Farewell to a friend, a vibrant spirit

Art Gough

Art Gough, 1934-2013: educator, runner, appreciator of life, father, grandfather – and good friend. I like this photo because that big smile on Art’s face is absolutely typical of him. (Photo courtesy of Graham Gough)

A person who played a very important role in the life of my family when we lived at the Manse back when I was a kid was Art Gough – a gifted and much-loved teacher and principal, a marathon-runner, and a man with a boundless sense of how much fun life could be.

Art and his family moved to a nice old brick house in Queensborough in 1970, when he was named principal of Coe Hill Public School further north in Hastings County, and the Goughs and the Sedgwicks quickly became fast friends. Art went on to be the principal at nearby Madoc Township Public School – which my sister and brothers and I all attended, though before his time there. He made a very important mark on that already-fine school, bringing teachers and students together as one big enthusiastic team and leading the charge for the Township School to be a place known for its academics, sports and special activities, such as debating. (His impact was such that when the board of education tried to shift him to a larger school a few years after his arrival, the teachers and local parents rose up in protest. The board backed down, and Art stayed at the Township School until his retirement.)

Anyway: I am sad to report that Art died a week ago tonight. Today his family and many of his friends gathered for a celebration of his life. In the days between I have, as you might imagine, been thinking a lot about Art, a truly remarkable man whose approach to life had a large impact on my own.

I was extremely honoured (and more than a little bit nervous) that Art’s sons asked me to speak at the service today, and I’ll put the text, more or less as I said it, at the end of this post. My focus was primarily on Art as our Queensborough neighbour and good friend of my father, The Rev. Wendell Sedgwick. That is how I knew him best. But I was a bit worried about not going into all the other important things that Art was – teacher and principal, as already noted; and exceptional athlete, also as noted; but also world traveller, participant in theatrical productions, Christian Science member, animal-lover, and on and on the list goes.

I needn’t have worried, though. Wanda Burnside, a former Madoc Township Public School teacher, painted a wonderful picture for us of the exciting and memorable times the school went through under Art’s leadership; and Bill Gough, Art’s youngest son, spoke eloquently and movingly about many parts of Art’s life – including, of course, Art as father and grandfather. The pride and affection in Bill’s voice as he spoke were lovely to hear. As was the fact that a major focus of his talk was how much Art liked to laugh, and how good he was at getting others to laugh. That is one of the things I will remember most about Art. He had an incredibly quick mind, and he used it in the best possible way: to enjoy life, and to help others do the same.

Bill also mentioned a couple of things I found absolutely remarkable: one, that Art never took a sick day in all of his long career as a teacher and principal; and the other, that he ran every single day from 1964 until 2010, when his health began to fail. One time, Bill told us, he ran on the tarmac in between flights at Los Angeles Airport. Another time he ran on the deck of a ship in the stormy North Sea. But he never once missed a day. Can you imagine? (This would of course explain why he was able to run more than a dozen marathons.)

Art Gough running a marathon

Art running in one of the many marathons he completed. (Photo courtesy of the Gough family)

And speaking of the running, I well remember how, when Art and his family moved to Queensborough in 1970, running was seen by the people of Queensborough as an extremely peculiar thing to do. (I think this was a bit before Participaction had kicked in.) That said, it wasn’t long before they got used to seeing him out on the road, and began not to be so surprised by it. However: I can tell you from first-hand experience that there was some pretty major head-shaking and eye-rolling down at the general stores when Art was spotted running on icy roads that were well-nigh impassable to vehicles during the worst winter days.

But that was Art. Indomitable, unstoppable – and full of life and laughter.

Now that I think of it, the image of him out running on the icy winter roads around Queensborough is – well, it’s classic Art. It was something nobody else would have done – and there was Art, doing it. It was a perfect example – though there are many examples – of how he stood out from everyone else. The father, grandfather and friend whose life we celebrated today was an extraordinary person. I hope all who knew him who might be reading this will stop and think about something he did or said that made them laugh. I think Art would like that a lot.

