Music & Memories

Uncle Bruce & I having a piano lesson photo op.

This is a eulogy I wrote and read at my Uncle Bruce Macdonald's memorial service this morning. He passed away September 13th, 2016 in his 81st year. In answer to multiple requests for copies of what I read, I'm posting this tribute to a life well lived.

Music has been a big part of life in the Macdonald family over many years. It’s a gift bestowed on all of us through generations of custodians. I have clear memories of musical influences from my Grampa Macdonald and all six of my maternal uncles.

I treasure memories of: watching Grampa's hands flying over the piano keyboard, singing in the church choir to spend time with my Uncle Glen; joining in a jolly chorus of Santa Claus is Coming to Town or Jingle Bells when my Uncle Murray performed his volunteer activities at Christmas; hearing my Uncle John play the piano in various bands and especially at family gatherings; traveling to Michigan to attend an amateur performance of The Sound of Music featuring my Uncle Ross as Captain von Trapp; attending a performance of my Uncle Doug’s barbershop ensemble, and studying piano with my Uncle Bruce, not just once, but twice in my lifetime

Like many of you, I was born into this large, boisterous and musical family, and during my earliest years Uncle Bruce loomed large. He and my Auntie Marion lived in the upstairs apartment of our home on Samuel Road; and, before they were blessed with a family of their own, they rather took a shine to me. Uncle Bruce told me many times over the years that he spent considerable time trying to record the sound of my early baby babbling on tape. Rarely successful, he lamented that I usually stopped vocalizing altogether, whenever the microphone approached my mouth.

I remember having special relationships with most of my Macdonald cousins, and Kathy and Jim were no exception. I spent a lot of my young years visiting the house on Maple Avenue for swimming, ice skating, sleepovers, and just hanging around. That meant also spending a lot of quality time with Uncle Bruce and Auntie Marion, who always made me feel at home. The welcoming presence of Uncle Bruce’s string bass in the corner of the dining room or front hall, depending on where he was living, remains with me to this day.

At some point, Uncle Bruce succeeded Grampa Macdonald as my piano teacher; and, he spent several pleasant years, once a week, beside me on the piano bench. He guided me through the basics of the Leila Fletcher piano method; and, through his instruction, I managed to complete books 1, 2 and 3 and made a start on book 4. I still have my completion certificates from the back of each book, dated and signed, Bruce Macdonald; and, I can still play Journey by Train and The Captain’s Song from memory, all these years later.

I looked forward to Christmas Eve at Uncle Bruce’s home on Ottawa Street South, when he took over the family home in which he grew up. The casual drop-in affairs for friends and family always ended with a rousing sing-song of Christmas carols that I can still hear in my head. I love watching old videos of family get-togethers, with Uncle John on the piano and Uncle Bruce playing Uncle Glen’s ukulele. Happy moments like those cannot be bought, they just have to happen.

Uncle Bruce tuned our pianos: the giant antique on Samuel Road, the apartment sized replacement, and most recently my 4 foot 11 inch Yamaha Grand on Bettina Avenue. Piano tuning days were always looked forward to because it was a chance to visit and catch up, as much as it was a useful service. I couldn’t take my eyes off Uncle Bruce while he worked his magic with the tuning fork, rubber mutes, red felt, and tuning hammers and levers. Most of all, I loved the mini-recital at the end, when Uncle Bruce tested out his handy-work.

I met my first husband through both my cousins Kathy and Jim, and our life together grew out of Phil’s close relationships with both of Uncle Bruce’s children. Phil never called Uncle Bruce "Mr. Macdonald" or even just "Bruce": He always referred to Uncle Bruce as "Mr. Bruce", even after we married, out of genuine respect and affection.

Several years ago, Uncle Bruce consented to try to teach me Uncle John’s jazz method of piano playing. I dutifully attended lessons at his and Miriam’s apartment once a week for a couple of years, and practiced very hard in between lessons; however, I think I was just too old to be able to grasp and retain the complex chord structures involved. I learned a few songs, and I can play rather awkwardly some of what I learned, but not well enough to lead a family sing-a-long, I’m afraid.

Not to worry, though: We enjoyed the adult time spent together immensely, and got to know each other better as friends. I was surprised by the discovery that Uncle Bruce did not possess the skill of being able to play both treble and bass clefs from sheet music, as he’d taught me during his first stint as my piano teacher. He admitted that he could only play well, the lead line and chords, as taught to him by Uncle John.

During these later piano lessons, I became much better acquainted with Uncle Bruce’s second wife, Miriam. I discovered that Uncle Bruce was fortunate to have found love twice in his life. Lucky for all of us, Miriam is a warm and wonderful woman, who frequently injects comical and musical moments, to lighten any situation she encounters. Uncle Bruce and Miriam always made me feel very welcome in their home.

