Rod McQueen's Blog, page 5

Top ten books

Why do we read? To escape. To learn. To swim in someone’s wonderful words. To pass the time on the bus. To lull a child to sleep. But what books do we choose? Here are brief descriptions of my top ten selections for your own reading pleasure.
“Surfacing” by Margaret Atwood is her best novel. For me, all others since 1973 are unreadable. A nameless narrator as alienated loser is an unusual device, to say the least, but I appreciate her anti-American stance. Only the ending confuses by offering so many possibilities. Does she stop being a victim? Pregnant, does she go with her lover Joe?
Among Canadian political memoirs, “Gentlemen, Players and Politicians” by Dalton Camp is by far the best. His cadences, use of language and insider knowledge shine. Here’s his first meeting with Robert Stanfield: “Well, I thought, at least he’s not pretty. Long-headed, with shrewd heavily lidded eyes, a long nose, and a full mouth. All else was elbows and knees.”
I’m going to bend my own rules and nominate all four volumes in the “The Years of Lyndon Johnson” by Robert A. Caro. After twelve years, the fifth volume is beyond overdue. Caro planned to live in Vietnam to do research but Covid-19 intervened. He claims to have written hundreds of pages of manuscript but his editor of fifty years recently died. Caro is 88. I fear we may never see the final volume.
We’re all Nick Carraway living next door in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “The Great Gatsby” watching the spectacle of Jay Gatsby live a hollow life entertaining fair-weather friends. But what of the mysterious green light across the water? I’m sure PhD theses have been written about what it means but I believe it stands for dreams just beyond reach.
In “The Scotch,” economist John Kenneth Galbraith’s memoir about growing up in southwestern Ontario, my favourite scene has the young Galbraith and a hoped-for girlfriend at a fence watching a bull serve a heifer in the field. Says the romantic Galbraith, “I think it would be fun to do that.” “Well,” says his companion, “It’s your cow.”
Jane Leavy’s “The Last Boy: Mickey Mantle and the End of America’s Childhood,” is about baseball, drinking and sex. Mostly the latter two. Asked once by the team PR department to relate his most outstanding experience at Yankee Stadium, the man who holds the World Series home run record replied, “I [had sex] under the right field bleachers by the Yankee bull pen.” (My square brackets soften his wording).
To call “Blue Highways: A Journey into America” by William Least Heat Moon a travel book doesn’t do it justice. Driving a van on backroads he visits Dime Box, Texas, Nameless, Tennessee, and Pitt, Washington among countless stops, writing with inspiration and launching conversations. “A good life, a harmonious life, is a prayer,” a Hopi dancer tells him. “We don’t just pray for ourselves, we pray for all things.”
Among Roy MacGregor’s many books, my choice is “A Life in the Bush,” celebrating his father with melodic prose. Roy’s boyhood clumsy deeds made his father believe there must have been a mistake. “This could not be his child. There must have been a mix-up at the hospital. Good theory, except there was no hospital back in June 1948 and I’d been the only one born that month at the Whitney Red Cross outpost.”
William Manchester fought the Japanese on Okinawa during the Pacific War. He returned years later to do research for “Goodbye, Darkness” and wrote: “The last time I was here anyone standing where I now stand would have had a life expectancy of about seven seconds.” Why did he fight? “It was an act of love. Those men on the line were my family, my home.”
You can’t carry this while in the field, but the best book on birding is “The Sibley Guide to Birds” by David Allen Sibley. The 545 pages and descriptions of 810 species with more than 6,000 coloured illustrations comprise the tome you consult at home to identify that which you could not name for certain during your traipsing. All arguments will be resolved, all queries safely settled. Well, maybe not all. 
What’s your favourite?

