The kids were jumping and looking at their shadows jump with them, and we got there during the meeting of kids and shadows. Lucky us. The us is camera guy Randy Raimondo and me. Randy has never been married. He plays golf. He goes on vacation to Palm Springs with friends and mostly plays golf. He has never had kids or lived with them or played with shadows. He likes golf.
That could qualify him as a terrible grown-up, someone Peter Pan would hide from, but Randy is different. “Shadows? Sure we can do that.”
After permission, of course, from the parent who is babysitting several kids along with her own, Randy puts his camera on his shoulder.
“Watch my shadow!” That was one kid standing on a small ledge and waving her arms with the sun behind her.
“No, watch mine,” said another kid jumping and making his shadow do the same.
Except that when Randy came up behind them, because he is very tall and could see over the tops of their heads, his shadow overshadowed their shadows.
“Hey, your shadow is in my way,” said one kid.
Randy stepped back, but now the top half of his shadow was blocking out the bottom half of theirs.
“Hey!!” they all said together, which really means “HEY!!” and you know what that means. Randy understood because he has heard that same thing on the golf course when someone doesn’t look where they are going and kicks someone else’s ball.
So Randy stood alongside them, which was good for a few shots while they made birds with flapping wings and hula dancers, but pictures on television need numerous angles or the viewers will say, “Hey, I just saw that shot. Can’t you give me something new.”
So Randy walked around to the top of their shadows, facing them, and took some pictures. But now shadows of the ones jumping up and down were jumping down and up, which the poor human brain, especially while watching television, cannot compute.
“Hey, what are they doing to us? Somebody call the crtc.”
The problem and the blessing was it was autumn and the sun was low. The kids’ shadows were wonderful. Getting pictures of the shadows was not, but Randy got one, at just a slight angle, and another at just a slightly different angle and then of course pictures of their faces talking about their shadows and pictures of their arms waving without shadows.
And then the kids got tired of shadows and ran to the swings. Life happens that way.
After work Randy went to the golf course. His shadow went with him. Peter Pan had a good day.
The Conductor, the Traffic Cop, the Puppeteer, the Organizer, the Coach, the Ringmaster and the Central Part of Everything
She is not one of those, at least not a single one, but only because she is all of those—and more.
We are back to television news. Sorry, but that is where I make my living. And sorry because when someone tells you about someone you don’t know and can’t see your mind drifts. I know mine does. A friend was telling me about neighbours who used to live near him. I have no idea who they are. He is talking and I am daydreaming. But this is different.
Her name: Tanya Boguski. She is always smiling, probably to hide the insanity. She has the only job in the entire industry not taught in journalism school, mainly because students would say, “Are you kidding? That’s got nothing to do with news. I’m signing up for chemistry.”
Wrong. It is the most important thing in news, at least in the television variety.
To Tanya’s left is the assignment editor, Scott Bills, who is from Australia, so you know everyone likes him, except the reporters who are getting assigned to stories they don’t like, despite Scott’s winning accent.
Reporter: “What!? That would take two days to get the information.”
Scott: “Well, you have two hours.”
Tanya and Scott are sitting at a long desk with three others, all of whom are either on a computer or on the phone or usually on both non-stop for eight hours, after which they are replaced by others who do the same.
All except Tanya are gathering information that may be turned into news for shows that barely take a breath before a new one is on.
Around the world all the news on television has one unifying component. Guess what that is?
Right. You are very smart. Pictures. And getting the pictures are people with cameras. That part is easy.
Scott: “Tanya, can you get a camera to Main and Hastings? There’s been a stabbing.”
Scott: “Tanya, can you get a camera to Oak and 16th? Terrible accident.”
Scott: “Tanya, can you get a camera to City Hall. Something about something important.”
Scott: “Tanya . . .”
Scott: “Tanya . . ..”
Scott: “Tanya . . .”
Tanya to Scott: “Okay.” “Okay.” “Hard to do.” “Try.” “Can’t be done.” “Impossible.” “Okay.”
That is in the first ten minutes of her shift, and that is not an exaggeration. She is the camera coordinator, a terribly boring title for a heart-stopping job.
In the field, getting phone calls and texts, are the camera people. “What?” “Yes.” “What?!” “Are you kidding?” “Sure.”
Move one person here and another there and yet another there to fill in for that one who has a family emergency and would not leave Tanya stuck unless it was a true, extreme emergency.
This is where Tanya is also a chess player, one with a deadline. Okay, it is speed chess. And those whose days and work and lives she controls adore her.
When it is raining, the camera people are in the rain; when it is cold they are in the cold; when it is impossible to be where they must be they are in Tanya’s hands.
She simply says to those inside, who are out of the rain and cold, who want it done now, she says: “No.” News is everything but it’s not more than the camera people who get directed by her.
