Rod McQueen's Blog, page 16

Down memory lane

For the past several days I’ve been working my way through three large cartons of family memorabilia, some of which I have never seen before. My mother must have been the initiator. Among the souvenirs is her mother’s teaching certificate from 1910. Another sign my mother was the original keeper is that the boxes contain every letter I ever wrote to my parents beginning in 1963 from Western, through my first job in Toronto, time in Ottawa and up to 1980 when I was at Maclean’s. That was the year she died. My father must have held on to everything, but added little, before his death in 1996. The next generation added photos, report cards and artwork among other items, but I never before realized the extent of the collection.
The revelations include letters exchanged by my parents in the 1930s before they were married. My mother was working for a drug wholesaler in Toronto, my father for Canadian Gypsum in Guelph. They dated as early as 1931 according to a supper club menu they both signed. There are also letters from another admirer my mother stopped seeing in 1933. Still, it wasn’t until 1940 that my father finally popped the question. There is no explanation why it took so long. Maybe he was just saving up his money living in a boarding house in the midst of the Depression. In one letter, he points to a university friend working at Eaton’s who was complaining about having no prospects and making only $20 a week.
I also was reminded of a few things about myself that I had forgotten. When I was press secretary for Robert Stanfield I wrote to my parents in March 1974 saying that the minority government of Pierre Trudeau wasn’t going to last much longer and there would likely be a July election. “Win or lose,” I said, “I’m getting out. Three-and-a-half years is long enough in a job like this.” There was indeed a July election. Stanfield lost; I left. We’ll never know what I would have done had he won.
And that leads to some lessons about life. Everything happens for a reason. If my parents had married earlier would I have been born? More obvious, you grab your opportunities when they come. And pick yourself up when you fall. Looking back, one experience seems to inexorably lead to another as if there were a plan. Would you have wanted to know what that plan was at the time? I think not.

Encore une fois

The saga of Quebec language and powers seems to have been debated for most of my adult life. Quebec has always been on the verge of eruption or separation. Following the 1976 election of Rene Levesque, Anglophone Quebecers no longer felt they had a home. Companies left the province and relocated all or part of their head offices elsewhere. The value of the C$ skidded from US$1.03 to US$0.70 during the next decade.
Referenda in 1980 and 1995 tested the appetite for separation. During the 1995 vote, many Canadians rallied in Montreal to keep Quebec in Confederation. The outcome was a narrow rejection of sovereignty by 50.6% to 49.4% Prime Minister Brian Mulroney tried valiantly to find consensus through the Meech Lake and Charlottetown Accords but could not reach accommodation with Quebec. Prime Minister Stephen Harper recognized Quebec as a “distinct society” within Canada.
The recent round of announcements from Quebec has really aroused my ire. First, Quebec will no longer allow religious symbols such as the kippa, head scarf, and turban to be worn by teachers, police and public servants. Second, all immigrants must be able to communicate with the government in French within six months of their arrival. Third, French is to be the common language of Quebec.
To do this, the Quebec government is pressing into service the “notwithstanding” clause in the Canadian Constitution. My recollection of that clause was that it was to be employed only in the most exceptional of circumstances. Now it is being used willy-nilly to deny rights and freedoms for multiple groups within Quebec. This is not what the premiers and Pierre Trudeau intended in 1982. Justin Trudeau knows that fact full well but has fallen strangely silent on the topic as have the other party leaders.
There used to be a time when concord was not only desirable but earnestly sought. Every effort was was made to maintain Quebec’s place in Canada. Such activity no longer seems either possible or palatable. Some of what Quebec is now proposing is simply racist; the rest is surely ruinous. As Pierre Trudeau used to say: “Who speaks for Canada?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Birdland

A few weeks ago I reported on the sights and sounds of spring at the farm. As Bachman-Turner Overdrive sang, “B-b-b-baby you ain’t seen n-n-nothin’ yet.” During the past few days, we’ve been overwhelmed by the next phase of this wondrous season of the year. Plants in the garden continue to sprout, the trilliums provide a carpet in the woods, and leaves on the trees are unfolding in so many shades of green they must have come from a painter’s magic palette.
Among the more interesting new avian arrivals is a pair of eastern bluebirds that have taken up residence in one of the birdhouses we put up just for that purpose. (Note to others who might be on the way; there are still three available, each with a pond view.) The male has a vivid, almost iridescent blue back and a brick-red front. The female has similar coloration, just a little more muted.
She does all the work, gathering grasses to build their nest. He presides proudly from a perch on the birdhouse next door. Once he drove off a female red-winged blackbird who seemed bent on trouble. Now settled in, the female bluebird spends much of her time peering out of the tiny hole as if to see what’s happening in the world around. On the pond, a mallard remains, and a kingfisher flashes his crested self back and forth.
On May 14, a day earlier than usual, two ruby-throated hummingbirds appear at their feeder, hung out just the day before because they always return right around the same time. This would seem to be the same pair as last year. He is still angry with her, driving his mate away when she wants to put her long proboscis into the sweetened water and draw out a drink. Apparently she continues to allow his shenanigans. A Baltimore oriole takes a few sips, his black head and brilliant orange body a giveaway to his identity. The bird book says he likes to taste sweets, too.
Other sightings include rose-breasted grosbeak, red-bellied woodpecker, brown thrasher, and northern mockingbird. The latter’s song is unique, three trills, followed by three different trills, then a third set, all repeated over and over. In the woods are warblers, so high in the trees as to be unidentifiable. Lengthy gazes yield one of birding’s few diseases: warbler neck. It’s small price to pay for so many welcome visitors. And no masks required.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fleeting fame

