Thursday, June 30, 2011

Standing on guard for the monarchy

For a dedicated monarchist, a moment with the sovereign, as Keith Roy experienced last summer in Toronto, is never to be forgotten.

By Tom Hawthorn
Special to The Globe and Mail
June 30, 2011

VICTORIA

The visit to Canada by the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge leaves local members of the Monarchist League of Canada feeling royal flushed.

The westernmost province is not on the itinerary for the summertime tour by Prince William, a minor disappointment to those who help keep the British in British Columbia.

Instead, devoted royal watchers will follow by social media the cross-country journey from the green gables of Prince Edward Island to the dusty paddocks of the Calgary Stampede.

Keith Roy, a 29-year-old Vancouver realtor, has downloaded a mobile app for the royal tour issued by the Canadian heritage and official languages ministry. It provides a schedule, photographs and even virtual postcards.

Technology has made more visible the aristocratic progeny of a millennium-old institution. As well, the tabloid embarrassments of the late decade of the previous century have been overshadowed, at least for the time being, by the fairytale wedding earlier this year of William Windsor and Catherine Middleton.

“It’s a great time to be a monarchist,” Mr. Roy proclaimed.

He joined the Monarchist League as a student a decade ago, a fortuitous decision. His membership led to a summer internship in the office of the lieutenant governor of Ontario. He accompanied James Bartleman, a member of the Chippewas of Rama First Nation, on school visits, during which the Queen’s representative wore a buckskin jacket and carried a carved walking stick.

Mr Roy remembers schoolchildren being left googly-eyed by the pomp — the viceregal salute and the fluttering lieutenant-governor’s standard on the limousine.

He is not immune to such emotions of joy and wonder himself.

The Monarchist League knows some consider the monarchy an anachronism, harbour antipathy to the heir to the throne, regard the Royal Family as, in Mr. Roy’s words, “just a bunch of rich old Brits.” The league challenges any hint of republicanism, loyally defends the institution and Canada as a constitutional monarchy.

The tour by the Royal Highnesses will include seven official stops in four provinces and one territory over nine days. The cost? About six cents per Canadian.

To assuage disappointment over Will and Kate’s itinerary not including British Columbia, the league points out that this tour “will be but the first of many Canadian homecomings” for the couple. It seems inevitable that at some future date Victoria will play host to the great-great-great-great-grandson of the monarch after whom the capital city is named.

The first Royal visit to the province occurred in 1882, when the Governor General, the Marquess of Lorne, was accompanied by his wife, Princess Louise, a daughter of Queen Victoria. The first by a reigning sovereign took place in 1939 when George VI and Queen Elizabeth toured the province, during which the large park abutting Cambie Street in Vancouver was named in her honour. Their daughter, then a princess, now the Queen, attended a football game on the University of B.C. campus, as well as a lacrosse match in Vancouver on her inaugural visit in 1951.

A visit to an exposition in Vancouver in 1986 by Prince Charles and Diana, Princess of Wales led to the memorable tabloid headline: SEE EXPO AND DI. Elsewhere in the city, a graffito offered the unkind sentiment, “Up Chuck and Di.”

The local branches of the Monarchist League have been active in recent years in ensuring the Queen’s portrait not be removed from public places, most notably from BC Ferries. It was learned that her image had been removed from seven ferries during retrofitting and renovations. BC Ferries said it was no longer a Crown corporation; the Monarchist League insisted the ferry routes were part of the provincial highway system and thus owned by the Crown. The photographic portraits soon returned following a public outcry.

Mr. Roy has met and had conversations with Prince Charles, Prince Andrew, Prince Edward, and Prince Michael of Kent. He regards himself as a seasoned veteran of royal encounters.

Still, he found himself nearly speechless when he first spotted the shimmering diamonds of the Queen’s tiara while on a receiving line at the Royal York Hotel in Toronto last summer.

After an aide-de-camp read aloud his name in introduction, he bowed and lightly held the Queen’s gloved hand.

“Welcome home,” he said.

Will and Kate travel on British passports issued in the Queen’s name. The Queen does not carry a passport. As Mr. Roy well knows, she is Queen of Canada.

Monday, June 27, 2011

Mom-and-pop bookshop brainstorms way to stay solvent

Kate, Drew and little Emma Grace Lorimer can be found hard at work at Tall Tales Books in Victoria. Chad Hipolito photograph for The Globe and Mail.

By Tom Hawthorn
Special to The Globe and Mail
June 27, 2011

VICTORIA

See Kate. See Kate work.

See Drew. See Drew work.

Work, Kate, work. Work, Drew, work.

See Kate and Drew work in a children’s bookstore.

See Kate and Drew work to keep the Big Bad Wolf from the door.

See Kate and Drew try to earn a modest living while operating a bright, kid-friendly book emporium.

Funny, funny Kate and Drew.

The couple had a dream. Open a bookstore. Stock up on 2,000 of the best titles. Encourage parents to read to their children.

