No problem.
As it turned out she just wanted to thank him, and everyone felt good.
Rick is retired now and his boots are hung on the pole and I still say thank you whenever I think of him.
But then things changed. The Park Board developed new policies for itself. No gardener, no employee, could talk to any reporter without the official permission of the media relations department.
I learned of this when I was asking a lifeguard about the weather.
“Can’t talk to you,” he said.
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“No,” he said.
I called the media relations department. I was told I could talk to the lifeguard if I submitted my questions to the official in the department and if there was a spokesperson from the department at the scene.
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“No. That’s the policy,” she said.
“Suppose I only want to ask about planting tulips?” I said.
“You need permission,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Policy,” she said.
“That’s crazy,” I said.
“I won’t talk to you if you get personal,” she said.
That ended the conversation, but I found out later that all the gardeners had been told in writing that they couldn’t talk to anyone in the media.
I mentioned to the media people that I had been doing okay without them for thirty-five years and had said nice things about the parks.
They said no exceptions to the policy
Later a new person in charge relented and said I could talk to the gardeners if I called the media relations department ahead of time. Then they would call the gardeners and tell them it was okay for me to talk to them and then they would answer my questions if they felt the questions were appropriate.
The gardeners also know that there’s a sheet of paper on the wall in their work stations and it says they cannot talk to a reporter.
I hate to bring my problems to you—yes, you reading—and this is the only time I’ll do this, but it is important you know the extent to which government organizations control their employees. I understand private companies doing this because they are private, but the Park Board is paid by the public, you and me. Their job is to serve the public, mostly by making the parks pretty, but now, as a gatherer of information for the public, I cannot gather information, not even about tulips and dandelions and the weather.
I also cannot spontaneously ask a gardener a question about worms or the colour of leaves to see if there is something fascinating about it to tell you. First I would have to get permission to ask, then they would have to be told they can answer, then they would have to decide if they might get into trouble by answering, and then they might say, “No, nothing new with worms or the colour of leaves.”
You may or may not have noticed that over the last four years there have been no gardeners in any story. They still do nice things, I know, and I like them so much, but there have been no tales of how one would pick flowers for a woman in a wheelchair or how another woman’s ashes were fired from a cannon or how one can dance on a pole while still wearing her coveralls and work boots.
It is a shame what bureaucrats can do.
However, there is one person who defies the rule. He is Tom, the lifeguard at Third Beach.
“I’m too old to worry,” he said.
Now what kind of secrets did he reveal?
“You should have been here two minutes ago!” he said.
The way he said it we knew we really should have.
“The deer, you know the deer, was right here, right where you’re standing. It was close enough for me to touch.”
He raised his hands. “It was this close,” he said holding his hands this far apart, which you know even without seeing it was not very far.
“He was beautiful, although he’s probably a she, but I’m only guessing,” said Tom, who can save lives better than he can analyze the sex of a beautiful wild creature that was this close to him.
All of this talking, of course, is breaking rules and regulations, and all of it Jim is videotaping, bless him.
“She came right out of the woods, right over there,” said Tom walking there and pointing there. “Then she came up to here,” he said returning to here.
“Oh, I wish you could have seen it. You could have gotten such good pictures.”
Oh, let us second that. But something almost as good, or maybe better, was happening that we were getting sound and pictures of. We were watching the thrill and excitement of a person who just two minutes ago experienced something that most of us never do.
By the way, I know that if you live in the country and see deer every day you are saying this no big deal, and you are right—for you, but not for those of us who live in artificial worlds where wildlife is attached by a leash and we take it out to poop once a day on artificial grass.
A deer, close up, is amazing and exciting and wonderful and thrilling and even more than that. And we could share it.
“You know you’re not supposed to talk to us without prior permission,” I said.
He gave me one of those looks, the kind where you furrow your eyebrows and tilt your head and squeeze your lips together that says in the universal language, “Are you kidding?”
According to the regulations I should have called the Park Board and asked them if I could talk to Tom about the deer. I would ask him only about the deer. No questions, I promise, about the national economy or the budget for the park. The official I spoke to would say she would get back to me.
Now, full disclosure, as they say. I have been told after many conversations with the media department that I have been given dispensation by the board commissioner to do any stories I want once I call. They will not have a representative nearby to check the questions and answers but I still have to call. Then a call will be made to the person I want to talk to. Spontaneous and happy answers, no. Bureaucrat-approved answers, yes.
However, what would have happened if another reporter had asked another lifeguard about the deer? First, the phone call. That may be followed by a meeting, because meetings are important. Then a call would be made to the lifeguard from headquarters telling him that he could talk to the reporter as soon as a representative from the office arrived.