I’ve been a Blue Jays season subscriber, along with a small syndicate of others, sharing a pair of tickets since the team’s founding in 1977. Of all the players through all the years whose professional career has included Toronto, my all-time favourite is Roberto Alomar. At second base he had no equal. His range and ability to get to a ball hit anywhere near him was astounding. A lifetime .300 hitter, he was an All-Star for a dozen years, and a driving force when the Jays twice won the World Series.
So I was saddened by the news that he had been found guilty after allegations recently made by one individual of sexual misconduct in 2014. Following an investigation by Major League Baseball (MLB) he was placed on the league’s “ineligible” list which means he’s eternally damned. Alomar lost his MLB consulting contract and the Blue Jays piled on by removing his Level of Excellence designation at the Rogers Centre as well as his Hall of Fame banner. By the sounds of Alomar’s comments he has not been allowed to fully defend himself before MLB. He was quoted as saying that he hoped “this allegation can be heard in a venue that will allow me to address the accusation directly.”
Treatment by the Baseball Hall of Fame was more sanguine. Alomar’s plaque will continue to hang at the museum in Cooperstown, N.Y. The Hall of Fame takes the view that its mandate is to preserve and honour history based on the code of times past, what the world looked like when that particular player was active. Changing social mores or other recent considerations simply don’t apply.
Differing views have come to impact our opinion of other more historic figures. Sir John A. MacDonald, Canada’s founding father, has recently been found wanting because residential schools were said to be his idea. There’s no question they turned out to be hellholes for Indigenous young people but I would argue that terrible outcome was not Macdonald’s fault. However, the opposite view has come to prevail. Macdonald’s name is being scrubbed off buildings; his statues are being carted away.
I have a bust of Sir John sitting on a corner of my office desk. He’s been supervising my work for years and will carry on doing so. Alomar may not have similar commemoration in my space, but his playing career will also continue to be honoured by me. They both will always have a revered place in my heart and in my head.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patience and persistence

Regular readers know how much I enjoy a well-written memoir by a business leader. Such a book is “Lessons Learned on Bay Street: The Sale Begins When the Customer Says No,” by Donald K. Johnson. Johnson’s distinguished career as an investment banker started in 1963 at Burns Bros. and Denton and continued through various mergers until he became president of Burns Fry and then vice-chair of BMO Nesbitt Burns. Now eighty-five, he’s as active as ever.
Johnson’s grandparents, on both sides of the family, moved from Iceland to Manitoba in the 1880s as did many others after a volcanic eruption. His father died young, leaving his mother to raise four children in Lundar, 60 miles north of Winnipeg. Sensing that Donald was intelligent she moved the family to Winnipeg so he could attend university. He graduated in engineering and followed up with an MBA from The University of Western Ontario.
During his Bay Street career, Johnson adopted several one-liners including: Never give up; Laughter is the best medicine; and Never put off until tomorrow what you can do today. Some people might scoff at such simple sayings, but they work. Johnson was also told early on to keep a list of contacts; his list now numbers more than 6,000. He keeps healthy by watching his diet, walking 10,000 steps a day, doing transcendental meditation and is asleep by 9:30 p.m.
Johnson is not afraid to chase opportunities. Starting in 1994 he regularly approached Warren Buffet, attended his annual meetings, offered him deals, and even sent a CD by Paul Anka, a singer they both admired. Finally, in 2017 Johnson won over Buffet when Berkshire Hathaway invested in Home Capital Group, a struggling Toronto mortgage lender. Patience and determination, Johnson would say, citing U.S. President Calvin Coolidge.
Johnson’s only real trouble came from Jack Lawrence, his boss at Burns Fry for five years. “I disliked Jack, and I don’t think I was alone on the management team in feeling that way,” writes Johnson who found Lawrence abrasive and uninspiring. “If there was one thing I learned from him, it was how not to manage people.”
As a philanthropist, Johnson has donated to more than three hundred Canadian charities. His largest gift is $15 million to Toronto Western Hospital for the Eye Institute that bears his name. Johnson has also enabled others through his lengthy fight with Ottawa so donors can give shares in public companies to charities without having to pay capital gains taxes. Taxes were cut in half in 1997 and fully removed in 2006. Most years since, charities have received $1 billion in gifts of listed securities from individual and corporate donors. Since then, he has pushed for the exemption to include private company shares and real estate. Johnson will be monitoring the budget scheduled for tomorrow to see if that further relief is announced. If not, you can be sure his efforts will continue. If Ottawa thinks he’ll fall silent on the topic, they don’t understand the powerful force they’re up against.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next best thing

