics of the 1979 song by the Buggles, video didn’t kill the radio star—but conglomeration might. Still, despite our only half-hearted warnings, Lauren followed her own star. You can’t fight fate, nature or nurture. She had broadcasting in her blood, simple as that.
At the beginning of her second year studying radio, Lauren was given the enticing opportunity to transition from part-time to full-time employment. We offered our advice (that the very purpose of community college is to get you a good job, and this was certainly going to be one), and she consulted other broadcasters for their opinions. Not one suggested that a piece of paper at the end of second year would help her future any more than taking this job doing news at a radio station in the nation’s capital.
Okay, not just a radio station, the radio station at which I began my broadcasting career in earnest. When I was attending Loyalist College, I had worked part- and then full-time at an easy listening music station in Belleville. My sights were set on bigger things, though; almost from the time I began at the station, I was consulting with its news director about where I should go next. Perhaps it was my Armed Forces upbringing, but I was always eyeing my next move. How it came about is a story I love to tell as an illustration of the power of volunteering and the sheer luck that can come with being in the right place at the right time, and being prepared for the next opportunity.
In 1981 I was working at the Belleville station part-time, moonlighting at another job and determined to hold down a 4.0 average at school. My second year of college couldn’t have been busier. Mornings, I would attend classes; it was final year, and any afternoon assignments could be completed on my own time, scarce as it was. In the afternoon, I was the deejay on a radio station that played mostly instrumental versions of your mother’s or grandmother’s favourite songs, a shift that lasted until 8 p.m., when we switched the station over to pick up a national show. A few nights a week, I’d run across the street and, playing in C—the only key in which I can play comfortably—I’d sit at the piano and entertain dinner guests at a French restaurant. Of course, tickling the ivories, even in one key, paid way more than my radio gig. You’d think I’d have taken the money and bought a few lessons, rather than just playing by ear.
In December of that same year, at the end of my course’s third semester, I had a week off. I could have gone to my parents’ house half an hour down the highway and gotten lots of rest and replenishing—and believe me, that was tempting—but instead, I screwed up my courage and made a phone call, offering to work at a radio station in Ottawa, a three-hour drive away. For free. Short-handed as they were over the holidays, and after speaking with my news director to get a reference, they accepted this rookie reporter. Just like that, when the next semester ended in April, I had a job waiting for me: a position paying fifteen thousand dollars per year as a nineteen-year-old anchor and reporter at the number-one radio station in Canada’s capital. I was on my way!
And so it seemed to be a wonderful sign when Lauren was approached to fill the same position on that very radio station just over thirty years later. In a lovely bit of synchronicity, the man who had hired me in 1982 was now morning show host on CFRA. He proudly told listeners of Lauren’s lineage and her mother’s connection to the station. As flattering as it was to me that he remembered the six months that I was there, and what I went on to do in Windsor and eventually Toronto, perhaps, as it turns out, I was a little too much on Steve Madely’s mind.
When the need arose, Lauren would fill in doing traffic on Steve’s show. He was openly embarrassed and apologetic when, during an introduction of one of her reports, he called her Erin Davis, instead of Lauren Davis. She laughed and said she didn’t mind at all. Then it happened again. When I say Lauren got the last laugh, I mean it: he was so red-faced at having called her by her mother’s name that he offered on the air to give her five dollars every time he did it. She left work that day with a twenty-dollar bill in her wallet that she hadn’t started with. I think Steve and I were more worried about her self-esteem than we needed to be; she found it funny and was quite happy with her compensation. She even hugged him and told him she thought it was a compliment to be called by her mother’s name.
Rather than feel threatened, or worry that she would get lost in my shadow, Lauren told me that it dawned on her during her college years that perhaps I was more of a presence in the nation’s media scene than she (or even I) had known. “Turns out, you’re a bit of a big deal,” she said to me one day in her usual teasing way. I was beyond proud to know that my daughter was seeing me through different eyes and would hopefully be seeking my counsel as a mentor and a veteran. Another level, another bond was forming in our relationship, and I loved that we had radio and its many joys and frustrations in common. The medium that had taken me away from her for so many years—first days of school when I was obligated to be on the air during the fall ratings-measurement period, and public events where I was in performer mode rather than that of mother—had also brought us closer together.
In the final Mother’s Day card I received from Lauren, she wrote:
Thank you for being a limitless source of advice and inspiration.
Love, Lauren.
Sharing my last name may have helped her catch the eye and ear of the station’s news director, Steve Winogron, but she earned every word of high praise, every raise and promotion, strictly on her own merits. Steve and I had worked together, having fun and making just a little bit of trouble when I was fresh out of college in 1982. Lauren had barely begun her second year of college in Ottawa when she landed an interview with this high-profile manager. That interview (after which she sent a thank-you note) went well.
