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The star of The Music Man, Robert Preston, led 76 Trombones in the big parade. That was in 1962. I was 14 years old. An adult by Jewish standards, I was a kid pretending to be a teenager and certainly not playing a wind instrument, or anything else.
Fast-forward 62 years. Now I’m an old fart occasionally pretending to be a teenager.
My partner and I often listen to the music of our distant youth. She occasionally leads me to a romantic slow dance — even though I was two-left-feet terrible at it way back when. We whirl around the living room. I don’t totally screw up the moves.
Recalling the old days and visions of the cool cats who danced like Fred Astaire with the babes in my high school, I occasionally ask Nancy if she wants me to dip her. She wisely declines.
I’m still friends with Bernie Praw, a good dancer at my high school, Baron Byng, where the graduates include novelist Mordecai Richler. Bernie is still married to the girl he whirled around the dance floor, a.k.a. our gym. Bernie played on an excellent high school basketball team. I was terrible at hoops … and everything else that involved co-ordination.
Ah, the memories.
Strike up the horns. At this stage of my life, a single trumpet will do if it’s Miles Davis playing Kind of Blue. Or at this time of year: Porgy and Bess, with Miles soloing in Summertime.
***
If I make it into late August, I’ll hit the number of the aforementioned Music Man hit.
And I’ll be remembering a succession of friends who have sadly passed away too damn young.
Robert Taylor was my best friend in elementary school. He lived in an upper triplex in my childhood neighbourhood. I’d hang with him frequently in the company of his ancient grandmother, residing in a rocking chair.
Norman Lazare was my pal in high school. Like me, he was a sports fanatic. And he had a cable channel I didn’t. We’d spend nights watching our beloved Boston Celtics. Norman and I were unathletic. And he smoked Lucky Strikes in Grade 10. (I could only manage Rothman’s filtered.)
My closest friend in university was far away. Kevin Mooney wasn’t a student at McGill and didn’t live in Montreal.
He was a native of Vancouver, and I got to know him through his friend whom I knew in college.
Kevin loved the music I did. We became good pals, and our friendship endured when journalism took me to the other side of the continent a couple of times.
Three close pals. I miss them.
***
If I may slightly alter the aforementioned Gershwin classic, summertime and the livin’ ain’t easy.
As Cole Porter observed, it’s too darn hot.
Many Canadians love the contrast to our tough winters. But the snow season ain’t what it used to be. And the worst of Canadian winters can be battled with coats — not to mention tuques, wool scarves, thick mitts, long undies et al.
But how do we cope with extreme heat?
Not a problem for the guys and the gals in their flimsy tee-tops and short shorts or skirts.
But men and woman of my advancing age? There will be no personal summer photo to accompany this column.
***
I’ve been interested in America politics since my childhood.
When my mother brought me to our future life in Montreal, I spent a lot of time with my grandfather, who lived across the street and spent time with his grandson.
He was too old and unathletic to teach me hockey. But my grandfather liked to reminisce about his favourite American president. He would heap praise on his beloved Franklin D. Roosevelt. I soaked it up like a wee sponge.
As a small-L liberal, I’ve spent the last 70-plus years following politics on both sides of the border. And I’m more than a bit scared.
Happy summer.
— Mike Boone writes the Life in the 70s column. [email protected]