I’ve just completed an extensive project, Volume Five of the history of CIBC, covering the years 1973-1999. Four other authors wrote the previous four volumes, one of whom was Arnold Edinborough, editor and publisher of Saturday Night, so I am in good company. Research for the commissioned book included lengthy periods poring over the bank’s archives as well as conducting 150 interviews with people who worked at the bank and others who had relationships with the institution during that era. The book will be published by ECW Press later this year.
This is my twentieth book in the nearly forty years since my first, The Moneyspinners, was published in 1983. I well remember the feeling as I delivered that manuscript (produced on a typewriter in those days) to the publisher. It seemed like I was saying goodbye to an old friend. In fact, it was more like a sending a son off to war. The editors urged changes all the way from restructuring chapters to the proper use of semi-colons. Reviewers took swipes and, of course, there was the repetitive nature of a national promotional tour. I visited a dozen cities doing seven or eight interviews a day. I’d start to tell an anecdote from the book during a radio interview and then wonder, “I know I’ve told this story previously today, but have I already told it during this interview?”
As an author, people regularly tug on my drinking arm at receptions and then say, “I’ve always wanted to write a book.” I listened to numerous ideas until I finally devised an answer. “All you have to do is write 500 words a day,” I’d say. “At the end of a year, you’ll have more than 100,000 words, plenty for a book.” People would look askance, thinking, “Can it be that simple?” Of course, It’s not. Few can muster the commitment required to write every day. One who took my advice was Arthur Labatt. He wrote a wonderful book called A Different Road about how he did not want to work for the family brewers in London, Ont. Instead, he founded Trimark Investment Management, and made his fortune.
Over the years I have focused mostly on business, writing about the Eatons, Edgar Bronfman Jr. and BlackBerry, but I’ve also ghosted autobiographies for politicians including Thumper about Donald Macdonald and The Duke of Kent about Darcy McKeough. When people ask me, “What’s your favourite of all the books you’ve written,” I always reply, “The next one.” Whatever that turns out to be.

Everywhere a sign

To quote Geoffrey Chaucer, “Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote (When April with its sweet-smelling showers) The droghte of March hath perced to the roote.” (Has pierced the drought of March to the root).” Beginning at 4 a.m. coyotes bay at the rising half moon that lights up the early morning sky. Once dawn has fully arrived, we notice more activity in the pond. The pair of mallards that were there yesterday has been joined by two pairs of hooded mergansers, preening and diving beneath the water for breakfast. Compared with the mallards, the mergansers appear tiny, but both sexes offer magnificent crests with the male displaying other features: a white splash on each side of his head as well as black and white stripes toward the tail and a reddish-brown belly. And the peepers are saying their name.
At a feeder, a female pileated woodpecker makes repeated trips. Last year, there was just a male pileated making his raucous cry. Has he found a mate? Is she stoking up for egg laying? At one point, while she is feeding, there’s a three-bird line-up patiently waiting their turn: both the male and female hairy woodpecker and a blue jay. Once they’re all satiated (for now) the chickadees flit in while juncos forage below for scraps on the deck. Two butterflies adorn the freshening air: one is black with lacy white; the other, brown and gold.
The garden also shows propitious signs. Red pokes in the soil announce that the peonies have survived. Hosta and day lilies have sent up two-inch sprouts. A coneflower has a clutch of tiny green leaves at the base of last year’s plant. Some clean-up will be required … but not today.
In the woods, the path is clear and dry with some snow patches left in low-lying areas. In the days to come, woodland flowers will bloom: trout lily, dutchman’s breeches and trilliums. The warblers will return, as they always do. I once knew a man, now dead, who claimed he could mimic the songs of all fifty-plus warblers in North America. I never heard anything from his repertoire; I took him at his word. Who would lie about such a thing? Nor can spring lie; it is here.