The creation of Tall Tales Books is a fairy tale whose final chapter might be written in the coming days.

The proprietors opened the doors at 795 Fort St. in Victoria 22 months ago. Kate, 31, and Drew, 33, have since learned some lessons.

They have learned E is for E-books.

They have learned O is for Online Ordering.

They have learned R is for Recession.

They have learned the Canadian dollar, which not so long ago seemed as valuable as Monopoly script, is now worth more than the greenback.

Monthly sales have been up and down, up and down like a yo-yo.

Worst of all, the economy went into the potty.

So, the couple brainstormed for a way to keep their bricks-and-mortar bookshop solvent. A book-of-the-month club? Too restricting for the clientele. Donations? Nah. They’re a business, not a charity.

Kate and Drew Lorimer settled on what they call the Tall Tales Books Hero Society. They are soliciting subscribers who promise to make monthly payments — as little as $10 per month — in exchange for merchandise at the store.

“It’s win-win,” Mr. Lorimer said. “We get a regular, guaranteed income and all the money goes towards a purchase in the store.”

The couple seek 400 subscribers by Canada Day. They signed up the 60th subscriber last Wednesday, hit 88 on Friday morning, soon after passing the century mark. The store was busy on Saturday, which happened to be Save Bookstores Day!, an online initiative by customers in Canada and the United States to support local independents. By Sunday morning, they had 115.

“We’ve got a hill to climb,” Mr. Lorimer said. “But the response from the community, the outpouring of support, has been amazing. We’re cautiously optimistic.”

They met while working at the Capilano Suspension Bridge in North Vancouver. (Sometimes, love really is a high-wire act.) They married four years ago, then moved to Victoria. These days, they are sometimes joined in the store by Emma Grace Lorimer, who turns three next week. Tall Tales is a mom-and-pop operation.

The store has wide aisles for strollers, change tables in the washroom, and low-to-the-floor tables for toddlers. It also plays host to regular readings, often featuring Shoshana Litman of the Victoria Storytellers’ Guild.

As they struggle to stay open, a bedtime book for children currently tops the bestseller’s list. However, the Lorimers will not be stocking a volume in which the rhyming scheme includes a popular if vulgar Anglo-Saxonism. It is rendered on the cover as Go the F**k to Sleep.

“We appreciate the sentiment and we laugh at it,” Mr. Lorimer said. “But it doesn’t fit in with who we are.”

Mr. Lorimer’s favourite book to read to his daughter is Nick Bland’s The Very Cranky Bear, in which a lion, moose, sheep, and zebra unwittingly disturb a hibernating bruin. It is more family friendly to read about a bear of foul disposition, rather than to bare foul language.

SNAPSHOT IN SEPIA: Tony Bohanan, the Liverpudlian who established Tony’s Old Time Portrait Studio in Victoria in 1970, has been named posthumously to the hall of fame of the Antique and Amusement Photographers International. Bohanan shot locals and tourists in period costumes with topical backdrops at his shop on Broughton Street until his death last year, aged 78.

Friday, June 24, 2011

Frank Howard, politician (1925-2011)

Frank Howard shows off a 50-pound ling cod reeled in near Klemtu, B.C., while campaigning in 1958.

By Tom Hawthorn
Special to The Globe and Mail
June 24, 2011

Frank Howard went from breaking laws to making them.

Born into the most unpromising circumstance, he succumbed to the lure of crime before following a path that led to a seat in the House of Commons. The remarkable transformation is detailed in a memoir with a title succinctly capturing his life’s journey — From Prison to Parliament. In it, he declares himself the only ex-convict to become a Canadian lawmaker. Indeed, it is easier to imagine a reverse trajectory.

Howard, who has died, aged 85, became a champion of working people and a tribune for society’s least favoured members, from aboriginals to prisoners forgotten behind the walls of a penitentiary.

In his long career as a member of Parliament, he took part in a three-year filibuster that led to reform of the divorce laws. He is also credited with helping those who lived on reserves gain universal adult suffrage in 1960.

A miner and logger before he ran for office, he campaigned by scaling poles at sporting events and by reeling in ling cod the size of a child. For 17 years, he represented an isolated and far-flung constituency in northwestern British Columbia encompassing a territory nearly the size of France, but with a fraction of the population.
Frank Howard

With a craggy face topped by a shock of hair and chevron-shaped eyebrows, which turned white in old age, lending him the air of an Old Testament prophet, it was no stretch to imagine the solid six-footer as a lumberjack. The Native Brotherhood of B.C. bestowed on him the name Weget, a Gitga’at honour meaning big, or powerful.

As a teenager, he had occasion to search for his birth certificate. He knew he had been placed with another family shortly after his birth, but it was not until he dug into the archives did he discover how confused was his biography.

“Here I am with two different surnames and four different birth dates,” he wrote in his memoir. “Who the hell am I?”

Frank Robert Howard was born in Kimberley, B.C., on or about April 27, 1925. His mother, Dorothy Naas, known as Dot, worked as a prostitute in a bawdy house on the outskirts of the mining town in the Kootenay River Valley. His father, Rowlat Widlake Steeves, known as Rollie, is believed to have been her pimp.