Some time ago, Uncle Bruce passed a special gift on to me: He gave me Uncle Glen’s ukulele, which he had been safeguarding since Uncle Glen’s passing. I promised to not only continue to safeguard the instrument but also to learn to play it. Thus began the arduous task of teaching myself how to play simple standards and hymns, so that I might eventually be able to show him some progress. I went to The Clarian often in the last few weeks, to play for Uncle Bruce; and daily, the last few days he was with us. I hoped my halting chord changes and occasional squawking notes didn’t torment his sensitive musician’s ears.

I’m relieved that Uncle Bruce’s long suffering is over; though, I know his two remaining siblings, Uncle Doug and my mother Olive, will miss him terribly now that he’s gone. I know they both had a special bond with their youngest brother, the baby of the eight children born to Clarence and Lillian Macdonald. Sadly, we’ll never again hear Uncle Bruce and my mother singing Silent Night in harmony together; but happily, the memories of their perennial duet remain.

Remember, I mentioned earlier about Uncle Bruce trying to record my voice, when I was first learning to vocalize? Well, this past Thursday, at the cemetery when his ashes were interred, I was charmed by Uncle Bruce’s great-grand-daughter Kendall, who could be heard innocently babbling to herself in her stroller: I thought how much Uncle Bruce would have appreciated the joyful lyrical sound of her voice.

I believe that music helps us remember the happy times and makes the hardships of life more bearable. Thankfully, the Macdonald family’s musical legacy passed through the gifted heart and hands of David Bruce Macdonald, our loved father, grand-father, great-grand-father, husband, brother, uncle, fellow musician, teacher and friend.

Hopefully Miriam and Kathy and Crissy and all the rest of us who loved Uncle Bruce, will be sustained and comforted by the music and by the memories.

Love you, Uncle Bruce!

Built-in GPS

My daughter Chelsea’s two-year old indoor cat escaped from our house yesterday morning, while groceries were being carried in; following which, she literally disappeared!

The humans involved endured nearly 36 hours of worry; numerous journeys by car, foot and bike around the neighbourhood; guilt; a trip to the local SPCA; worry; postings to Lost Pet sites; guilt; multiple Facebook shares; worry; leaflets on light posts; guilt; etc.

River, a shy female long-haired black cat with white paws, belly and chin; returned just as mysteriously on her own tonight, hungry but unscathed.

Cats are truly amazing creatures!

I had a cat many years ago, who returned to our former house every night for over a month after we moved. A journey of only 5 city blocks, I picked Kitty up daily in my car until my dad put a stop to it, insisting the cat would find his own way home if left alone. It took several days, but my dad was right: Kitty finally arrived back at the new house, and never back-tracked again. He’d learned where the food dish lived.

Another cat, Sonny, who’d never before left our fenced yard, fled in a blind panic when our house was invaded by a visiting dog. He flew out the cat door, sailed across the yard, climbed the crab-apple tree and leaped over a six foot fence into a neighbour’s yard. Sonny didn’t find his way home for over 24 hours: Looking back, it probably took him twenty of those hours to calm down enough to even miss or look for home.

It’s uncanny, a pet’s ability to find their home no matter what the circumstances. You hear tales of cats, and dogs, who travel hundreds of miles to find the families from whom they’ve been separated.

It’s amazing! – It’s like they have built-in GPS!

River, tonight after a good meal, had a terrific story to tell of her great adventure in the wide wild world; however, we couldn’t understand any of her enthusiastic meowing.

Hopefully, though, River was letting Chelsea know that she’s happy to be home, and doesn’t care to go traveling again, any time soon.

Wear’s Flower Girl

William Harry (Bill) Wear

1936 - 2016

Starting when I was about 7 or 8 years old, considered old enough to walk to and from school alone, I used to pass by Wear’s Flowers & Garden Centre four times daily.

In the winter months, there wasn’t much to see; however, in the spring, I couldn’t keep away.

I was drawn to the tables of annual and perennial flowers, set out adjacent to the sidewalk; and, most especially to the fallen blossoms that called to me like some people are drawn to chocolate.

One day, as I stood gazing longingly at the wilting cast offs, I was approached by an older woman I thought was going to shoo me away. Instead, she nicely told me, that I could take any of the blooms off the ground, but I must never pick them off the plants.

I knew better, and had never once considered picking the growing flowers; but, I was thrilled to receive permission to scavenge for discarded blooms.

I would squat down and reach far under the tables to collect the cast-offs that I gingerly carried home to my mother: She never failed to display my floral offerings in a glass or bowl of water on the kitchen table, no matter how wilted they were when they arrived.

This past week when Mr. Bill Wear, founder of Wear’s Flowers & Garden Centre, suddenly passed away, online photos of Mr. Wear and his late wife, Marilyn, brought back a flood of memories.

I recalled my last conversation with Bill Wear this past spring when he advised me about the best fertilizer to use for my tomato plants.

I realized that Marilyn Wear, the older lady who had been my benefactress all those years ago, was actually much younger than I remembered. In fact, she had probably not been much older than my own mother, at the time.

The picture of Bill Wear holding a baby goat brought back recollections of taking my children and more recently grand-children to visit the menagerie of farm animals that have inhabited the garden centre property for decades. Many years ago, Wear’s actually became the adoptive home of my two pet leghorn chickens when they outgrew our tiny chicken coup.

