Wellington Hall Open Mic Night success and repeat

The first Wellington Hall Open Mic Night was as much of a success as we could have possibly hoped.  Our performers ranged in age from eleven to eighty-six, and I’d be hard pressed to pick a favorite.  Of course Doug Dodd and Friends were excellent.  Rick Scott and Nico Rhodes really rocked the joint. Andrea Adams channeled Janis Joplin and blew everybody away. Jess and Kerwood ran the kitchen and kiosk in an uber-professional style. In all, just a fabulous evening of entertainment.

It was so good that we have to do it again.  So the next one is happening on Monday, April 3.  From the sound of things it’s going to be just as good, if not better because word of mouth is going to attract an even larger audience.

The Twenty Thousand Dollar Box

Here a war story for you from my time as a film director:

We were shooting “The Hounds of Notre Dame” in 1980, entirely on location in Wilcox, Saskatchewan with one day in Moosejaw and two days in a skating rink in Regina. To say it was a difficult shoot would be a great understatement.

For example, the script called for a blizzard at night.  I thought, no problem, we’ll just wait for a blizzard and shoot the scenes.  Hah.  You can’t stand up in a Saskatchewan blizzard, or see anything, let alone shoot a movie. The camera crew was having a hell of a time just keeping the camera warm enough to run film through it. I could go on, but that’s not this story.

We had a professional carpenter working in the art department.  I don’t know what his name was, but he was nicknamed “Machine Gun Kelly” because he loved his nail gun. Now, if I build something for a set, which I have done before I had a whole art department to work with, it will hold together just fine but it will also come apart with minimal effort.  If it isn’t structural, then as few nails as possible will do the trick. But that’s not how Machine Gun Kelly built stuff.  Whatever he built was built to be permanent.

Came the scene at the railways station.  A big wooden box has arrived from New Orleans, and Father Athol Murray plays a scene on the platform talking about the contents of the box with the station manager. So at call time we’re ready to shoot.  The box is on the platform.  Camera angle is chosen.  I was calling for a wide shot that showed the whole platform and the station manager’s office.  He would enter the scene from his office, walk to the box, and dialogue would happen.  I knew there was no way we would hold the shot past a couple of lines, but I wanted to catch those lines.

The sound man, Larry Sutton, came to me with a problem.  There was an overhanging roof above the platform and there was no way he could get a microphone in position to catch the opening dialogue. No problem said I (being the ex-soundman that I was, and proud of it thank you very much.)  I’m not seeing inside the box.  Let’s put your boom man inside the box for the wide shot.  Larry agreed that this would work.

So I called my AD and asked him, how long to take the top off the box.  He relayed the question to the art department, who said ten minutes.  Fine, I said.  Let’s get the top off the box.

What I didn’t know was that the box had been made by Machine Gun Kelly.  The ten minutes went by, then twenty, then half an hour.  We still hadn’t got our first shot of the day.  Actors and crew were standing around in forty below weather, and my lead, Thomas Peacocke, was wearing city shoes and no gloves as per the requirements of the wardrobe department. I was getting extremely antsy.

Now, a crack film crew is like a sports car.  You don’t want to go twitching the wheel, making decisions and then reversing them half an hour later.  But this was nuts.  I called the AD and said, listen, I can live with making this shot MOS (Mit Out Sound, a classic technical film term).  But my AD said give them a bit more time.  I’m wanting to teach them a lesson.  Really?  You’re teaching the crew a lesson on my filming time?  Really?  But the AD is running the set.  I’m not about to push him where he doesn’t want to be pushed.  So I fret and fume and time passes.  An hour passes.  An hour and a half passes.

What the hell is taking so long?

Well, they needed the top of the box to be intact for later shots.  They had to be careful when they took it off, because it could turn into a pile of splinters.  So they were working on it.  Carefully. And it was very well nailed together.

Two hours pass.  By this time we have blown out a morning of shooting.  My schedule has gone out the window.  I’m ready to choke somebody.  And finally, the top is off the box.  We can put the boom man inside it and start shooting.

And then we looked into the box.  There was no bottom on it.  We could have turned it over and been shooting in three minutes.