(Howard thought the New Brunswick-born man listed as his father might have been related to William Henry Steeves, one of the fathers of Confederation, though he was unable to determine a genealogical tie.)

On his birth, he was given to foster parents who, later, spoke unkindly of the birth parents. The were described with contempt as “unmarried, no-good, rotten sons of bitches.” He believed the animosity was generated by his birth parents’ decision to skip town soon after promising to pay for the boy’s keep.

While in grade school, Frank scavenged beer bottles, their return to the brewery bringing a penny each, which he then used to buy single cigarettes to smoke with friends. Daily life involved misadventures and petty thievery. After Frank and two pint-sized scofflaws stole a butterscotch pie from the kitchen window of the Sullivan Hotel, he was taken before a judge, who determined he was a neglected child. At age 12, he was sent away from the only family he had known. On the journey to an orphanage in Vancouver, a policeman escorting the boy molested him as he cried on a bed in a motel room.

A docile, quiet child, Frank endured a stint at the Alexandra Children’s Home on West Seventh Avenue — “a warehouse containing kids in institutional clothing,” he would write — before being directed to the first of a series of foster homes. He contemplated suicide and ran away several times, once hot-wiring a stolen automobile in a desperate bid to return to Kimberley to visit his foster brother.

Howard, who dropped out in Grade 10, worked after school and in the summer months in a foundry, pouring molten iron into moulds for $4 per week

He found a wartime job in the Vancouver shipyards, but, with an accomplice, went on a month-long crime spree in the summer of 1943, robbing two jewelry stores and the Castle Hotel while armed with a revolver. In one of the holdups, the pair netted $2,000 in rings, watches and diamonds after sticking a gun in the back of an elderly employee as he opened a shop at daybreak.

Mr. Howard was convicted of three counts of armed robbery and sentenced to two years on each charge. He recalled anxiously awaiting the judge’s final verdict. “I remember listening for those words, either ‘consecutive’ or ‘concurrent.’ I was lucky. The word was ‘concurrent.” He served 20 months in the federal penitentiary in New Westminster, with time off for good behaviour, before being released on May 1, 1945. (It was the day, coincidentally, that Nazi Germany announced Adolf Hitler’s death.) He walked out with $10 in his pocket and a prison-bought suit on his back.

A criminal record made it difficult to find work, so he abandoned his foster name — he had been convicted as Frank Thomas Woodd — and became Frank Howard. He found jobs in the woods as a chokerman and cat skinner. After less than four years as a logger, he became an organizer for the International Woodworkers of America, serving as president of Local 1-71 for seven years.

He stood as a Co-operative Commonwealth Federation candidate in the 1952 provincial election, challenging a Coalition cabinet minister in Skeena. “I wasn’t attracted to the CCF because of any theories it held regarding sociopolitical matters,” he wrote. “I joined because I was a trade unionist; because corporations had the ear of government and workers did not.”

He lost, but claimed a seat in the Legislature in Victoria the following year by a 13-vote margin. After a single term, he lost to a Social Credit rival by 63 votes.

The union official then set his sights on Ottawa, defeating Liberal incumbent Ted Applewhaite, an insurance salesman, in the federal riding of Skeena in 1957. Howard would represent Skeena for 17 years, withstanding both the John Diefenbaker sweep of 1958 and Trudeaumania a decade later. (Skeena was so vast that its borders were described in longitude and latitude.) Howard held the seat for the CCF and its successor, the New Democratic Party, for seven campaigns before losing in 1974 to the Liberals’ Iona Campagnolo, a future lieutenant governor of British Columbia.

A fierce advocate for his constituents, Howard once wrote to the provincial highways minister to complain about the state of the unpaved road between Williams Lake and Bella Coola. He told Philip Gaglardi, a politician who drove so fast he was known as Flyin’ Phil, that the three graders on the highway were known as High Blade, Never-Scratch and Old Feather Touch.

“The road is pimpled and warted with rocks,” Howard wrote. “There are sharp rocks, spiked rocks, rugged, jagged and craggy rocks. They are round, square, conical, oval, notched, toothed and spired. There are large rocks, medium-sized rocks and even some pebbles. They protrude, project, pout, bulge and bunch themselves from all parts of the road. Between the rocks there are cavities, concavities, indentations, craters, sockets, depressions, hollows, dips, pits, troughs, basins, washboards, and holes of all sorts.”

The monthly mimeographed newsletter he mailed to 1,800 constituents once sandwiched a recipe for chocolate cake made with mayonnaise between news of the latest political developments in Ottawa. The politician advocated cooking as a hobby for men, comparing it to bowling as a way to relax after work.

A blunt, outspoken figure in the House, he receive rebukes from the Speaker more than once. He delighted in sniping with Conservatives.