Here’s what I said today:

Since Art Gough was an educator, you probably won’t be surprised when I tell you that he taught me something – well, me and a whole lot of other people. Probably many of you here. Given the number of students he interacted with through his career, probably hundreds and hundreds of people.

As I’ve been thinking about it over the past several days, though, I’ve had trouble finding just the right word or words to describe what that very important lesson was. Then this morning I happened to be on a long, quiet drive, and about halfway though, the words “vibrant spirit” came to me. “Man!” I thought. “That is the perfect way to describe Art.” And maybe that is also the best way to describe what he taught us through his example: to have and to be a vibrant spirit.

My family and Art’s became friends when the Goughs moved to our little hamlet, Queensborough, in 1970. My father Wendell, the United Church minister, was always quick to welcome strangers, and so he invited Art and Claude for dinner to the Manse one Sunday evening. (The rest of the family hadn’t yet arrived from their previous home in the Newmarket area.) This turned out to be the first of what would be many get-togethers over the years; Claude, Graham and Bill were not much different in age from my three siblings and myself, and our parents hit it off immediately. In particular, the friendship between Art and Wendell was something that I think I am safe in saying had a deep and lasting impact on their lives – and on ours.

The Goughs and the Sedgwicks spent wonderful times pre-screening films that Art had ordered for use in his schools (with long discussions and dissections of them afterward); and around the dinner table, with great big pots of tea to finish off the meal; and on long hikes through the woods and wilderness around Queensborough.

And always during these happy times there was a great deal of talk – mostly between Art and Wendell, though we were all welcomed and encouraged to join in. There was talk about religion, about science, about education, about history, about running. About the mysteries of the universe. It was good talk, often scholarly talk. Friendly but pointed debate. There were challenges and responses. Agreement, sometimes. Agreement to disagree, other times. I think I speak for Art’s sons, and I know I speak for my sister and brothers, when I say that we loved listening to Art and Wendell talk.

Art knew the secret to good and lively conversation. It’s a very simple tactic, but oddly, many people don’t seem to be aware of it. It is just this: ask people questions. And if you want it to be a really lively conversation, ask them questions about themselves.

Actually, there’s one other thing you have to do to make this tactic work: be genuinely interested in the answers you get. That was something Art was a master of.

He would ask you something about yourself: your work, or where you came from, or what you thought about such-and-such a thing, or maybe (if you were a young person) what you hoped to do with your life. He would listen carefully to the answer; and he would use it to formulate a followup question. And another. And another. And so he would end up finding out an enormous amount about you as a person. But perhaps more importantly, he often helped you learn something about yourself. Because his questions were not the kind that you gave yes-and-no answers to. Without being the least bit invasive, they were – searching. Which meant that the answers they elicited were often illuminating. I have heard people say, during a night of conversation with Art, “I’ve never told that story before” or “I’ve never thought of it like that before.” And they would say it with kind of a sense of wonderment. He had drawn something special out from somewhere deep inside them.

That, my friends, is a gift.

And while I never had Art as a teacher or principal, I can easily imagine what a gift it was to his students to have this adult in a position of authority pay so much attention to them, to be so interested in who they were and what they could do and what they hoped to do.

Art knew that everybody has stories to tell. And that sometimes they don’t even know what those stories are until they start telling them – because somebody thoughtful, kind and wise has encouraged them to. That was Art.

His brilliance at conversation was something to watch. Until I got used to it by spending enough time in his company, I used to be amazed at how, under his seemingly effortless direction, a theme would emerge from an afternoon or evening of conversation, and how he could tie together the various threads that the talk had taken, bringing us back to that theme – generally with great joviality and much laughter.

Laughter was a very important ingredient in the mix when you spent time with Art. As I’ve been thinking about him over these past days, it has struck me that I absolutely cannot picture him without a huge smile on his face. He would grin when he first saw you, exclaim, “Great to see you!” – and you could tell he absolutely meant it. He loved stories (his own and others’) that made him – and you – laugh. He was a keen observer of quirks and eccentricities – including those of daily life in Queensborough – and when he talked about them they seemed even funnier.