Never, ever have I seen her ask or heard of her asking them to do something that cannot be done—and never have they said no if she asks.
She also knows basically the entire geography of the city. “Go to Main and 12th. It’s on the corner with the building that has the cinder blocks with bumps.”
“Victoria and Charles. Next to the tiny park.”
She said her father would drive the family around the city when she was small. He loved the place. She does too.
I have seen many do this totally thankless and non-stop job. The bad ones end with bad television shows. The good ones make good ratings.
As you may have guessed, this is simply a tribute to someone who does her job so well that others will do anything for her. The bottom line to administrators everywhere: If you want your people to be good, be good to them.
Spend a day watching Tanya. Be good and you will get it back. Stand up for your people and you will get everything in return. That should be a lesson in every school.
Amen.
Lemonade Stand
This will be short, but it is one of those things that makes me believe in a spiritual something somewhere that cannot be denied no matter how much you say that it had nothing to do with it.
So, again, don’t argue.
Yesterday, April 17, 2016, my wife and I had dinner with some friends who live in a warm and wonderful part of the city. It is the vast West Side. Doesn’t matter if you have no idea where that is. Just think of some nice place.
There were five couples. We had some appetizers and some wine. Then the women wanted to take a walk, with their wine, which is technically illegal. How stupid is that?
I had a choice. Stay with the men or walk with the women. Are you kidding? I don’t care how much kidding I get, women win, always. Especially when they are walking with wine, even if it is against the law.
We walked. We sipped. We, mostly they, talked about how pretty some houses were and how sad it was that some old ones had been pulled down to make a hole in the ground fo
r a new super house to rise up from.
My heart is hard on this matter. I hate to see the old beauties die, but change is part of life. The original Rome was knocked down and a new one put on top of it. Then that was knocked down and on top of that a new one. It has happened many times. Someday a tour guide will take visitors in the tunnels below the towers of Vancouver.
“These were called houses. People lived in them. They were separated from other houses by grass that was eaten by crows looking for larvae that came from eggs that were laid by beetles. People got sick of seeing their grass torn up so they moved into condos. In short, it was the beetles that brought about the end of home ownership in the city.”
But not yet in the West Side. They still have houses and they are on quiet streets that are named after trees. There is Arbutus and Balsam and others. And while walking we saw some boys at a lemonade stand. This is wonderful, super and everything else.
First, it is there. It is not something I am wishing for, it is really there in front of us. I am always amazed by the sight of anything that might turn into something amazing. And they were boys. Usually girls have lemonade stands, so this is better than ever.
What’s more, they are polite and friendly and smiling.
The only problem was, it was Sunday and I wasn’t working.
“Will you be here tomorrow?” I asked knowing they would say no.
“Yes,” they said. A Pro-D Day. What the heck is that? I know what it is but, honestly, teachers didn’t have them when I went to school so there is no need for them now. But thank you for having one tomorrow.
“Will you be here about eleven thirty?” I asked, because that would fit into my schedule, which of course is very important to me.
“We sleep until noon,” said one of them.
“What?” I said.
“We aren’t going to school.”
Okay, I understand, but for someone who has gotten up before six every morning for most of my life I don’t understand noon. Noon is for lunch.
I told them if they were there at eleven thirty they would be on television. They were excited.
The women and I walked back to our party. A block away I looked up at the street sign. Vine. I knew it was 14th Avenue, and I could remember one before Vine. They are all alphabetical so it should be easy. And then we rejoined the party and I had a little more wine. That was yesterday.
Now, jump ahead to this morning. I meet cameraman Gary Rutherford at 10:45. He tells me about the party he went to the night before. They had good wine. I do not get into comparisons because the host at the party I went to almost lives for wine, good wine. Wine is like love. You cannot compare it the next day without bragging or sounding stupid.
“Vine and 14th,” I say. “Lemonade stand.” It is better than saying, “Main and Hastings, dead guy.”
We get there and the corner is empty. Sad. I told Gary about how good the kids were and how it would make a nice story and how I thought they would like to be on television and how I wanted them to be there.
But no one. Sad, for them and me.
“We will find something else in this neighbourhood,” Gary said.
This isn’t optimism. This is because it has taken a while to get here and we can’t waste the time driving somewhere else to start over.
We go two blocks and see a lawn completely surrounded with strips of white cloth tied to strings attached to posts. Nice. But not that unusual.
Then two houses away from that we see a lawn covered with pinwheels, colourful and spinning. Remember, anything moving is good on television. So there are rags on one side and pinwheels on the other.
I knock on the door with the rags. No answer. I knock on the door with the pinwheels. No answer. This is what real estate agents, people collecting for Greenpeace and Jehovah’s Witnesses go through every day. Don’t envy them.
Between them both is a house with nothing flapping, flying or spinning. No protection. Just a lawn and a house.