Howard worked with caucus mate Arnold Peters to block 1,100 divorce petitions from Quebec and Newfoundland, two provinces whose lack of divorce courts left the matter to Parliament. The pair filibustered for three years to draw attention to the need for reform of Canada’s archaic divorce laws, a stand for which the Globe offered editorial support.

Speaking in the House in 1964, Howard warned that Quebec’s demands would be insatiable and suggested the rest of Canada should proceed on the notion that someday the Confederation would consist of only nine provinces. At least one member of the NDP caucus later told the House they challenged Howard’s vision of the future.

Howard gained a reputation as an advocate for penal reform, denouncing the “deplorable conditions” at St. Vincent de Paul Penitentiary at Montreal. Few knew his advocacy came from personal experience. The parliamentarian confided his criminal past to party leaders and close friends, but the public remained ignorant until he made a televised confession in 1967.

After receiving an extortion note, which he shared with police, Howard purchased air time on CFTK-TV in Terrace, B.C. He admitted to having spent time in jail, though he refused to offer details of his crimes, which were later revealed by reporters who checked legal records. The admission was big news, in part because of the dramatic circumstance. The Vancouver Sun’s front-page headline read, “MP Frank Howard admits: I served time in penitentiary.”

Howard had received a note demanding a payment of $5,000 in bills of $10, $20 and $50. This was to be sent in a small box wrapped in brown paper address to a fictitious name in care of general delivery at the Vancouver post office. The blackmailer promised to repay the money at $100 per week for one year.

“If not,” the note threatened, “I will totally ruin you by distributing proof of your past to your friends, relatives, political associates and appropriate authorities.” It was signed, “An old friend.”

The 18-year-old son of a union organizer and Howard family friend pleaded guilty to the extortion attempt. Howard called for leniency. Gary Stephen Ross received a one-year jail term, which was reduced on appeal to a two-year suspended sentence. The youth went on to a distinguished career as an author and publisher, and is currently editor-in-chief of Vancouver magazine. He said he had a reconciliation with Howard.

The exposé gained Howard sympathy, not censure.

His advocacy on behalf of native peoples included harsh criticism of a bureaucracy he saw enriching itself at the expense of his constituents. “We should have a bonfire and burn the Indian Act,” he said in 1969. “There’s a group of empire builders in the department that seeks to perpetuate themselves.” The walls of his Ottawa office were decorated with his own paintings of the totem poles to be found back home.

In 1971, Howard entered the federal NDP leadership contest called after the retirement of T.C. (Tommy) Douglas. He launched his candidacy with harsh words against a radical wing of the party known as the Waffle, whose call for the nationalization of resource industries he decried as politically naive and lacking common sense. A low-key campaign seemed based on the gamble of winning delegates at the convention in Ottawa. Shortly before the vote, Howard spent a fortnight touring the Antipodes with Jean Chretien, the Indian affairs and northern development minister. On the first ballot, Howard got just 124 votes of 1,698 cast, finishing last of five candidates in a race won on the fourth ballot by David Lewis. Among the defeated challengers was future party leader Ed Broadbent.

After losing his seat, Howard worked briefly as a consultant on aboriginal affairs for Dave Barrett’s NDP government in B.C. He later became a stock broker with Richardson Securities of Canada.

Howard re-entered the political fray in his home province in 1979, knocking off stalwart Socred MLA Cyril Shelford, a rancher known as the Maverick of the North. Howard won re-election four years later before being defeated in 1986.

He retired to Surrey, a suburb of Vancouver, where he lived with his third wife, Joane Humphrey, a journalist known professionally as J.J. McColl. A first marriage, to Edith Horvath, ended in divorce, while a second marriage to Julie Peacock ended with her death from cancer in 1999. The late-in-life romance with Ms. Humphrey — the bride was 65, the groom 77 when they enjoyed a June wedding in 2002 — animated the couple, who remained devoted to one another until her death six years later from amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (Lou Gehrig’s disease).

Known for his prized Christmas fruitcakes, Howard’s hobbies included gardening and photography. He wrote the draft of a science-fiction novel and was designing a board game based on politics at the time of his death.

Like many who make a grievous mistake when young, he was haunted throughout his life by his past.

“I’m grateful to the general public for its acceptance of the fact that a teenage blunder can be overcome and forgiven,” he wrote. “But the blunderer must continue to prove to himself, and therefore to others, that overcoming the blunder is permanent.”

Mr. Howard, who died on March 15 of complications from pneumonia, leaves stepchildren Danielle and Anthony Peacock from his second marriage. He was predeceased by a son from his first marriage, Robert Howard, who died in 1986.

Frank Howard (right) prepares to climb a 90-foot spar during a logger sports event in the 1960s in Terrace, B.C. Howard had been a miner and a logger before being elected to Parliament. Photograph by Frank McGrath.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Yippies in love: Exploring the Vancouver riot — of 40 years ago


CBC archival footage shows Yippies flooding peacefully across the border during a notorious invasion of the border town of Blaine, Wash., in 1970.