For instance – and this is a story I know the Gough family knows well: there was The Night of the Olives at the United Church Manse. [Readers, I will interpolate here and say that I’ve already done a separate post about that incident here at Meanwhile, at the Manse. You can, if you wish to read it twice, go here.]

One Sunday evening back in the early 1970s, when the Sedgwicks were hosting the Goughs for dinner, my dad happened to make mention of a little foible my mother Lorna had. Which was: that she liked to serve a small bowl of olives whenever we had company (which was often), but that every time she would buy a new jar of olives, leaving the many previously opened and still half-full jars taking up valuable space in our little fridge. (And with the olives turning interesting colours after they’d spent enough time there.)

Well! Art seemed to think that that was at once the most incredible and the funniest thing he had ever heard. “Really? No, that can’t be true.” And so on. He wasn’t going to let the subject drop, because it was just too much fun. After much banter, he finally decided that he would need to verify this amazing phenomenon for himself. He demanded the evidence! And so we kids happily obliged by rooting through the fridge and bringing out the olives, jar after jar after jar. Since you all knew Art you can probably well imagine his expressions of ever-increasing astonishment and hilarity as we got into the double digits. Everyone around the table was laughing their heads off – including my mother. It was a wonderful, convivial, uproarious evening, one none of us ever forgot – and it was Art who made it happen, who directed the play, so to speak. And who was having at least as much fun as everybody else. And who made us laugh for years afterward when he would drop a reference to “the Olive Incident” into other conversations.

The thing about Art was that with him you never knew how a day, or an evening, or a conversation, would end up. The only thing you could be sure of was that it would take many interesting directions, very possibly some detours – and that you would enjoy being along for the ride.

So, yes – the lesson he taught me and so many others, through his example. I guess really it was a lot of things wrapped into one:

To be curious.

To be genuinely, genuinely interested in other people.

To appreciate and celebrate the world around us, and the possibilities of life, including and perhaps most especially the simple ones close at hand.

To laugh, readily and often and unreservedly.

And most importantly – to share those gifts with others.

Art – thank you for all of that. May the lesson of your vibrant spirit live on in all of us.

Tabletop hockey? Priceless.

My dear friend and former colleague Earl sent me this link from all the way across the country in Victoria, B.C. And with it this message (pegged to my mid-century theme when it comes to all things Manse): “One really can’t do mid-century Canadiana without one of these little babies.”

I think he’s right. Don’t you?

The road not sanded

November snow in Queensborough

When this is the scene you’re facing as you leave home on your early-morning drive to work (as it was for me this past Wednesday), you want to know the safest route. Fortunately, our neighbours in Queensborough are totally on top of that.

Actually the name of this post should be “The road not plowed,” but that wouldn’t have quite the same cadence as the name of Robert Frost‘s famous and lovely poem The Road Not Taken. The title of which would also, now that I come to think of it, also be appropriate for this post. Which is about winter and snowfall and living in a very rural area. And the helpfulness of neighbours.

So: as I’ve mentioned before, the hamlet of Queensborough is part of the rather sprawly municipality of Tweed. But it’s also right on the border with another municipality, the township of Madoc. And Queensborough Road, which is our main street, has sections in both municipalities. The section that runs through Madoc Township to Cooper Road (which takes one to Highway 7 and the village of Madoc) is the most direct route south to Belleville, where I go to work each morning – so obviously that is the route I normally take.

Which our neighbours have astutely observed.

And that’s why not one but two of them went out of their way to warn me the other day, just in advance of the first snowstorm of this winter, that when there’s been snow I should take Queensborough Road in the other direction (which also dumps one out at Highway 7). Because that section, the one that’s in the municipality of Tweed, gets plowed early in the morning. And the Madoc Township section one doesn’t – and so isn’t as safe.

Have I mentioned before – actually, I know I have, many times – how much I appreciate our neighbours?