Wear’s Garden Centre has been a mainstay in the Bartonville neighbourhood for over 60 years. Bill and Marilyn Wear’s son Scott and daughter Sandi grew up in and around the family business and have continued to make it thrive to this day.

As for me, I continue to shop at Wear’s before venturing out to other garden centres, because I love to shop local: It's a habit this flower girl learned young at the invitation of a kind and generous lady.

It's funny how some things never change: at nearly 60 years of age, I continue to bring fallen blossoms into the house from my own garden, and my mother still never fails to display them in a glass or bowl in her kitchen.

Roddenberry's Reply

 David and I, just before heading off

to the 1977 Star Trek Convention

in Niagara Falls, NY

In honour of the 50th anniversary of Star Trek, I would like to share the following memory of a trip I took in 1977 with my brother, David, to a Star Trek convention in Niagara Falls, New York.

At the time of the convention, David was the big Star Trek fan: I was simply the licensed driver enlisted by my 15-yr-old sibling, to transport him to the desired location.

I had never driven across the Canada/US border on my own before but a road trip without the parents seemed like a fun idea. David had done extra chores to earn the gas money for the trip and rarely asked for a favour, so I agreed.

Star Trek conventions in those days were certainly not the all out costumed and star-studded galas they are today; none-the-less, David thoroughly enjoyed himself. We looked briefly at tables of paraphernalia before being ushered into a large hall filled with folding chairs divided by a central aisle.

We were treated to viewings of a blooper reel that consisted mostly of original cast members walking confidently into non-functional sliding doors; and the un-aired TV pilot episode: "The Cage" from the original Star Trek series.

The real highlight of the day was the appearance of Star Trek creator, Gene Roddenberry, as the keynote speaker: Had I known, then, of his importance to the whole Star Trek phenomenon, I probably would not have had the courage to get up and ask him the question I did.

In all my 19-yr-old emerging 1970's feminist audacity, I stood up in front of hundreds of people - mostly men and boys - and asked Mr. Star Trek, the equivalent of, "Would he consider less suggestive costuming for the women in his upcoming Star Trek, The Motion Picture?"

And, I was well and truly booed!

I wanted the women in Roddenberry’s futuristic ground-breaking sci-fi franchise to move beyond the stereotypical female eye-candy of 1960's television shows. I wondered if I could relate better to Star Trek, moving forward, if the female cast members, with whom I was supposed to identify, looked and acted as though on a more level playing field with their male counterparts.

Admittedly, my simplistically worded question didn’t really explain the complicated ideas swirling around in my head; moreover, looking back I now realize that a little gratuitous flesh was partly why "Trekkies" were tuning in, and that the original Star Trek series aired when mini-skirts were all the rage.

I totally understand why I was booed!

Gene Roddenberry, himself, spared me from what might have been an intensely embarrassing afternoon when he gallantly reclaimed the room and answered simply, that my question was a good one, and that he'd have his people give it some consideration.

I like to believe that Mr. Roddenberry’s kind reply to my question indicated that I may have provided a glimmer of inspiration that he remembered and implemented moving forward; It's more likely, though, that Star Trek’s creator - an enlightened visionary, married to a strong, liberated woman - would have moved with the times, broken down barriers, and released Star Trek’s characters, women included, from antiquated stereotypes, as well he did.

Either way, I love that decades later, Star Trek’s rebooted Uhura in Star Trek: Out of Darkness was a kick-ass full-fledged member of the team: It made me proud!

Booing aside, I came away from that Star Trek convention feeling empowered, and David came away thunderstruck that his normally shy sister had actually conversed with the revered Gene Roddenberry.

Happy 50th Anniversary, Star Trek!

"Live Long and Prosper!"

Luminous Lupines

Two weeks ago, arriving home after a torrential rainstorm, I discovered raindrops suspended in the center of my seedling lupine leaf blades. The droplets looked, for all the world, like sparkling gem stones.

It was a wonderful surprise ... unexpected too, as I didn't think the lupine stems looked strong enough to support even their own weight.

I'd been keeping the young lupine plants covered with soft netting, to deter rabbits from eating the leaves and squirrels from wounding the plants while burying nuts. Somehow during the storm, though, the heavy rain made it's way through the netting and pooled gently onto the leaves.

I've never before seen anything like this!

The heavy drops of water glistened in the waning sunlight as they delicately clung to the silvery hairs on the lupine leaves. The sides of the watery diamonds bulged as though ready to burst, while simultaneously refusing to let go.

This magical moment lasted for less than a minute: In the blink of an eye the luminous droplets had disappeared, and I marveled at the seemingly limitless surprises in our natural environment.

It turns out, though, that I should have been growing lupines all along ... I've unexpectedly enjoyed this sparkly phenomenon several more times since, always after a significant but sheltered rain.

So lupines it is!

I'm now able to recommend growing lupines, for the beauty they'll provide for years to come and for their surprisingly luminous gem-catching ability - Enjoy the magic!