Gary says, “It’s about the woman in the middle.”
Brilliant, I think. “Okay,” I say.
She too doesn’t answer the door but we can hear some clipping in the back. This is a very quiet neighbourhood.
We go around to the back lane.
“Hello, don’t want to bother you.”
I tell her where we are from, what we do, how we do it and why we do it.
I tell her that her neighbours have much bird protection but she is different.
“Is there something wrong with that?” she asks. She sounds defensive.
“No. We just want to take a picture and talk to you about it.”
She says she will think about it. She doesn’t sound enthused. Actually, she sounds annoyed. This is not a problem. Anyone is allowed to sound any way they like, especially when talking to someone in a back lane.
But she says she will see us at the front.
Gary and I go back to the front. He takes pictures of the woman’s yard and the other two next door. It is a stunning contrast. Two overdone and one non-done.
We wait and wait—and we do more of the same. Gary says she is probably combing her hair. We wait. She didn’t look like she had that much hair.
I am feeling bad, of course. The lemonade kids didn’t show up and now the woman with the lawn free of bird-scaring devices doesn’t show up.
We wait a little longer and then quit. You can’t make someone do something they don’t want to do. I am sad.
Okay, we turn around and take one more look for the kids, whom I really want to put on television.
We drive by 14th and Vine. No kids, but then Gary turns his head to watch for traffic coming the other way and says, “There’s something at the end of the street.”
He turns. He drives. Almost invisible, past the trees, past the parked cars, we see the kids. Happiness is a lemonade stand.
It is on the corner of 14th and Yew. One block away from Vine. Of course! Now I remember. How could I forget? When I told myself 14th and Vine I also told myself the kids were one block away from Vine.
The kids had been waiting for an hour.
The story was so much better than just a lemonade stand. First they had a secret ingredient. One cap of lime water in a pitcher of lemon and water and sugar. That made all the difference.
And one of the kids had made the signs and he wanted to be a cartoonist. He was twelve.
But most of all, they were giving half their money to bc Children’s Hospital. When we saw them they had already made two dollars. One of them would go to charity.
It was the best lemonade stand ever, but if the woman living between the rags on one side and the pinwheels on the other had come out we would have done something with her. I don’t think it would have been very good but we try to do something with everything we get. There would have been something there, I would have kept saying to myself, and when we’d finished we would have driven away. And since Gary’s truck was parked facing away from where the kids were we wouldn’t have seen them. And since it was getting late we wouldn’t have checked again. It was only because the woman didn’t walk around to the front of her house we went back for the kids.
You tell me, but I know the answer: the story god is not going to miss out on a cup of lemonade, especially one with a secret ingredient.
Private Parking
It should not have been that hard to find. You could have done it. You would have walked up and down a few blocks and said, “There! See? Just like I told you. It wasn’t that hard.”
Yes it was.
For fifteen years I told people about the Cadillac buried in a front yard. It was sort of nose down at an angle like it had fallen out of the sky. Just its back half was sticking up out of the ground. You can’t miss it.
The first time we saw it was on an aimless cruise through some of the beautiful side streets
of Kitsilano. That was somewhere between Broadway and the beach, which goes on forever and is something nice to have in a neighbourhood.
“Wooohh. Is that a Cadillac we see sticking up out of that front garden?”
Yes it was and, wow, it was a wonderful story. Tell me, how many Caddies have you seen growing next to tulips just off a sidewalk?
Okay, you have lived a more exciting life than me.
Knock, knock. This was a decade and a half ago. And out of the house behind the car came a happy fellow. Steve Edmundson. Wiry, with hippie long hair, and pouring out energy. He had bought the car to take parts out of it to restore another Caddy, both of them built in 1960, but by the time he had finished the project he had grown fond of the car that was sacrificing its carburetor and drive shaft so that another could live.
“I wasn’t going to send it to the junkyard. Sad, that would be. So I cut off the front and let the back half stand up in the front yard, like it had fallen from the sky.”
That’s what he said the first time I met him. I can quote him because I remember it because you don’t forget things like that.
In his backyard he also had the front of a motorcycle standing up like it had just come screaming out of Hades and got stuck halfway to heaven. The bike had high-rise handlebars so you know it was not a polite weekend cruiser kind of guy who had been riding it.
But in the middle of his yard he had the most wonderful thing of all. It was a hot day and Steve said, “Check out that tunnel.”
It was a box, a long box with an open front and open back. It was tall enough to walk through. It smelled so good.
I walked in and sniffed. The heaven the motorcycle was headed for was right here, a few steps away from the high-rise bars. It was wisteria that had been trained to go up and over to the other side, and it was more wisteria on the other side that had been trained to do the same.
There was a metal frame that it grew on because wisteria will win out over everything except steel.
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