It is Christmas bazaar time – and here’s one not to miss

Heritage centre Christmas Sale Poster

As you can tell from the new photo atop the blog – taken at about 7 a.m. this morning – winter seems to arrived in earnest here in the snow belt. While all that overnight snow last night made things quite beautiful here in Queensborough this morning, it also meant that digging-out-the-car time has arrived again. More on that anon, save to say that we Manse-dwellers are blessed with neighbours who kindly have steered us toward the safest (that is, earliest-plowed) routes on snowy mornings, not to mention a neighbour with a plow who has agreed to be our clear-the-driveway guy on snowy mornings like this.

Anyway, let’s leave off the hard work of snow-clearing and get back to the winter-wonderland aspect of winter. The snowy beauty may wear a bit thin by, say, mid-February, but in late November and December, in the days leading up to Christmas, it’s all very nice to think about. And hey, what would Christmas be – especially in small towns and rural areas – without local bazaars?

Of which, as you can probably imagine, there are a lot around here. At churches and schools and community centres. Weekends, weekdays, whatever – there’s a bazaar and craft fair and holiday sale for every taste. But tonight I’m drawing to your attention – thanks to my correspondent Pauline, a fellow resident of Elzevir Township, a wonderful photographer and gardener, and a wholehearted supporter of community projects and the local arts scene – one in particular, which starts this Saturday and runs through the following Saturday, Dec. 7.

It’s kind of special because it’s a production of the Tweed and Area Historical Society (I should note that Queensborough is a part of the Greater Tweed Area), it takes place at the wonderful Tweed and Area Heritage Centre (which I have mentioned many times before – a priceless local resource), and it features the work of local artists and artisans. And now I’ll turn it over to Pauline:

“There are always lots of interesting things, locally made – everything from stocking stuffers and goodies for your Christmas entertaining to larger gift items. And 20 per cent of sales goes to support the Heritage Centre, a motherlode of local information.”

So, people, I think you’d better check it out, as I will be. Christmas shopping made easy, and you’ll be supporting local heritage research and education into the bargain. What could be better?

Great midcentury music – keep those nominations coming!

Thanks to all of you who’ve responded to The Great Manse Era Music Challenge! The first nominee to come in for a song from the time of my growing-up years at the Manse in Queensborough (1964 to 1975) that can’t help but put a smile on your face is The Lovin’ Spoonful‘s wonderful Summer in the City – which, as my friend Lindi noted in suggesting it, is perfect for a night when apparently the first snowstorm of the season is upon us. You can watch it atop this post, complete with some pretty awesome lip-synching by John Sebastian.

(Bonus points for you if you can remember what food product was advertised in the late ’60s or so with the phrase “that lovin’ spoonful” in its jingle.)

Next is another great one, this one suggested by Maureen: Build Me Up Buttercup, by The Foundations. I love that song! But I wondered at first if it was from the right era, because to me it’s got kind of a 1950s vibe about it. But I checked, and Maureen’s spot-on; it was released in 1968. Perfect!

I’m going to share more of these fantastic songs (did I mention – oh, of course I did – that it was a great era for pop music?) over the next while, but in the meantime, keep them coming! And I will leave you tonight with a smile-inducing question: Why do you build me up, Buttercup? Let’s listen:

My Manse years are now your musical challenge!

I suppose you might be wondering what Elvis Presley singing Suspicious Minds is doing atop today’s post.


People, I have decided that it’s time for me to get you to share a bit about yourselves. Don’t worry, nothing too too personal! Here’s what I want: tell me your favourite song from my growing-up-at-the-Manse years.

That  would be between July 1964 (when my dad and mum pulled into the driveway in their 1956 Chev with four-year-old me, two-year-old Melanie, and infant John in tow, to begin their life in Queensborough) and July 1975, when 15-year-old me wandered forlornly through the newly empty rooms of the Manse for what I thought (erroneously, as it turned out; decades later, I of course found out that you can go home again) was the last time, as our family moved to Campbellford, Ont., and my dad the United Church of Canada minister was about to take up a new pastoral charge.