By Tom Hawthorn
Special to The Globe and Mail
June 23, 2011

VICTORIA

It was a warm summer night when rampaging gangs of men tore through Vancouver streets beating passersby with sticks.

Even unsuspecting women and children came under assault.

The police had a rough time of it, not the least because they perpetrated the violence.

Forty years ago this summer, some 2,000 people gathered on Gastown streets for what was billed as the Grasstown Smoke-In to peaceably protest marijuana prohibition. The night ended in what was widely regarded afterwards as a police riot. Hippies, activists and tourists fell under the truncheon as police on horseback rode through a frightened crowd. Archival footage shows police pulling men by their long hair.

The riot served as an exclamation point after many months of tension. The city’s police tried to crack down on drug use even as hordes of teenagers flocked to the city to sample mind-altering substances. The mayor, Thomas Campbell, a millionaire lawyer and property developer, did verbal battle against hippies and longhairs, Marxists and Maoists, Vietnam War draft dodgers and the Georgia Straight newspaper,. The mayor saw all of them as a threat — correctly, as it turned out — to building freeways and skyscrapers.

Particularly irksome were a band of anti-authoritarian merry pranksters who called themselves the Northern Lunatic Fringe of the Youth International Party — Yippie! for short.

It is this background that serves as the setting for a new musical, “Yippies in Love,” that opens with a preview Wednesday night at the Vancouver East Cultural Centre. The gala opening on Thursday is expected to be attended by about a dozen former members of a group that operated without membership cards. Or leaders.

The script and lyrics were written by Bob Sarti, a former Vancouver Sun reporter who both covered and took part in some Yippie stunts.
A smoke-in led to a police riot in Vancouver's Gastown.

He wrote the play after interviewing old comrades, checking yellowed newspaper clippings, and surveying the CBC’s rich lode of archival footage. He said none of the Yippies regretted taking part. They feel history has absolved them.

“We were right. They were wrong,” Mr. Sarti said recently. “The bad guys were wrong. The war was wrong. Drug paranoia was wrong.”

The Vancouver Yippies lived in communal homes with such tongue-in-cheek names as The Dog House and Charlie Mansion. Combining street theatre with political activism, they tried to levitate the Main Street police station (an echo of unsuccessful attempts to do the same to the Pentagon).

A so-called Sip-In to protest the poor treatment of hippie customers at the Hudson’s Bay department store ended in smashed glass and the burning of the Stars and Stripes in a demonstration at the nearby American embassy on May 8, 1970.

The very next day, the Yippies took part in an audacious incursion across the frontier, when a crowd peaceably overwhelmed border guards at the Peace Arch and marched through the streets of Blaine, Wash. The invasion was a protest against the invasion of Cambodia and the subsequent shooting of unarmed students at Kent State University in Ohio.

During the protest, a trainload of new automobiles got pelted by rocks, causing significant damage.

The local newspaper called the foray “one of the saddest and most degrading incidents suffered by the people of this country since the Alamo.”

Two months later, the Yippies held what they called a Be-Out at Oakalla prison, knocking down a section of fence but wisely not engaging several hundred guards and police in anything other than some verbal jousting.

The Yippies also launched a newspaper (The Yellow Journal), opposed a development while campaigning to preserve as parkland a four-hectare site at the entrance to Stanley Park (today’s Devonian Harbour Park), and ran a candidate for mayor (see below).

Mr. Sarti, 68, who lives on Hornby Island, is the son of a New York City cook who volunteered to fight against fascists in the Spanish Civil War. He came to Canada as a draft resister in 1968. One of his early Sun stories was headlined, “Yippies behind rash of street actions here.”

He notes the play, with music by Bill Sample, is a drama, not a documentary, though characters and events will be familiar to those who took part four decades ago. (One wag cleverly suggests it is a comedy, just like the original production.)

Where Yippies were once vilified by city fathers, the play is an official part of the city’s quasquicentennial celebrations.

As a nod to recent events, a panel discussion will be held after Sunday’s matinee performance. It will compare the events of the early 1970s with the recent Stanley Cup riot. It is titled, “Yippies and Yahoos: What’s the Difference?”


Yippie mayoral candidate
called for repeal of law of gravity

In 1970, a young, unwed single mother on welfare ran for mayor of Vancouver as the candidate for the Northern Lunatic Fringe of the Youth International Party (Yippie!).

Betty (Zaria) Andrew, a shy, soft-spoken 23-year-old, posed for an election poster published in the underground newspaper, The Yellow Journal. She was shown holding her two-year-old son, Colin, known as Skeeter, in her lap. In her left hand, she holds a rifle, an incongruous prop in so maternal a setting.

“Unloaded,” she said. “It was to show our militancy. Not in the sense of going out to kill people, but in terms of being active.”

She campaigned on a promise to disband the police, to turn City Hall into a daycare, and to tear up downtown pavement in favour of parkland. The main plank called for a repeal of the laws of gravity “so everyone can get high.”

She opposed Thomas (Tom Terrific) Campbell, the avowed enemy of hippies and yippies who was seeking a third consecutive two-year term in the mayor’s chair.