Of hiring Lauren, Steve remembered that, sure, she got an interview because she was my daughter and he thought, Okay, cool, maybe she’s got something going for her.
He told listeners on the day that Lauren died about the hiring process when it came to my daughter. “Very, very quickly, within five, six minutes of our conversation’s start, she really stood out as someone who had a bright and promising future, a fantastic attitude. I made it clear to her, ‘Look, despite the fact I know your mom and we’re in touch from time to time, you’re going to stand or fall on your own merits, your own hard work and attitude.’”
So intent was Lauren on not ever being accused of riding my coattails that she even debated dropping the Davis name on the air and taking a different last name. Eventually, however, she decided to keep Davis; she felt that her being in Ottawa and me in Toronto would significantly lower the chances of any such sniping. Even though she told Steve she was proud of and close to me, she was insistent upon being her own person, succeeding or failing on her own abilities.
In very short order, Steve’s faith in Lauren was rewarded: she started out doing evenings and quickly progressed to the important midday shift on CFRA. As Steve put it, “I can’t remember someone as young as her having so much responsibility and delivering—and, frankly, exceeding expectations.”
Rob and I had nothing but the greatest faith in her abilities too. We could see clearly how talented and capable she was; she’d already shown judgment beyond her years as a barista at Starbucks. We lived almost kitty-corner to a Starbucks (like nearly ev
eryone in a city), and at sixteen, while also attending high school, of course, Lauren was their youngest barista. One early weekend morning, she got to the store only to find that the manager had missed her alarm and slept in. Lauren didn’t have a key, but she stood outside the store and greeted impatient and caffeine-deprived customers with an apology and a promise that if they returned, they could have a free coffee. I have no idea how or where she came up with that notion, but she was later honoured with the M.U.G. award (a pin saluting “moves of uncommon greatness”) for her customer service that day. She would go on to earn another, and I couldn’t have been prouder if she’d been honoured with the small white pin that accompanies the Order of Canada. She was much more blasé about it and feigned embarrassment whenever I brought up the pin. Or perhaps it was real embarrassment; that was Lauren. Just like her father, she was able to take almost anything in stride—unlike her more emotional (and some would say overly sensitive) mother.
Early on in her career, on an Easter weekend when we drove to Ottawa to visit her, a real pain in my heart—feelings of sympathy and loneliness—accompanied letting her go to work on the evening shift at CFRA as we wandered the streets of this beautiful, history-filled city. I knew that while we would soon be sleeping in our hotel bed, she’d be updating newscasts and websites, running that big, quiet, dimly lit newsroom all on her own. I remembered how night shifts felt when I first started there in April 1982, and I felt lonely on her behalf. I wish now that I’d offered to go in with a cup of coffee, just to keep her company. She’d have said, “Mo-therrrrrrr . . .” and declined. It’s not like I had security clearance or anything, but still, I wish now I’d asked. It would have made for more good memories.
Of course, just as was the case when I was working at CFRA, most of Lauren’s co-workers were twenty, thirty or more than forty years older than she was. One such veteran of the news-and-talk format was John Brenner. On the day that her death became public, he, too, took to the airwaves to tell listeners how he felt about her presence in the newsroom. He began with noting how professional she was and how she treated her colleagues; he admired how she was so respected and loved by them. John pointed out Lauren’s attention to detail and concern for accuracy and facts. Presentation came first; although this was information, she felt that it was a performance as well. He added that she was the “genuine article” and that, as a veteran, he found it remarkable how she rose and excelled at CFRA in such a short time.
At the time of her death, Lauren (who still went by Davis on the air but had taken her husband’s last name on all official documents when she’d married twenty-three months earlier) was on a maternity leave from her position as midday news host on the radio station.
This posthumous post on her Facebook page by another co-worker illustrated to everyone what a formidable presence she had already become at CFRA.
Brock McDonough
to
Lauren Shirakawa
May 15, 2015
Lauren,
I don’t think anyone who has worked in a newsroom for any length of time would ever call it “easy.” I know I’m no exception.
I remember countless times, as a junior reporter just cutting his teeth at CFRA back in 2011, returning back to the newsroom after covering a “heavy” news story and feeling as though I was too overwhelmed by the content to boil it down to 40 seconds of quality on-air journalism. I would be stuck, either too embarrassed or too proud to ask around for help.
However, there would be lucky days when we shared the newsroom—when you and I worked together to produce journalism that I was immensely proud of—and those feelings would disappear with a snap. Regardless of the situation I was dealing with, you would always greet me with a smile, crack a quick joke or two, and in your own beautiful way, give me the confidence I needed to get the job done.
Brock went on to say that Lauren’s belief in him helped jump-start his fledgling media career, and that she’d played a bigger part in that career than she could ever have known. Plus, she always made the newsroom fun.