I got thinking about this musical topic as I was chopping vegetables for a stir-fry for dinner this evening. It had been a long day, I was tired, and I needed something to pep me up, so I hit play on the old iTunes playlist. Man, there was some good music to chop leeks and carrots by! But the best – as it always is – was when Suspicious Minds came on. People, I am not much of an Elvis fan, but I love that song. How can one not? It just instantly takes you back to 1969, and what on earth could be wrong with that?

I am not saying that Suspicious Minds is my all-time favourite song from the 1964-to-1975 Manse era; but it is right up there. It invariably makes me stop whatever I’m doing and dance. I just can’t help myself.

Okay, so it’s your turn: what song from that era makes you have to stop what you’re doing and dance? Or just takes you back to a time and place when you were supremely happy? Or is just simply such a great song that you can’t help but smile every time you hear it?

Send in your picks via the comments, and I will do my best to rustle up entertaining YouTube videos of them to share from time to time. So that as winter 2013/14 sets in – as it seems to be doing in earnest tonight – we can all sit back and hum a few bars.

Or get up and dance.

Oh, and P.S.: You don’t have to pick only one song. Given that 1964 to 1975 was probably the best era there will ever be for popular music, there’s an awful lot of good stuff to pick from. Send a few nominations! Here’s one of my own runner-up choices, a classic. Enjoy!

Where have you gone, Popsicle Pete?

Popsicle Pete comic

My friend Lynn dredged up this Popsicle Pete comic – which by the looks of it is the very first one, since it’s “Introducing” our hero – on the proverbial internet. Was Popsicle Pete still “The Typical American Boy” by the time my childhood rolled around? I’m not sure how well that would have gone over here in Canada.

Popsicle gift listIn an email exchange last week, our Nova Scotia friend Lynn managed to remind me of a long-forgotten and arcane piece of our childhoods, and perhaps yours too: Popsicle Pete.

Do you remember Popsicle Pete? I have to say my recollections are a little fuzzy on that front, but as I recall he was a comic-strip character used to urge us to buy more Popsicles. Was the general idea to collect lots of Popsicle wrappers and send them in for great prizes and gifts? I think maybe. Did anyone ever do that? Not me, that’s for sure.

Does anyone remember where those comics actually appeared? Did they come with the Popsicle, the way Bazooka Joe (another weird cartoon character from my youth) comics came with packs of Bazooka gum? Somehow I think a comic strip packaged with a Popsicle would make for a soggy mess. Did they appear in comic books? But we didn’t really buy those in my family, so how would I have known about Popsicle Pete? (Or Popsicle, as Lynn and I have taken to calling him.)

vintage popsicleYour Popsicle Pete information would be most welcome. But meantime, I have to say that this train of thought has brought back delightful memories of the simple joy of walking down to Bobbie’s or McMurray’s general stores in Queensborough on a hot summer day and buying (for 5¢, wasn’t it?) a Popsicle. Orange or grape – or if you were really lucky, they’d have some chocolate Popsicles; those were the best.

And if you were incredibly unlucky, all that would be left would be the banana-flavoured ones. Yuck!

The soughing wind, or: in praise of very old words

It seems like it has been even quieter than usual in quiet little Queensborough these past couple of days. After being in big, noisy Montreal just a short while ago, I have found it refreshing to be back home and to be reminded of the stillness and peace of this place. There has, however, been one sound breaking (though barely) the stillness around the Manse last evening and tonight. It is the sound of the wind soughing in the branches of the huge old evergreens in front of the house.

Isn’t “soughing” an evocative word?

It’s not exactly a word that one uses every day; and in fact I’m not even 100-per-cent sure how to pronounce it. I believe it’s along the lines of “sowing” (rhymes with “wowing”), though I kind of think the “gh” in it should mean it’s to be pronounced with a bit of extra breathiness – which would be only appropriate, given that “sough” is a verb that means (depending on which online dictionary you use; Raymond and I are well-provided with real dictionaries in our Montreal home, but unfortunately none of them are here at the Manse for me to refer to tonight) “to make a moaning or sighing sound,” or “to make a moaning, whistling or rushing sound,” or “to make a soft murmuring or rustling sound.” Anyway, you get the picture. The sound picture, that is.