A Globe columnist decried Mr. Campbell’s “ostrich indifference to social problems,” but the tough-talking, law-and-order advocate handily won re-election over the reformer Dr. William Gibson. An NDP-sponsored candidate finished third, while the fourth-place candidate, a namesake to the mayor though no relation, was arrested on election night on a drug charge.

The Yippie candidate garnered 848 votes in her lone foray for public office.

Her clownish campaign served as a precedent for the artist Vincent Trasov, who campaigned for mayor four years later while wearing a Mr. Peanut costume. (The artist said the Peanut surname was an acronym for Performance, Elegance, Art, Nonsense, Uniqueness and Talent.) The anthropomorphic goober took 2,685 votes.

Ms. Andrew, 64, who lives in Nelson and Vancouver, retired from the post office last year. She had been a forklift operator. Her fellow workers often elected her as a shop steward.

Mr. Campbell, 83, retired from elected office in 1972. He rarely grants interviews.

Monday, June 20, 2011

Confronting an attacker in court with forgiveness in her heart

Jessica Ziakin Cook hopes the stranger who attacked her will come out of prison a better man. Chad Hipolito photograph for the The Globe and Mail.

By Tom Hawthorn
Special to The Globe and Mail
June 20, 2011

VICTORIA

She hobbled from the front bench to the witness box, scars on her leg but forgiveness in her heart.

Jessica Ziakin Cook, 28, who plans on becoming an art therapist, faced her attacker in a Victoria courtroom on Friday.

“Your behavior was more than reckless,” she told him, “it was hateful.”

It nearly cost the young woman her life.

Twenty-two months earlier, a peaceful, fruitful life filled with university studies and church duties and volunteer work for a soup kitchen was intruded upon by an “overwhelming malevolence” that continues to haunt her to this day.

She had been asleep in her Esquimalt apartment with her husband, Matthew Cook, thrifty newlyweds whose wedding ceremony 24 days earlier had concluded with a potluck reception. The modest apartment was stocked with wedding gifts, many of which were inspired by her reputation as a chef. Among them was a set of new kitchen knives.

A noise startled her awake.

She left the bed to check on the cat, Mortimer, whom she addressed in baby talk. Seeing nothing amiss, she turned off the lights, went to the bathroom.

It was 4 a.m. on Sept. 9, 2009. Hours earlier, an 18-year-old man attended a concert by Die Mannequin and Marilyn Manson before retiring to Anderson Park to drink with friends. He then broke into a home on a cul-de-sac abutting the park, arming himself in the kitchen before hiding in the bathroom.

The intruder slashed at her. Her hand protected her throat, deflecting the blade to her collarbone. He lunged at her again, pushing a large kitchen knife through the back of her left leg, severing the femoral artery before the point came out the other side of her thigh.

“A very medieval injury,” she calls it now.

Her screams awoke her husband, who tussled with the intruder before tending to his wife. They called 9-1-1. Life seemed to ebb from Jessica with each heartbeat, a crimson pool spreading from her grievous wound. She remembers hanging up on the dispatcher, so that she and her husband could spend what they feared might be her final moments together.

The dispatcher called back.

The police arrived and, in the chaos, grabbed the husband.

She awoke in hospital a day later, a respirator down her throat. She had lost half her blood and would endure two operations to repair nerve and muscle damage. Two weeks in the hospital was followed by painstaking months of physiotherapy.

The attack had been so mysterious, a motive so unfathomable, she spent fearful days in hospital worrying that “at any moment someone might jump out from the curtains and finish me off.”

For a brief time, perhaps as long as a week, she tried unsuccessfully to become an atheist.

“I felt totally betrayed. We’d just been married. There was such a strong feeling of there being so much promise in our lives. That was coming to fulfillment and a blossoming. You feel like you’re in God’s favour and you assume you have this invincibility.”

The attack left her unwilling to close her eyes in prayer or meditation, a fear of the unthinkable now understandably too real.

As she recovered, she received knitted prayer shawls from the Anglican Church Women on Vancouver Island. A soup kitchen at which she volunteers held a fundraising dinner to help the couple cover their $1,125 monthly rent.

The couple have since moved to a new home. They are active in the Church of Saint Barnabas. They conduct Bible study in their apartment three times a month. On the second Wednesday of each month, she joins others at Theology on Tap, a two-hour discussion of faith and philosophy over pints at the Fernwood Inn.

In court, she decided to read her victim impact statement in the same tone she uses while reading from the pulpit in church. “Slower than you think you ought to,” she said.

She told court she felt her attacker should have been charged with attempted murder.

She told her attacker she did not believe his story of mixing up her house with another.

She told him she did not understand why he attacked her instead of fleeing.

She told him, “I hope your time in prison will be one of growth and fruitful soul searching.”

She told him, “I forgive you. I have no desire to gloat over your conviction, and in fact feel empathy for how scary this all must have been for you as well.”