The write stuff

A line popped out at me in an opinion piece I was reading yesterday: there are 4,350 journalists working in Ontario. In a province of 14 million, that number is so minuscule I can’t even determine what it is as a percentage of the total population. There must be more people cleaning windows right now than there are researching and writing newspaper articles.
My writing career began in 1960 with the simple act of putting up my hand. As a member of the Athletic Council at John F. Ross Collegiate in Guelph, Ont., I was attending a regular meeting led by J.R. “Jiggs” Morrison, the science teacher, so we were all perched on stools at his lab desks. The agenda was mostly uninteresting until he said, “The Guelph Mercury is looking for someone to write a weekly high school news column.” My hand shot up automatically, like it wasn’t part of my body, as if it hadn’t even been activated by my brain. “OK, Rod, the job’s yours. Get in touch with Peter Marucci at the paper.”
My conversation with Marucci, the city editor, was equally brief. The column should be typed and double spaced, was due Monday mornings, and they would pay me nine-and-half-cents a column inch. When I got home, I measured one inch in that day’s paper. It was about twenty-five words. Not that it mattered. At that point I didn’t even know what I was going to say.
I began by typing my column at 9 p.m. on a Sunday night. I was already demonstrating one of the worst habits of journalists. I waited until just before the deadline to begin.
On Wednesday, there it all was in the evening newspaper, just as I had sent it. Nobody had altered a word. I had written forty inches. I got a cheque in the mail for $3.80 – enough to take my then girlfriend to the movies on Friday night and go after to the Treanon restaurant for cherry Cokes, chips and gravy. What was wrong with that? I was hooked.
With the demise in the years since of so many newspapers, if I were in high school today, I would not likely be able to launch a similar career of writing books and articles as the one that I enjoyed. This unfortunate situation will only be exacerbated by ChatGPT, the mean machine that will eventually replace many of the few remaining journalists. You’ll miss us when we’re gone.

 

 

Sir John to the rescue

As someone who writes for a living, you want your words to satisfy the editor of a book or a politician if you’re a speechwriter. But wordsmiths can sometimes suffer. Joe Clark once told me that when he was an aide to Robert Stanfield, then leader of the Progressive Conservative Party, he became fed up by Stanfield’s consistent refusal to use speech material that Clark wrote for him.
As a result, Clark quit his job to run for Parliament in 1972 in order to champion his own ideas. Just as well for me that Clark left – I replaced him in Stanfield’s office. I did some speechwriting but for the most part acted as press secretary.
I did, however, inherit the typewriter, a sturdy Royal upright, that Clark had used. When I left Parliament Hill in 1976, I asked if I could buy the machine for personal use. The House of Commons charged me all of $5. I used that device to write my first book, The Moneyspinners.
Clark did well on the hustings, first as an MP, and then as Prime Minister in 1979, but never seemed to lose his naivete. As PM, Clark met with Ontario Premier Bill Davis at the Ontario Legislature. Davis staffers thought they’d have a little fun. The meeting room was tricked up as if it were a full-fledged federal-provincial conference. Canadian and Ontario flags were placed near the two chairs as were plaques and lapel pins saying “Ontario” and “Canada.” A bust of Sir John A. Macdonald, the party’s patron saint, was pulled in close as if he were a delegate. Clark had no reaction to all the nonsense.
After Clark later lost the leadership, I read that there was to be a museum in Alberta dedicated to the former prime minister. I brought Clark’s Royal upright typewriter out of storage so it could become part of any such tribute. I didn’t have any contact information for Clark, so tracked down his daughter, Catherine, who was working in Ottawa. I dispatched the typewriter to her at a delivery cost to me of $75. I also included a note saying that when the museum was established, maybe I could at least receive a tax deductible receipt to cover my expenses.
I’ve never heard anything from anyone. I just happen to have a bust of Sir John. If I sent that along, maybe this time it would attract Clark’s attention.

 

 

Seeking consensus

I am saddened to see the result of acrimonious protests at the Lincoln Alexander School of Law at Toronto Metropolitan University. Things have become so heated over the Israel-Hamas war that some Toronto law firms have said, never mind which side you’re on, we won’t be hiring you to come and work at our firm. I have never before heard of a student demonstration extinguishing a career in that individual’s hoped-for profession.
When Alexander’s name was given to the law school earlier this decade, I was delighted. After all, Alexander was among the first Black lawyers to graduate from Osgoode Hall Law School, the first Black Member of Parliament, first Black cabinet minister, and first Black Lieutenant-Governor. 
I saw Alexander perform in the caucus of Robert Stanfield, leader of her Majesty’s Loyal Opposition. Caucus was not always united; some meetings were fractious. Time and again in the 1970s I saw Alexander rise, all 6’3″ of him and say, “I think I can see a consensus emerging.” I’d think, “Whaaat?” But Alexander would take a few strands from this diatribe and a few threads from that tirade, until he had woven a garment that everyone could wear. 
In the 1990s, I was involved in organizing an event to honour the philanthropic efforts benefitting Ryerson, before it was called Toronto Metropolitan University. Among my assignments was obtaining a videotaped message from Alexander. I called him in Hamilton, and asked him to film a tribute interview in front of the Ontario Legislature where he had served as lieutenant-governor for six years.
Just as we were finishing, two busloads of students arrived. As it turned out, they were from Hamilton. The teachers recognized Alexander and introduced him to the kids. The cameraman and I organized everybody into three rows so we could get some additional footage of Alexander surrounded by the children. Even from twenty-five feet away, I could hear Alexander saying in a low voice: “Vote for Alexander, vote for Alexander.” Bidding goodbye to the students, he said, “When you go home tonight, don’t forget to tell your parents you saw Linc Alexander today.” He was ever the campaigner, even though he hadn’t held public office in almost twenty years.
I think of Alexander watching the brouhaha at “his” law school and know that he would be upset. If he were alive, I know he’d be able to achieve a consensus, but he can’t. I’m just certain that he’d like the participants to find a solution on their own. Let’s hope they follow his lead.