As I was listening to the wind blowing through our trees last night – a sound that, though soothing, makes one feel glad to be indoors and warm – that word “soughing,” which I probably hadn’t thought of in decades, just came into my head. It was the perfect word to describe what I was hearing. I remember back in elementary school being taught about words that sound like the things they are describing – “buzz” and “slither” and “hiccup” and “wail” and “raucous” and so on; it’s called onomatopoeia, as I’m sure you know. “Soughing” is definitely one of those words.

And if those online dictionaries are to be believed (and in this case, I think they are) it is an extremely old word. “Middle English swoughen, from Old English swōgan; akin to Gothic gaswogjan to groan,” says one in regard to its etymology. “Middle English swowen, soughen, from Old English swgan,” says another. One says it’s been in use since before the 12th century; another says before 900 AD.

So I guess people have been thinking about wind soughing in the branches for quite some time before I did this weekend at the Manse. I like the idea of an old, old word still being just the right word to describe something that is, let’s face it, eternal. Wind will always be sighing – soughing – in branches.

And on another note: let’s have a listen to the wonderful (and equally eternal) John Prine on the topic of, yes, onomatopoeia! “‘Bang!’ went the pistol, ‘Crash!’ went the window, ‘Ouch!’ went the son of a gun/Onomatopoeia/I don’t wanna see ya/Speaking in a foreign tongue.” Here’s John:

In the early morning fog

foggy Queensborough

One of the many changes that has come with our move to Queensborough and my new job teaching at Loyalist College in Belleville is the necessity for me to start my days very early. Like, very, very early. Okay, I know many of you don’t consider 6 a.m. super-early. But people, I am a night owl, always have been (even when I was a kid growing up at the Manse) and always will be, so having to get out of bed while it’s still dark outside seems just wrong. And cruel.

But I think I am starting to adjust. I quite enjoy being wide awake and on the road to work when the sun comes up. (Sunrises were never my specialty before this – unless they showed up at the end of my day, rather than the beginning of it.)

Today, however, there was to be no sunrise. The morning began with a heavy fog over Queensborough and – as I discovered when I got on the road – most of southern Hastings County, and the weather stayed grey and misty and rainy all day long.

But I thought the fog over Queensborough was quite beautiful at a little after 6:30 or so this morning, which is why I took this photo and am sharing it with you.

Now as you can imagine, the title that came into my head for this post has got me thinking about a famous Gordon Lightfoot song. So here goes – featuring not our Gordon (hey, he got his turn just the other day) but Peter, Paul and Mary. In 1966. Prime midcentury, when I was six years old in my first existence here at the Manse. The golden years. That, folks, is good stuff. At least, if you ask me.

A cat gallery: you knew it had to happen

Sieste at the doorway

Sieste, waiting at the door of the Manse. (And probably feeling cheerful because among the stuff I was bringing in from the car was a new box of cat litter, which you can see in the background.)

I was unloading a whole bunch of stuff from the car when I got home to the Manse tonight, and Sieste the cat was extremely interested in the proceedings. She was, in fact, quite determined to come outside and help, but since she is deaf as a post and not yet very familiar with the surrounding countryside – and since that countryside contains all manner of wildlife, including wolves – I thought it best to keep her safely indoors. But I had to laugh at her little black-and-white face in the doorway, watching and waiting for me to come in with the last load of stuff.

Which has inspired me to show off my Manse Cat in a few more photos. Come on – you knew it had to happen sometime. Raymond and I love our cat, and we love the way she so quickly and readily adopted the Manse as her new home when we moved her this past Thanksgiving weekend. So now I’m going to show you some photos of Sieste enjoying her Manse, and don’t even think of trying to stop me:

So the next question is: can a Sieste-at-the-Manse video be far behind?