Her husband, who works at a halfway home for parolees, also read a statement, as did the attacker.

“I held his eye as I told him I forgave him,” she told me. “It came as a blow to him. In a positive way.”

She said he showed contrition in his apologies. Earlier, he pleaded guilty to a charge of aggravated assault.

Judge Robert Higinbotham sentenced Alexander Vince Escobar, now 20, to five years in prison.

As sheriff’s escorted the handcuffed man from the courtroom, Jessica’s husband called out to him.

“Alex,” he said. “Good luck.”

Thursday, June 16, 2011

Veteran southpaw warms up to mark history

The exterior of Nat Bailey Stadium in Vancouver is decorated by reproductions of the brilliant baseball paintings of local artist Jennifer Ettinger.

By Tom Hawthorn
Special to The Globe and Mail
June 16, 2011

VICTORIA

Bill Whyte is 83 now, the left arm with which he once earned a paycheque no longer in top form.

He has been out tossing baseballs to get the arm back in shape.

As a young man, he earned his keep pitching for the Vancouver Capilanos, a team named after a beer brewed by a brewery named for a local tribe. They played in a wooden ball park torn down to make way for an on-ramp to the Granville Street Bridge.

Mr. Whyte won the last game ever played in the old bandbox, helping his cause by stroking a long single to tie the game in the ninth inning.

A week later, he stood on the sod of a new concrete ball park built in the lee of Little Mountain. It carried the same name as the old park — Capilano Stadium — although the official moniker these days is Scotiabank Field at Nat Bailey Stadium. Fans call it The Nat.

The park turned 60 this week, a landmark birthday to be celebrated on Friday when the summer game returns to Vancouver. The home team Canadians will hand out refrigerator-magnet schedules before the game and launch fireworks afterwards.

Bill Whyte depicted on a rare card.
Such extravagances were unknown when Mr. Whyte, a butcher’s son, earned $350 per month back in 1951. The Capilanos were managed by Bob Brown, a potato-nosed veteran of the Spanish-American War. He was such a skinflint he had urchins scavenge foul balls landing outside the wooden stadium. He’d let them in for free if they surrendered a ball.

The handful of surviving players who called the original Capilano Stadium home do not remember it as a bucolic playground.

“It was a firetrap,” Mr. Whyte said from his home in Nanaimo. “It caught on fire a number of times.

“They sold full peanuts in the shell. The shells would get jammed between the boards. With all the smokers, it would catch on fire periodically.”

Bob Brown had cleared the land by placing dynamite beside stumps on the edge of a cliff overlooking the mills and factories on False Creek. The diamond was shoehorned into a city block. Home plate could be found just beyond the corner of West Fifth Avenue and Hemlock Street. Left field extended all the way to Birch, an expanse so deep that Mr. Brown employed a goat to keep the grass trim. The right-field wall was too close to home plate, so a tall fence was topped by a chicken-wire screen. Beyond that, neighbours perched on roofs for a free view of the game, an unexploited revenue source that no doubt frustrated Mr. Brown.

They played field lacrosse and even professional football in the field in 1941, but it was mostly home to baseball, including the ferocious rivalries of the senior amateur leagues. The first night baseball game in Canada was played under the lights at the park in 1931. Three years later, a barnstorming troupe of ball players, including Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig, stopped off in Vancouver on their way to Japan. They played an exhibition in the pouring rain, Ruth stroking a foul ball so deep it was reported to be on its way to Marpole.

The old park was in a decrepit state by the time Mr. Whyte, a fireplug-sized lefthander, joined the roster. Players warmly greeted the midseason move to a new facility.

In the first game at what is now The Nat, on June 15, 1951, about 8,000 fans shoe-horned into the 7,500-seat stadium. An overflow crowd watched from a nearby grassy hillside. A military colour guard, Mounties in red serge, a pipe band and majorettes were part of the hoopla. The honour of throwing out the ceremonial first pitch went to Vancouver mayor Fred Hume, who was teased by Mr. Brown. “We’ve got about 10 minutes for this event and it’s a good thing,” he quipped. “It’ll take the mayor that long to get one across.”

That might explain why Mr. Whyte has been working on his pitching.

On Friday, he will be asked to throw out the ceremonial first pitch to open the season and to mark the ball park’s birthday.

He worked as the first-base coach in that inaugural game, spent a few years in baseball’s low minors, earned accolades as a stellar rugby fly-half, became a teacher and, later, a principal at Churchill and Kitsilano high schools.

What kind of pitch will he throw to open the game?

“A fastball," he said, before correcting himself. “A looping fastball.”

He should be in good form. After all, he is pitching on nearly 60-years’ rest.

Dr. Herb Fitterman, ophthalmologist (1932-2011)

Dr. Herb Fitterman is believed to have performed the first lens implant operation in Canada.

By Tom Hawthorn
Special to The Globe and Mail
June 15, 2011

Dr. Herb Fitterman offered hope to those whose failing eyesight made their future as cloudy as their vision.