 

Get the word out

Words are nothing. Words are everything. Both statements are accurate, depending on the circumstances. Some words can get used far too often and become annoying. For example, take the phrase “not so much.” I’m sure you’ve recently read some columnist who’s describing Person A in glowing terms and then goes on to compare Person A to Person B, by saying, “Person B, not so much.” As soon as I see that phrase I search for something else to read that doesn’t contain those all-too-easy, dare I say lazy, words: “not so much.”
But fancy words can cause just as much trouble. One of the posher words that suffers from severe overuse these days is “existential.” I ‘m not even sure that every writer who dapples that word into a sentence knows what it means. Maybe they hope that using “existential” will turn them into thoughtful commentators when just the opposite may be true. According to the Cambridge Dictionary, the meaning of existential is a philosophy in which “the world has no meaning” or “each person is alone and completely responsible for his/her own actions.”
In Through the Looking Glass, by Lewis Carroll, Alice and Humpty Dumpty taught us everything we need to know about words. “When I use a word,” said Humpty Dumpty in a rather scornful tone, “it means just what I choose it to mean – neither more nor less.” “The question is,” said Alice, “whether you can make words mean so many different things.” Replied Humpty Dumpty, “The question is, which is to be master, that’s all.”
Some journalists have taken Humpty Dumpty literally and employ a word like “existential” not in its proper usage but instead charged with any meaning the writer deigns to give it. My morning paper has published such blithe phrases as, “In a hybrid work world, Toronto’s downtown core faces an existential crisis.” ” Or how about: “In the digital economy, accountancy faces an existential threat.” And, “Canada Post is in an existential struggle for its very survival.” When Canada Post becomes involved in an existential struggle, you know they must have run out of reasons for their continued existence.
Other writers have sung this same tune. Indeed, no less a voice than Charles Lane, deputy opinion editor and columnist at the Washington Post held forth on May 3, 2023 with a column bolstered by the headline, “Overuse of ‘existential threat’ is a crisis of existential proportions.” Just because he has obviously made no progress toward ridding the world of “existential threat” doesn’t signify I shouldn’t try. Or risk an existential existence in so doing. Whatever that might mean.

Every day is a winding road

As mistakes go, it was a small one, but the resulting cost did hit hard. I was headed this week to see my eye doctor at Toronto Western Hospital. I usually park at an asphalt lot run by Canada Wide Parking on Bathurst Street opposite the hospital. There were about thirty cars already there and just two slots left, so I was happy to get one.
There’s no attendant, just a pay machine where you use a credit card. It’s a bit of a complicated setup. First, you have to enter your licence plate info so it appears on the ticket you place on your dash. The morning sun was shining on the glass-faced pay machine but I eventually was able to fill in my plate number.
There were now three choices on the glass for length of stay. When I pressed each of the first two, both offered parking until 10:30. That didn’t seem like enough time to see my doctor and get back, but I did think for a moment about pressing one of those buttons on the assumption that if I didn’t return until 11, the likelihood of me being found out was pretty slim.
But I thought better of that sneaky choice and pressed the third spot which looked amid the sun’s glare like 26. I assumed that was $26 for the day rate. I’d paid $24 in the past but concluded there’d been a price increase along with most everything else.
The machine spat out my ticket. I looked at it and my eyes popped. I was there at 9:30 on Wednesday morning but I’d somehow bought parking until Saturday at 6:46 a.m., three days hence. When I looked more closely, I realized I’d paid $100. That’s probably twice as much as the eye doctor charged OHIP for my visit.
When I got home, I looked up Canada Wide Parking online. The (416) number rang and rang. No one answered. The 1-800 number at least had voicemail so I left a detailed message about my expensive encounter. It’s now three days hence. No one has called me back.
Why does that not surprise me? If no one’s at the lot, why would there be someone at the office? Canada Wide Parking sure sounds like a national organization but I have a vision of some guy sitting in far-off Napanee, Ont., raking in the dough, with no one on payroll to worry about. I’d be happy to hear from him to discuss my complaint, but somehow I can’t imagine I ever will. Even Vegas doesn’t take your money that fast.