The challenge of change

The trouble with Erin O’Toole is his job title: Leader of Her Majesty’s Loyal Opposition. As long as the Conservative leader retains that role, he won’t get any respect from the Ottawa press corps. I know whereof I speak. After all, I was press secretary to Robert Stanfield from 1970-1975 through two losing elections, back in the day when it was the Progressive Conservative Party. As Stanfield once said, “If I walked on water across the Rideau Canal, the headlines would read, ‘Stanfield can’t swim.’”
That’s because most journalists then and now are left of centre, more likely to give positive coverage to the Liberals or New Democrats. Finding divisions among the members of O’Toole’s caucus is their daily delight. The dismissal of an MP who accepted a $131 campaign donation from a questionable source is just one example of how little things can end up meaning a lot.
But O’Toole does himself harm because he hasn’t put forward a consistent message. On Friday night his address to the party policy convention was filled with high-falutin’ rhetoric about change. For the life of me, I couldn’t tell you what exactly he wanted to change. Or more important, what he wanted to change to. As for climate change, the Luddites in his party even rejected the milquetoast phrase, “Climate change is real. “
O’Toole’s speech was likely the first time many Canadians heard anything directly from him. What a missed opportunity. I believe that an opposition party doesn’t win an election based on its policies. They come to power because the voters decide that the current bunch needs to be thrown out. O’Toole should have spent much of his address reminding people of the Liberal Party’s failures. He could have cited Justin Trudeau’s holiday travel, the WE scandal, the inability to choose an appropriate Governor General or head of the Armed Forces and the laggardly COVID-19 vaccine program. Voters need to be shaken loose from their previous support of the government and put in a mood to jettison them and embrace another. Only then will Erin O’Toole stand a chance of winning. Presuming that he has along the way won over his own recalcitrant MPs.

Half a life

Everybody is suffering due to the COVID-19 pandemic: death of a loved one, the fear of illness and the relentless loneliness that grips so many. Of those who enjoy good health, I believe that the group who will bear the heaviest long-term cost are high school students. Think back to your own youth. You might be loved and well taken care of at home, but where you really wanted to be was with your friends at school, playing team sports, participating in clubs and choir, or just hanging out. What might seem simply like fun activities are actually lessons in leadership, gaining social skills and figuring out who you can trust.
Today‘s young people are missing so much. They lack ready access to part-time or summer jobs where getting paid for work accomplished teaches independence, entrepreneurialism and exactly who you want to be when you grow up. As a teenager I worked retail where I helped quietly increase all sticker prices by 15 percent and then watched two weeks later as the store announced a 20-percent-off sale. One year I was night clerk at a motel where I learned what the members of the local baseball team did after games and who they did it with. Another summer, my role on the production line at a dairy spurred me to go to university. I concluded that I did not want to spend my life doing such repetitive tasks.
Beyond such work and what it brings, imagine how students are suffering on a daily basis as they sit all alone during online learning. A majority of them say Zoom school it is not anywhere near as enriching as in-class teaching. They worry that grades given will be lower than they otherwise would have been under the usual methodology. As a result, those in their final years in high school fear that they may not have good enough marks to get into the university of their choice. Their self-confidence will forever be eroded.
It has been said that youth is wasted on the young. Never has it been more true.

The red coat syndrome

The head of a pension plan loses his job because he got a vaccine shot on foreign soil. A veteran journalist is told to resign because of something he may or may not have said two years ago. A governor undergoes an independent inquiry because of complaints by two former staffers. And Charlie Rose is toast. I miss him still.
Welcome to the cancel culture where your life’s work and reputation can be destroyed in an instant. What has happened to us? Where is the forgiveness factor that used to be more freely given? Meanwhile, a former president continues to command adoration from millions of followers who can’t swallow enough of his lies.
It’s easy to blame social media for the cancel culture because it is an active and faceless foe. But that very ability to attack without evidence by repeating someone else’s allegations affords a protective shield no police force could match. The whole thing reminds me of the woman accused of adultery in The Scarlet Letter, shunned by society, living in a cottage in the woods. In those earlier times, failing to meet the community’s standards was so unusual it was fodder for a book. These days, it seems like there are fresh outings on every newscast.
When I was about ten, a bunch of us decided we’d pepper a passing car with snowballs. In our exuberance, we broke a window, but I was the only one who got caught. The driver identified me by my distinctive red coat. I paid for the damage over time from my weekly allowance. I never ratted out any other perpetrator.
Ever since, I’ve tended to be on the side of someone who pays the price while others go free. I know what it’s like, on a small scale, to be sure. Maybe that’s why the cancel culture is such an anathema. I detest the crowing that ensues when someone comes a cropper. Hasn’t everyone done or said something wrong? Maybe many times over? They just haven’t got caught.