The Vancouver ophthalmologist was a trailblazing eye surgeon who, in 1968, performed what is believed to have been the first lens implant operation in Canada.

The procedure, now standard, was controversial at the time. Dr. Fitterman and the medical establishment did not see eye-to-eye on the efficacy of what many regarded as an unorthodox, perhaps even dangerous, surgery.

Dr. Fitterman, who has died, aged 78, continued practicing until his death, precipitated by a fall while on vacation.

His patients included cross-eyed children and elders with cataracts, all of whom would find comfort for their affliction from a doctor known for wearing a lab coat and wooden clogs. A jar of candy provided rewards for well-behaved children, not to mention for a physician with a sweet tooth.

A stubborn advocacy on behalf of patients earned him their devotion.

After lens implants became an accepted treatment, he initiated a letter-writing campaign to the health minister in Victoria to protest a long waiting list.

A cache of thank-you cards was found by his family after his death. One of the letters included black-and-white photographic portraits of a grateful patient as a girl and as a middle-aged woman. “I was eight years old when I first came to see you and I will never forget putting on glasses for the first time and seeing individual leaves on tress,” she wrote. “And now I need reading glasses!”

Herbert Norton Fitterman was born in Saskatoon, Sask., on Nov. 28, 1932 to Betty (née Blank) and Harry Edward Fitterman, a retail clothier. His paternal grandfather, Morris Fitterman, was a veteran of the Russo-Japanese War who immigrated to Winnipeg from London in 1910. He ran a fur shop. His materal grandfather, Shmelik Chaykin, had worked in Rothschild-owned vineyards before emigrating to Canada, where family lore has an immigration official refusing to accept the unfamiliar surname, telling them to complete a form by filling in the blank. The Chaykins became the Blanks.

The call to medicine came to him as a youth, though he was undecided as to become an eye surgeon or a brain surgeon. The former speciality was chosen as he figured fewer patients would die and he would contribute to the joy of providing sight.

He enrolled in a program of pre-medicine at the University of Manitoba in 1948, not long after the school’s unofficial policy of maintaining quotas based on “ethnic origin” were exposed. The policy was designed to restrict the admission of Jews, especially to the medical school.

The student was in the middle of his med school studies when his mother died suddenly in 1954. That same year, his restaurateur uncle, Oscar Blank, the well-known proprietor of Vancouver’s popular Oscar’s, died when his Trans-Canada Air Lines plane collided with an air force trainer in the skies above Moose Jaw, Sask. The accident killed 37.

While interning at Vancouver General Hospital, he was introduced by a cousin to Shirley Veiner, a second-year education student at the University of British Columbia and the daughter of the mayor of Medicine Hat. The couple married on June 30, 1957, before leaving on a California honeymoon. Dr. Fitterman graduated the following year.

It would not be long before his eagerness to try new techniques was noticed by peers and reporters. Inspired by a report in a Japanese medical journal, Dr. Fitterman conducted a trial with eight glaucoma patients, four of whom he treated with anthranilic acids. Those patients reported a decrease in the amount of pressure on the eyeball, as well as an easing of other symptoms of the eye disease. He reported his findings in a brief to the Canadian Ophthalmological Society during their annual meeting in 1959.

Almost a decade later, he anticipated opposition to his plans to perform an implant surgery, fearing rejection on the grounds the proposal was a “quirky procedure.” Instead, he found, to his delight, a supportive management at St. Paul’s Hospital in Vancouver. After consulting with Dr. Cornelius Binkhorst, the Dutch ophthalmologist who had made important contributions to the development of the interocular lens, and obtaining a supply from Germany, he performed the surgery on an American patient in February, 1968.

Not all were supportive. Forty years later, he wrote that “there was much antagonism from many colleagues,” some of whom “thought this was going to be the worst thing in the world.”

“It was immensely controversial,” said Dr. Ilan Hofmann, of Montreal, a friend and colleague. “The establishment considered it almost a heretical procedure. They felt it was dangerous, and against the patient’s best interests.”

Dr. Fitterman persevered, Dr. Hofmann said, challenging the orthodoxy of the times.

The operation on that first patient lasted hours, the instruments used unwieldy, almost primitive by today’s refined standards. Still, it was a success, and a harbinger of the future for those suffering from cataracts.

The surgeon spearheaded the creation of the hospital’s eye clinic, while cataract patients from around the world would seek a spot in the operating theatre. In time, Dr. Fitterman would head the ophthalmology departments at both St. Paul’s and the Vancouver Children’s Hospital.

He used to fly to small northern towns in British Columbia to treat First Nations children who might otherwise have gone without specialist care.

He was on holiday in Palm Springs, Calif., when a fall broke his pelvis and ruptured an artery. A pre-existing blood disorder made it difficult to stem internal bleeding. He returned to Vancouver by air ambulance, dying a few hours after arrival at St. Paul’s Hospital.

Dr. Fitterman, who died on April 22, leaves Shirley (nee Veiner), his wife of 53 years; a son; two daughters; and, two grandchildren.