Building blocks

I live in an apartment building at Bay and Bloor Streets in downtown Toronto. You know, where the shops are. Or should be, except they’re fast disappearing, soon to be replaced by condos. As if we don’t have enough already.
Let me paint a picture for you. Walk with me one block east to Yonge and Bloor. On the southwest corner is The One, an eighty-one floor condo that’s been under construction for about four years. I don’t go too close anymore because work on the upper floors seems to require build-outs that reach over the sidewalk below. Who knows what might fall on your head.
Move back west again to Bay and Bloor. On the northwest corner there was a Hakim Optical outlet that recently closed. I just heard why. They’re going to build a condo running from that corner west along the north side of Bloor as far as the next block, Bellair Street. Harry Rosen menswear is on that corner so it will disappear along with all the other stores in between. Construction, I hear, will begin in 2026 and last six years. It’ll be eighty-two floors!
Go back to Bay and Bloor, then walk north on the east side of Bay to the first street running to the right, Cumberland. Walk east toward Yonge and think about the three towers planned on your right-hand side, all in the 50-60-floor height range, smack dab behind Holt’s. Across Cumberland two condos are already under construction.
Now stay with me for one last trip from Bay and Bloor by walking one block west on the south side of Bloor to St. Thomas Street which runs south. That Bloor Street block will boast another gaggle of condos. How many shops in total will disappear during all these goings-on I have no idea but I’m happy to report that Harry Rosen will have a new nearby location ready to occupy when the current store closes.
If you can’t imagine what all this havoc will look like, go to Yonge and St. Clair and walk south. Most of the stores on the east side of Yonge have been shuttered for some time awaiting who-knows-what. Further down on the same side near Balmoral Avenue there’s a large lot that was cleared long ago and is still empty.
I don’t see myself as an inveterate traveler, but I’ve been lucky enough to visit New York, London, Paris and Rome. In none of those city centres do I see anything like the senseless construction permitted by Toronto’s planners. We deserve better.

Lifelong learning

Look around you and the symptoms of a society in decay are everywhere. Parliament has become a mockery of its former self. It’s no longer a place where ideas are debated, it’s a schoolyard where epithets are thrown. Traffic has become an angry nightmare. On a downtown Toronto street this week I watched as one car chased another, horn constantly honking, around a corner and down the next street as if the driver was avenging some sin, real or imagined.
Said a woman on the sidewalk beside me; “That’s my definition of a moron.” I agreed but my heart went out to the driver of the first car who must have been panic stricken. A few days earlier, I saw a bicyclist hammering his fist on the window of a taxi and hollering at the occupants about who-knows-what. Good Samaritans are few and far between.
Time was when politicians made friends across party lines. When Darcy McKeough was Treasurer of Ontario, he and NDP leader Stephen Lewis would debate fiercely in the Legislature but then go out and have dinner together. Traffic seemed much calmer. You could count on no one running a red light as they turned in front of you. Now, it’s wise to wait a few extra seconds after your own light goes green.
To be sure, as I get older, I sometimes yearn for the good old days, but there seems to be more divisive goings-on than can simply be explained by my being out of time and place. Fortunately, there are many thinkers who offer comfort and guidance. I just recently read Hans Selye’s memoir, “The Stress of my Life,” in which the celebrated Montreal doctor recounts his discovery of stress as the cause of most personal problems. His advice is simple and can be reduced to one instructive sentence: “What matters is not what happens to you but the way you take it.”
By chance I also just read “Marcus Aurelius the Stoic Emperor,” by Donald J. Robertson. In the past I was drawn to stoicism as a possible way of life and I now regard myself as a total convert. Here’s my newfound philosophy in a nutshell: Live in the moment. Be indifferent to what others think of you. Be self-aware. Assume responsibility for your own happiness. Don’t wish for what you don’t have. Seek virtue and tranquility. Live each day as if it will be your last. Because it might be.