Then the reporter would get a call saying he/she could schedule an interview for an hour later.
Then the reporter would ask the lifeguard, “What did you see?”
Lifeguard: “I saw a deer.”
Reporter: “How close were you?”
Lifeguard looks at media representative to see if closeness would violate rules on being too close to wildlife. Media representative nods. This is an exceptional case where rules can be bent.
Lifeguard: “I would estimate a metre.”
Reporter: “That is close.”
Media representative shakes head. “That is a subjective question. ‘How close is too close?’ Please withdraw it.”
Reporter to representative: “May I ask if it was exciting? That also requires a personal evaluation.”
Media representative: “Of course. A Park Board employee is allowed to express emotions.”
Reporter: “Exciting?”
Lifeguard: “Yes.”
And the official would say, “I hope you are getting what you want.”
Again, if this was me this is where I would explode. You would find bits of me all over the lifeguard station and all over the parking lot and especially all over the official and she would say, “See, the media just can’t help sensationalizing.”
But Tom saved us.
With one picture of the back of the deer at the beginning of the story and then Tom’s full-frontal free and happy excitement and then another picture of the deer going a
way at the end it was a beautiful story.
And the officials never said a word.
Sadly, the deer was hit by a car a few days later. I wish I didn’t have to tell you that. A press release from the Park Board announced its demise.
● ● ●
There is an addendum to this story. When you get mad at someone something else always seems to happen that makes you say that someone is not so bad and maybe you were wrong. And then you think about it and say, No, you were right.
After avoiding stories on Park Board employees and indoor recreation centres for years, something happened. I got a request to do a story about a choir of white-haired folk (so of course I like them).
They would be having a rehearsal. Good, I say. In the Roundhouse. Bad, I say.
The Roundhouse is the comfortable retirement home for Engine 374, the steam engine that united Canada long ago. Its picture is on the cover of Haunting Vancouver, my history of the city.
It is also where I met Cathy and Ed, she in a wheelchair, he in a snow-white beard but, more importantly, they in love. Their story is in my free book mentioned earlier and in Unlikely Love Stories.
When we go in the railroad side of the Roundhouse no one says “No,” but the other end of the building is the community centre and it’s closely guarded by the Park Board. The new rules there say, shout, bellow, “No, you, a reporter, can’t enter without permission.”
I used to wander in there at least once a week to see what was odd or sweet or beautiful. The people who ran it were nice. They would give me hints about lovable oddballs.
There was the barefoot ping-pong player who believed the ping of the ball was mystical, and there was the ten-year-old girl who had been going to the centre “all my life.”
With her mother’s permission she took us on a tour of her art room and ballet room and we went into “that room over there, but I don’t know what they do in there.” When we walked out she said, “I still don’t know what they do in there.”
And there was the indoor traffic jam in the stroller park near the centre’s preschool.
It was all fun, and none of the stories could have been found by getting permission beforehand and being asked what story we will be doing.
“What story will you be doing?”
“We don’t know.”
“Well, then how can we give you permission to do a story about something that you don’t know?”
Now let’s jump back to the singing group. I don’t want to let them down so I take a deep breath and call the Park Board to be allowed to enter the otherwise off limits of the community centre half of the Roundhouse.
The Park Board has won and they know it.
“Yes, of course you can enter. What time will you be there? Who are you going to see? Have they given you permission to tape them? Is there anything we can provide you with to make it easier? Glad you called.”
The Roundhouse staff were waiting. They opened the door for us. There was a welcoming committee.
“Can we guide you to the rehearsal room? Do you need anything?”
The story was fine.
Later there was an email from the Park Board asking whether everything had been satisfactory.
All I had to do was call, so what am I complaining about?
Freedom. The freedom to talk to whomever I want without permission and to discover things I don’t know exist and then to tell you about them. That is a big thing. That is my complaint.
The Race
Darn, I am late again and it is not my fault.
That’s what I’ve been saying most of my life. It is the fault of the toaster that didn’t toast or the sock that wasn’t on my foot when I went to put on my shoe. I thought I had it and now I don’t know where it is and I can’t go to work with one sock. Someone would notice and say: “Hey, you only have one sock.”
And I would say: “Oh, yeah? I didn’t notice.”
And he would say, “How can you not notice you only have one sock?”
From there on it would just get worse so I had to find my other sock, which was probably wrapped in the underpants that I took out of the dryer just a few minutes ago.
Yes, I know, I could get another pair of socks, but then do I take just one of that pair? For sure it won’t match the one I have on. One will be longer than the other and if I sit someone might say, “Hey, your socks don’t match.”
