Life Without / Gord Downie

It was a beautiful day in Ottawa, the Saturday following Gord Downie’s passing away.  Strange forces out in the distance had orchestrated a comfortable warmth on this autumn day, allowing open windows and t-shirt donning.  

Thank you, jetstream.  

Thank you, tropical hurricanes.

Thank you, Mother Nature.

Things far away can effect things far away.  Sometimes the effect is good, like warm weather, sometimes it’s not so good, like the death of a cultural icon you patronized religiously.  I finished my chores and errands that morning, performed my workaday obligations, then treated myself to a lunch out on my tiny little balcony, reading a few passages of Al Purdy poetry.  I then decided it was a good time to take a walk to the park.  I donned my knockoff Tragically Hip shirt, my jean jacket and tucked my notebook into my tote bag to sling over my shoulder. Gord meant something to me, was often the voice in my head while I wrote, his band’s music setting the mood I desired to be found in, so the knock-off shirt I bought in the Toronto subway after seeing the Hip last summer was going to be my outfit choice for this walk to the park.  I normally wouldn’t have bought something like that, knowing it was just another unlicensed leech profiting off that wildly emotional and coveted tour, but the picture on the back was so perfect, just Gord looking lean and sexy in a collared shirt, wearily tipping a rumpled fedora to some fortunate crowd.  It was so perfectly him.

As I started walking down Donald St., I could see the Peace Tower visible in a forest of office buildings, its Maple Leaf flag still at half-mast, and I’m sure its carillon still chiming Bobcaygeon out over Parliament Hill.  I felt privileged to have this view of it, Donald St. having a direct sightline on its stately spire.   Canada’s focal point, I like to think.  The heart of Canada, pining for its departed laureate.

Walking affords you a chance to see the fine print of life out in the neighbourhood.  There was a Free Book Box, which sadly had nothing in it,  though it had me resolving to add something to it later.  I overheard a conversation mixed with French and Arabic echoing from someone’s garage.  There was a motorcycle show and shine starting to congregate in the parking lot of St. Charbel’s Maronite Catholic Church.  Ahead of me, I caught sight of a guy weaving down the hill on a skateboard while playing an acoustic guitar.  I don’t know what he was playing.   I passed by the Hardini Community Help Centre, which houses numerous community services like The Snowsuit Fund, a poverty reduction program and an advocate for Syrian refugees.  I thought how it was always those with social awareness that were always on top of the issues of the world, while those concerned with the management of money and wealth would rather turn a blind eye to the problems.

Further on, as I approached the busy intersection with Vanier Parkway, I heard the whoops of an approaching ambulance hurrying to save someone in trouble.  I did my customary sign of the cross, wishing that person luck, good karma, the grace of God, or whatever that gesture bestows upon a person.  When I came up to the intersection myself, I had to wait a good long time, but while I was there, I noticed that there were no panhandlers holding a cup out for donations.  Do panhandlers take Saturdays off?  I wondered.

Finally crossing the Parkway, I could see the demographic changing in a classic ‘other side of the tracks’ kind of way.  There were now century homes and condominiums lining the street, the trees older and taller, a proper example of well-chosen new and well-maintained old. Almost at the river, there was the Rideau Tennis Club, with it's inflated dome newly set up for the coming winter, an imposing structure amidst the senescent trees.  In the flowerbeds between the sidewalk and chainlink fence guarding the outdoor courts, I was surprised to find daffodils. I didn’t know they could stay in bloom this late in the year, but I was glad to see them.  They reminded me of Gord.  

I stayed on the Vanier side of river so I could see the start of the shallow rapids just off Riverain Park.  I sat on the rock terrace there and watched the water dip from glass-flat to turbulent over the little ledge of rock that spanned the whole width of the river.  The autumn colours had taken the trees to warm hues of yellow and orange, and I watched some leaves release themselves from their branches to drift down to the water; some above the ridge and some below, straight into the rapids. I thought about how, no matter where a leaf landed, it was still destined to go through that rough water.  There was no avoiding it.  After a short while, a family came to the same little rocky terrace where I was sitting.  One little girl in a white dress descended to the water to throw sticks, unabashed to the fact that she was standing directly in front of me.  Her father looked on, offering advice and answering her questions.  With her blonde hair tied in French braid though loose tendrils still escaped their clasps, she looked like a little fairy, sweet and radiant.  When she turned, I could see a temporary Disney tattoo on her collarbone, her branding of the princess phenomenon. Trick Rider, I thought.

I left that scene to cross the Adawe pedestrian bridge over the river to Strathcona Park.  Families and groups of friends had come out to enjoy the classic turn of the 20th century park, tossing frisbees or talking along the paved pathway along the water.  On the short stone wall along the banks, an African family was sitting and getting their pictures taken. There was a sullen teenage boy, perturbed in his obviously hot sweater and two rough but wizened older men. The plump woman with the camera urged them to look more alive in her flamboyant dress, but all they did was scowl distantly in their static pose.  I went over to a picnic table in the shade, pulled out my notebook, and started to write.

The walk there had me thinking.  This is Canada
without Gord Downie.  This is life after him.  Not much different than life before or with him.  
The change however, is in the perspective.

Gord was such a generous man.  He always gave out three precious things that my friend, Ottawa poet rob mclennan pointed out in a blog post about Gord.  He gave out time, attention and energy.  He always sat and listened to people’s stories and always put an effort into reciprocating every good thing he ever got from a person.  That is why he is so universally loved.

My father was once a miserable, angry old farmer.  He didn’t have time or energy to be very involved in my or my siblings lives while working the farm. It was heavy load on him and he had to bear it just to put food on the table. It wasn’t until he sold the farm and retired, that his disposition finally changed.  He became personable, happy and relaxed.  He took a low-stress job as a field man for the fruit shipping warehouse we used to consign our fruit crop to, going from farm to farm to forecast how much each grower would bring in that day.  He loved that job.  He was able to connect with people, and people loved him for it.  Gord is a lot like that.  He was interested in everyone he met, and when you finished time with him, you had that thrill over having really connected with someone.  Since Gord’s passing, so many people have come forward and recounted that same experience.

On the leeside of 50 now, I feel myself becoming more like my latter-day Dad.  I’m now in a job where I work with young children and I can’t get over how happy the job makes me.  Being around such youthful joy and innocence just makes me love life more.  I am more social than I have ever been and willing to give time, attention and energy to everyone I encounter.  Hearing these things about Gord makes me aspire to those things even more now.

In his fundraisers for the Sunnybrook Hospital and the Downie/Wenjack Fund, his urgings to fans to bring canned goods for local food banks to Hip concerts, and most poignantly, his tireless work in improving relations with indigenous peoples, Gord has wanted us all to be better people, wanted Canada to be a better country.  He included everybody, just like everybody and everything I saw on the street during my walk down.  That is Canada.  We had always thought Canada was the best country in the world, then Gord assured us that it is indeed not, though he told us just how it could be.  

I finished writing all my notes on that picnic bench, then decided it might be time to go home.  I packed up and began to walk back to the bridge.  On the way, I passed memorial benches and squirrels squabbling over space in the trees. Under the bridge, there were Canada Geese, seagulls and ducks, all working for food in the rapids of the Rideau, just beginning to convene for their migrations south to avoid the imminent and harsh northern winter.   This is life without Gord.  Not much different than what it was.  Still, I do hope that his influence goes on, just like we have recordings of his voice for posterity.  I do hope his message endures.  I have Gord’s legacy in me and I am going to work on completing the goals that he set out for all of us.

This is Canada after Gord.

What a beautiful place.