At the wrap party, the Art Director gave me a one inch block of wood from that box on a shoelace.  Every once in a while I come across it among my career souvenirs. As if I would ever need a reminder, but it always makes me smile.

I hope the crew learned whatever lesson the AD was trying to teach them.  I sure as hell learned mine, though it wasn’t going to be the last time I got caught out. In some ways, the next time was worse.

If you enjoyed this story, please give me some encouragement in the comments. I’ve got a million of ’em.

And thanks for reading.

Wellington Hall Open Mic Night

Here’s my latest attempt to bloom where I’m planted.  I’ve been organizing an open mic night at Wellington Hall in Nanaimo.And wonder of wonders, this wordpress is finally starting to add pictures again, after refusing to for months.  That’s great.

Hey, the open mic night is going to be great fun.  Come and perform.  Come and be an audience.  Come and eat grilled cheese sandwiches and homemade banana bread with ice cream.  We’ll have a good time and if this seems to be appreciated, maybe we can make it a regular event.

We would start it a bit earlier, but that hall is infested with Brownies until 7:30.

And the winter drags on…

I spent new years day cleaning and organizing my workshop. My tiny workshop. When I started, I couldn’t walk to the work bench and if I got there the surface was so cluttered that doing anything was difficult. Now it is clear and tidy, with all tools available.

The second day of the new year I started on the new basement, moving everything that’s in storage from the end with the windows and sliding door to the very back, then setting up my tools on magnetic strips on the wall and again clearing the work bench space. What a sense of satisfaction I get from having a tidy and organized work space.

I would dearly love to show you pictures, but apparently my WordPress is still refusing to upload them.

I had the brachytherapy on schedule on January 24. That’s the operation where they implant radioactive iodine seeds in the prostate and allow them to eat your lower end innards, which apparently they have been doing. Side effects were supposed to peak in week three and four post op, then gradually get better. So now it seems I’m through the worst of it and starting to heal. If this is as bad as it gets, I sailed through all the treatment with only minor discomfort. On the 27th of this month I find out how successful the treatment has been. I’m feeling quite optimistic. Statistics say that 95% of men diagnosed with prostate cancer are alive fifteen years later, provided it was caught before it left the prostate. Not bad odds. That would get me to 84, which isn’t a bad run.

No news on the Mary Bane documentary.  It’s in the hands of the producer, and until she finds some money it isn’t happening.  So I’m trying to keep active and live through the winter months.

Update on the Documentary and My Life

After sitting on the footage for a month or more, I finally managed to pull a three minute promotional video out of what I shot in New Orleans.  Here it is:

I feel good about this promo, though I think I pulled it together by the skin of my teeth.  If the documentary goes any further, it will have to be with a crew, at least a camera/lighting person and a sound person.  I can’t continue to do this kind of thing totally on my own. The production values suffer too much.  So I shall see if my producer finds a budget.

On a personal note, I have now done eighteen of my twenty-three days of radiation therapy.  Five more to go, and then a wait until the general anesthetic and brachytherapy on November 24.  So far the treatments have been totally painless, though I may be experiencing a bit of GI track disturbance and I’m spending a lot of time sleeping.  All indications are that the grim reaper is being held at bay for the moment.

As the window washer said as he fell from the eighty-seventh floor, so far so good.

My New Project and a New Mission

Sometimes a great project just falls in my lap. I have been hired by Barbara Guyton to make a documentary about her sister, Mary Banes.  This week we fly to New Orleans together to meet the subject and do preliminary research.  I’m excited.  This could be the most important film project of my career.  Here’s why:

Mary Banes turned 65 last weekend.  This alone is an achievement, for her and for the people who love and care for her.  Mary has cerebral palsy and is unable to move at all.  She requires constant care.  The only reason she is still alive is that her father loved her and cared for her, and after he died her sister took on the role of caregiver.  Note that I said “took on the role”, not took on the burden.  Because that’s the point of this documentary.  The public at large sees caring for somebody like Mary as a burden, but those who care for Mary and others like her see it as a privilege, something that gives meaning to their life.  The disabled are not a burden.  They are part of the fabric of our society, and they contribute in their own way.