Life at the top

Chief Executive Officer has become a four-letter word. These days you’d no more trust your money to many CEOs than ship lettuce by rabbit. I’ve interviewed numerous directors over the years who’ve been involved in selecting CEOs and I’ve also interviewed many of those who have been chosen for the top job.The trouble is that no one can predict with certainty how well or otherwise a new CEO will do until they’re actually in harness. As an individual moves up the corporate ladder, the rungs are all pretty equal. But the distance is vast between being number two in an organization and number one.
One of the best natural talents any leader should possess is intuition. That doesn’t mean you’re always right, and it certainly doesn’t mean that others are always wrong. The toughest part of having good instincts is learning to trust them.
The second trait of a good leader is the patience to convince others to share your view by getting them to understand and agree to your position, and then be willing to act in unison. Thirdly, a leader must have a certain rare quality. That was best expressed when CIBC bought investment banking firm Wood Gundy. Then CIBC CEO Don Fullerton wrote to John Hunkin, soon to be president of CIBC Wood Gundy, saying, “You’ve got accountants and lawyers who could do the legal and financial due diligence. I want you to do the human due diligence and what I want to know is: Do they still have a soul?”
Here are my picks for Canada’s top five CEOs. First is Bruce Flatt of Brookfield. I’ve admired Flatt ever since 9/11. He didn’t wait for calm to return or airports to reopen. That same day he hired a car and headed for Manhattan to personally supervise repairs to the company’s office properties at One Liberty Plaza. My other picks are Darren Entwistle of Telus, Tobias Lütke of Shopify, and two women: Tracy Robinson at CNR and Linda Hasenfratz of Linamar.
All five have demonstrated the qualities any CEO needs for success. First, no leader has all the answers. It’s what you learn after you think you know it all that really counts.
Second, every leader must realize that while it’s OK to stoke your own fire, you can’t let anyone see you fanning the flames. Egofeed may be fine for film stars. Business leaders should not be celebrities. Humility is the new watchword.
The third and most important attribute is character. J. P. Morgan might have been the first to endorse character. “Before money or property or anything else,” he said. A robber baron from the Gilded Age may be a curious person to cite, but in this case, he was absolutely right.

Losing the game

The Toronto Blue Jays are off to what I would call an okay start with a 6-6 record. They seem to have a goodly number of position players although pitching may be a problem. But this season I won’t be at the renovated Rogers Centre anywhere near as often as in the past. Since day one in 1977 I’ve been part of a group that had a pair of seats. Actually, two groups, one following the other.
The most recent group had excellent sightlines just five rows behind the Jays dugout. Usually, I’d chip in for seven games spread throughout the season. But the Jays organization decided to upgrade the seats behind home plate and turn them into a high-rent district. The price for “our” pair went from $13,000 to $28,000. To make matters worse, you had to make a two-year or four-year commitment. And they wouldn’t even tell you where the seats would be located. They kept touting the slightly wider width and the fact that it would have a cupholder. At that price you couldn’t afford to buy a drink to put in the cupholder.
I fully agreed with the decision not to renew. In fact, I’d lost interest at the end of last season. After squeaking into a wild card spot in the playoffs, the Jays demeaned themselves by scoring only one desultory run in the two playoff games. I thought my spirits would rise again as spring came but the jump in pricing put an end to that.
I’ve watched parts of the early home games on television and tried to figure out exactly who these people behind the plate are in the seats with cupholders. At first you might think they all work at TD Bank there are so many logos repeated on the brick wall behind them. Whoever they are, they can’t be real fans. By the late innings, even in an exciting game with the Jays doing well, about half the fifty seats in that section are empty, the tenants long gone.
So, for me, it would seem that the $500 million renovation at Rogers Centre was all about attracting a wider audience that doesn’t really care about baseball. It’s mostly guys with hats on backwards swilling beer beside babes who wouldn’t know that a double is not just a drink. Only in Toronto would aficionados of the game become so forgotten. Tradition has been traded for traffic.