From schoolmates to teachers, from former co-workers to an ex-boyfriend, those with whom Lauren had contact throughout her life made a point of reaching out and telling us how her maturity had affected them. Even her third-grade teacher, Steve Travers, wrote us and said that when the class was in somewhat of an uproar, Lauren’s eyes would meet his like she “just got it.” A classmate told us of her ability to bring opposing sides together when the situation with a high-school musical cast got a little too dramatic. Her high-school boyfriend, who came out when they were in college together—a situation that gave Lauren the first (and last) true heartbreak of her life—wrote to us in 2017:
I just miss her so much today. I feel such a deep-seated guilt for never thanking her properly, making sure she knew how many pivotal moments in my life she helped shape—not least of all accepting myself for who I am. She is still an incredible presence reminding me to stay true and honest in my relationships, now.
I’m happy to say that we are on the road to mending our relationship with the young man who spent so many happy hours in our home and with our daughter during her teen years, but with whom Lauren had such a painful and acrimonious split. The long path of “what ifs” only leads to a litany of regrets, and the fact that he has reached out to us to share video and audio memories of our daughter and stories in which he reflects upon the job we did in her upbringing has given us comfort. If not a gift from beyond, then certainly a gift from beyond what we had expected.
Did we make mistakes as parents? Undoubtedly; we wouldn’t be human if we hadn’t. But in the months and short years after her passing, during the hours spent poring over her school projects and the journalling she did, I was touched by the amount of gratitude I witnessed for everything that came her way as a result of the life we’d chosen, the life we’d been given, even though there was always going to be a price. And that price could be summed up in four words: “be on your best.” I didn’t even have to add the word behaviour. She knew. It might as well have been on our family crest.
As for my own childhood, the family motto was probably “Get over it.” These were words my mother, who had been born into the Great Depression, lived by. Mom had been thrust into the difficult position of being a wife constantly on the move because of her husband’s job, with four daughters (each about two years apart) to raise, often on her own. Being the third of four, I had so little time with my mother that I can count the special times we had alone together on one hand. I cherished those times. As a child and teen, I adored my mom; regardless of what a nerd it may have made me, I’d tell anyone who would listen that she was my best friend. Admittedly, I didn’t have a lot of friends, but I put her right at the top of my list. Making Mom laugh was one of my favourite things to do: I’d put on silly voices and imitate Carol Burnett’s Queen Elizabeth or Eunice characters from TV to try to bring a smile to her face. It worked so often that humour became one of the strongest foundations of our relationship. I’d usually try to have a joke ready when I called my parents, even up until Mom’s death at seventy-nine in 2012. It took the two of us too long to develop the kind of closeness I had wanted so badly, and I vowed to build a special bond much sooner with my own daughter, with time set aside for special one-on-one experiences.
For many years during Lauren’s childhood, I was one of the guest hosts on an annual television fundraiser for a major charity. The Easter Seals Telethon provided us the opportunity to give back to our community, as well as to experience and enjoy the excitement of doing live television. It was also a teachable moment: I would take our daughter with me, and she’d help out behind the scenes, working side by side with and enjoying the company of other volunteers, including children her own age who were disabled. I loved that time together and so did she. Lauren got a chance to share in an experience that wasn’t all about being “on” but about giving back. About using your small place in the spotlight to help contribute to a larger cause (in this ca
se, raising money for children with disabilities), and about working as a team to do so. A telethon is made up of a beehive of volunteers who toil together to make possible a few hours of meaningful television; every person’s role is important. Lauren needed to see first-hand the joy that could be felt by giving of one’s time and one’s self in order to help others to meet their goals. Year after year, our hours at the telethon gave us that, and we got to do it together. Best of all worlds!
One year, we decided to have a girls’ night and booked into a downtown hotel the evening before I was to have an early makeup call and do a full twelve-hour TV shift. As we cuddled in bed (okay, I cuddled and she tolerated) and ate chips, we watched Faye Dunaway chew the scenery in the delightfully campy (albeit scary) Mommie Dearest. I remember asking her half-jokingly if I seemed a little less hard on her and less rigid, now that she had seen Joan Crawford.
In her typical teasing form, she smiled and gave me a begrudging, “Well, maybe . . .,” and we both laughed, crumbs flying everywhere. But I am sure she felt that those four words she had heard her father and me speak sotto voce through clenched smiles were just as effective as anything Ms. Crawford might have said. Those four words: Be. On. Your. Best.
That was our code when it was clear that listeners (or others who recognized me from our radio station’s TV commercials) were around and looking at us. Call it a sixth sense or a heightened peripheral vision, but I could always tell when eyes were on us or heads had turned. Sometimes my husband would quietly joke, “Well, she almost walked into a pole,” when we were being recognized. Now, don’t get me wrong: I never, ever minded it. These people, these listeners, were the reason we had the life we lived. We were so fortunate to be in a position that people cared or wanted to say “Hello” that I never, ever begrudged them—not once.