Or they might be polite and not say it, but I would have to be careful about sitting because while I’m not big on fashion I don’t want to look like an old man who can’t get his socks to match.
But today there was another reason I was late. The Lions Gate Bridge. Okay, you are with me now. You know you can’t get over it in the morning and you can’t get over it in the afternoon. And it’s hard the rest of the day.
More than forty years ago when I was new in Vancouver I covered a story for the Sun about plans to widen the bridge. I could not believe, and I truly mean that, I could not believe there was a three-lane bridge as basically the only way to get into the heart of the city.
I remember some people at the meeting saying this craziness has gone on for too long. Something must be done.
More than forty years later I was on the bridge, not moving. Politicians, residents, drivers, anyone with a life is still saying, “Something must be done!”
I usually take the Second Narrows, which is now called the Ironworkers. It is also crowded but at least you have a slim chance of getting across in reasonable time, sometimes.
But your odds on the Lions Gate are like betting on a 100:1 outsider at the track. Brave but not bright.
I was on the bridge because my wife had to get something at Park Royal before going to work. “Okay, we’ll leave early, you whip into the store, I’ll wait in the parking lot and in a few minutes we’ll be on our way.”
Okay, here’s my two dollars on the 100:1 outsider.
I get a text from Jim Fong who did so well with the rear end of the deer: “Waiting in front of post office.”
Neat. I can read the text because we are not moving but soon we will because . . . because I have faith in the impossible. Maybe they will open the second lane going south so some of us will stop yelling at our windshields.
We get up to the bridge deck. I ask my wife to text back. “Just say ‘Soon. Thanks.’”
We crawl. I don’t have to explain it. You’ve been there.
We get to Georgia Street. It has been fifteen minutes since we left Park Royal.
I get another text: “Soon?”
I ask my wife to write back. “Just make three dots and say ‘. . . as possible.’”
We don’t move at all. No one moves. You’ve been there too.
Ten minutes and we are just crossing Denman Street. “We could walk faster,” I say.
Ten minutes later (no exaggeration; I know because I have someone who is going to be late for work sitting next to me) we are passing White Spot. We could have walked here faster on our hands; even though that would have been impossible it still would have been faster.
Ten more minutes and another text: “Should I wait?”
This is not good. He has been there half an hour. Once he’s finished working with me he has other stories to shoot and before he can do that we have to find something to put into the camera.
Ten more minutes! This is impossible! My wife gets out and walks to work. That will be faster. Then suddenly, of course, an idea. You’ve been waiting for this sudden bit of optimism, I know. Somehow the sun will come out, right, because it almost always does in these stories. Well, here it is, the big idea. Walking! That’s today’s story.
In five minutes I am at the post office. It is just a meeting place, and now we are three-quarters of an hour late in starting, but what an opportunity!
I have seen that there is construction (surprise!)
on Georgia just past Granville. Good. Nothing will change.
Jim and I go to Thurlow Street, one block west of Burrard. “There! There’s a guy pushing a baby stroller,” I say. “He’s our winner, I hope.”
Jim follows him, from behind, going from the stroller to the cars and back to the stroller.
“The stroller is in the lead. The stroller is nose and nose with the bmw. The stroller is pulling ahead.”
During the race we are able to talk to several people in cars. This is possible because the cars are either not moving or not moving fast enough to be called moving.
“Tell your boss why you are late,” I say.
They tell him on the camera.
“Tell your politicians what you think.”
They tell them.
“The stroller is closing in on the Bentley with the N on the back.”
Have you seen how many Bentleys there are with Ns? No wonder most of us can’t afford to live in Vancouver.
But it is wonderful, exciting, amazing to see the trotter, that would be the stroller, moving ahead of the thoroughbreds. This is the 100:1 shot not just showing up the high-priced talent but wiping the floor with them.
Plus we are giving visual backup proof to the excuse many would have for being late. This is community service tv.
And now they are heading to the finish line—that would be the crosswalk at Burrard Street.
“The stroller is in the lead. The stroller is moving ahead. The stroller wins!!”
The script was written for me by the race.
Jim and I were done. He could go on to the police press conference about the murder the night before. And, outside of that, I was happy. You can’t be happy about murders but on the Georgia Street racetrack the long shot was the winner. That is happiness.
One last thing. The hero, the jockey behind the baby on wheels, was anonymous, as many heroes are. We never saw his face. He waited for the light and crossed Burrard Street way ahead of the cars he was up against, including the Bentley, and went on to the winner’s circle, wherever that was—probably meeting his wife who wanted to know why he was late.
None of This Was Planned Page 17