LONDON, ONTARIO – In the last hours of November we happily and gratefully took in the presentation of Handel’s Messiah at Metropolitan United Church featuring the London Symphonia with the Elora Festival Singers; arguably the finest professional choir in the country right now. The four soloists (sturdily competent if not quite stellar) were also drawn from the choir; with the tenor, bass, contralto and soprano stepping forward to deliver their songs and returning to the stand to join in with their colleagues on the exquisitely rendered choruses which constitute the real backbone and splendour of this most beloved of oratorios. The hall was all but sold out and once the obligatory hiccup of self-loathing neurosis was out of the way - otherwise known as the utterly vapid land acknowledgement - the assembled musicians proceeded to earn their rapturous and sustained ovation at evening’s end.

LONDON, ONTARIO – All my life I’ve enjoyed talking with people who are significantly older than me. Of course, such well-ripened souls are not as thick on the ground as they used to be and grow fewer with each passing year. While it’s possible to commune in a less mutual way with favourite departed souls in reflection and prayer - and books certainly remain a rich source of old-world wisdom as well – such exchanges lack the ‘here-and-now-ness’ and the responsive playfulness of a two-way conversation with a living, breathing veteran who knows who you are and looks you in the eye and tells you what’s on his or her mind. I was a teenager when I first became aware of this partiality of mine because it would exasperate a number of my peers who were eager to shove off and do teenagery things and not hang around talking with fossils.

LONDON, ONTARIO – In a year when I have been assailed by too many wrenching farewells, I notched up a lesser but still poignant cutting of a different kind of cord this week; this one carried out – after a decade’s worth of oscillating consideration and resistance – by my own volition. You probably won’t need to sit down to safely absorb this bulletin so I’ll just come out and declare it forthwith. After almost fifty years of faithful readership (and forty years of occasionally interrupted writership) I have cancelled my subscription to The London Free Press. I know; shocking, isn’t it? Indeed, most of my friends will be extending no sympathy whatsoever for this latest severing but instead will roll their eyes in mystification and inquire: “What took you so long?”

LONDON, ONTARIO – I apologize for my silence these last few months. It’s been a summer like no other. The youngest of my three older brothers has died and I’ve been floundering a bit as I try to re-set my bearings. For as long as I’ve been drawing breath, Bob has been reassuringly close to hand; a constant touchstone and marker of who I am and the people I come from and the place in this world where I belong. In our childhood, we usually shared a bedroom. For most of our adulthood, we’ve shared a postal code (four out of six digits); living a block and a half apart in this perfect riverside neighbourhood that we might never have twigged to if Bob hadn’t bought a house here first and rented us an apartment on his main floor for the first four years of our marriage. And though they didn’t live here at the same time, it was also a neighbourhood in which both of our parents – but particularly our mom - had roots; reflecting Bob’s lifelong knack for keeping his loved ones in his loop. It’s a challenge to come up with an adequate analogy for the scale of my disorientation in losing so constant a beacon in my life. In moments of existential panic, I ping between ‘banishment’ and ‘amputation’ as the truer simile for my devastation in being cut off from such a primal fount of shared memory and insight and meaning.

LONDON, ONTARIO – I was saddened to learn of the death in her 87th year of one of my favourite London music makers and planned to get out to the memorial celebration for Marlene Fagan last Friday at St. James Westminster Church until life abruptly decided that I wasn’t going anywhere that day. So let me extend my regret for missing that ceremony by publishing here a feature article I worked up on Marlene in May of 1998 for The Londoner - which some of my readers may remember as the supplement which appeared for a couple of years when The London Free Press (newly taken over by Sun Media) published a Sunday edition.

I conducted our interview at the Fagans’ gargantuan home on Baseline Road in South London. Marlene had to rush away from a choir rehearsal and came in a little breathless and flustered, laughing that she’d told her choristers that she had to fly as “Herman Goodden is coming over to talk to me with his tape measure.” I found something so touching about that blooper. There was never a trace of guile or pretension in this immensely talented and capable woman who knew her way around all kinds of music, including the grandest oratorios and masses. But that day I saw some nervousness at the prospect of standing apart from that army of singers she so diligently served so that she could be appraised in her own right.

LONDON, ONTARIO – While I’ve long been aware of tensions that can trouble relations between artists of various kinds and more conventional denizens of the workaday world – such soul-wilting energies as resentment, projection, envy and contempt – I’m happy to report that these were not issues in my home of origin.

LONDON, ONTARIO – I recently gave our reading group a holiday from our usual theological fare and assigned one of my all-time favourite novels, How Green Was My Valley (1939) by Richard Llewellyn (1906 – 83). This was at least my third immersion in this coming-of-age tale which is told from the perspective of the youngest son in a large family at the turn of the last century as their way of life in a Welsh coal-mining village is steadily degraded by economic exploitation and environmental plunder. Though written in English, the narrative is conveyed in a beguiling prose that seems to have been somehow steeped in the characteristic lilt of the Welsh vernacular; ie: “We sat in the sun, on a turf as soft as my mother’s tablecloth and greener, with the wind kept away by the rock, and angry because of it.”

LONDON, ONTARIO – I regret to announce that thirty-one days shy of her fifteenth birthday, Grace (March 1, 2009 – January 28, 2024) has taken leave of this world.

Precisely one month before the end, on what happened to be our forty-sixth wedding anniversary - talk about a ceremonial buzzkill - Grace suffered a spectacularly upsetting ‘vestibular event’ (basically a stroke) that looked like it might carry her off right then and there. But, much to our delight, Grace managed to pretty well build herself back up from that calamity over the course of the next week. Yes, there was a new weakness, an unsteadiness, in her back legs which tended to splay if she was standing on a slick surface. She couldn’t back up so easily and had to think about how to navigate stairs; particularly when going down. And although it had nothing to do with perplexity, per se – unless she was holding some great inner dialogue about ‘What on earth is happening to my body?’ - she frequently tilted her head which made her look like a distaff version of the RCA dog cocking his ear at the bewildering sound of ‘His Master’s Voice’ emanating from that phonograph horn.

LONDON, ONTARIO – Quite early in my life I recognized that summer is the season I find most oppressive. Not wanting to be a year-round whiner, I made a sort of pact with the world that I’d restrict my meteorological grumbling to June through August and this hasn’t been a hard bargain to keep. Not being a driver I’ve been able to maintain a child’s love of snow – the heavier the better, say I – up to the present day. No matter how inconvenient snow might be or how boring it is to shovel the stuff multiple times during the same day, I can never go out into a freshly polarized landscape without thinking to myself, “This really is one of the most beautiful things that our world gets up to.”

LONDON, ONTARIO – The first time Donald D'Haene registered on my consciousness was around 1993 when I was editor of Scene and trying to work up some enthusiasm for that magazine's annual cover model contest. Like a lot of fellows, I've always been indifferent to what strikes me as the higher neurosis of high fashion. Hemlines could go up or down or straight to Hell for all I cared. I shouldn't have been on the committee to choose that year's winner, because, frankly, I didn't understand the underlying premise of the contest. The big prize was a makeover, followed by a professional photo shoot. This struck me as a kind of madness. Having just chosen the best-looking girl out of a pile of photos and CVs, we'd then pass her off to a small army of beauticians, stylists and consultants, who'd work her over until she looked like someone else. Where was the sense in that?

"Maybe we should be choosing the homeliest girl," I helpfully suggested. "Someone who could actually use a few pointers in improving her appearance." This was met with stony silence.