Mary’s story is only part of this documentary. She graduated as valedictorian of a very special school, originally called, in less politically correct days, the Crippled Children’s School, now named to honour Anne Carlsen, a woman who was born with no arms and no legs yet earned a PHD and became the school’s first principal.

Mary went  on to earn a university degree.  She writes poetry. She contributes.

In the words of Mary’s sister and the film’s producer: “This film would celebrate Mary Bane’s extraordinarily brave life and will to live. Her story (and possibly the story of another younger brave Canadian man), both woven into aother story of the remarkable High School Mary attended in Jamestown, ND, formerly know as “The Crippled Children’s School”. Now expanded and thriving, it is known as the Anne Carlsen Center. It has recently spawned an Independent Living Center in Fargo, ND for handicapped young Adults who wish to move out of their parents’ home. This Living Center would be included in the documentary as a model for other cities to copy. Ann Carlson (born without arms or legs) was the Principal of “The Crippled Children’s School” while Mary lived there for her four years of High School. Mary was the Valedictorian of her graduating class. Later attending the University of South Florida, Mary was awarded her Bachelor’s degree. With that degree and her extensive poetry writing, Mary could possibly be the most accomplished graduate of the Carlson School.
This story only starts with Mary. This documentary is much bigger than that, and will most assuredly have universal appeal.”

So this documentary will be about Mary Banes, her caregivers, and the school she attended.  It will also be about other disabled people, such as my nephew, Ean Price.  Ean has a progressive nerve degeneration disease that has left him in a wheelchair.  He can no longer feed himself or swallow, and must be fed through a feeding tube.  But, like Stephen Hawking, the disease has not touched his brain.  He is an amazing young man with a very positive outlook on life.  He designed and markets an automated device that is attached to his wheelchair and, with the touch of a button, swings a tube around to his mouth so that he can aspirate himself without relying on his care givers.  He recently took first place in a disabled sailing race.  He is the poster boy for medical marijuana, and was flown to Amsterdam to judge the cannabis cup. He’s an independent businessman who took his care attendants to Trinidad for a holiday, and to Europe for a rock concert.

This is a huge project with a noble mission statement: to reframe the disabled in the eyes of the general public.  They are not a burden.  They are part of the fabric of society and they contribute.

I expect this project to be all consuming for a couple of years, but it sure is great to feel like I’m working on something important, something that could make a difference to people.

Coming Full Circle

This past year has seen a screening of my first feature film, “Skip Tracer”, made in 1976.  I’ve just been reminded of my work on the Saskatchewan Pavilion for Expo86, with Michael Walsh marking the 30 year anniversary of that great party.  I’ve been to Cremona, Italy, to reclaim my beloved violin a full decade after it was destroyed in China and three years after it was returned to Maurizio Tadioli, its maker, for repairs.  And now I’ve reconnected with Brian R.R. Hebb.  Coming full circle.

Brian R.R. Hebb and I met when we were both office juniors working for CBC in Toronto.  An office junior in the distribution department put the films into boxes and sent them out to stations.  After two months I got a promotion – to Film Assistant 2. That meant my job was to rewind the film through my fingers to feel for broken sprocket holes, repair them using a hot splicer, clean the film and put it into a can, so that the office junior could put the can into a box and send it out to the station.  The ladder to where I wanted to go seemed impossibly long.  Not only that, I was on the wrong side of the organization.  I wanted to be on set, making movies.  But I was on the distribution side, and promotions would take me up the ladder to programming.  I wanted to be a director.

Brian wanted to be a cameraman.  He was also on the wrong side of the organization to get where he wanted to go.  But we had initiative.  We rented a camera, bought a few hundred foot rolls of 16mm reversal film.  Brian did the camera work while I called the shots and we made a short film, a filler, about street cars.  I cut the film on CBC editing equipment after hours, added music from the cleared music library, and we sold the finished film to CBC for a couple of hundred dollars, which was enough to clear our costs with maybe a bit extra.  I was earning $49/week as a Film Assistant 2.  Every little bit helped.

After a few months at CBC, I got a call from Richard Leiterman asking if I wanted to jump ship and work for Allan King as an assistant editor to Arla Saare.  The salary would be  a hundred and fifty dollars a week, three times what I was getting at CBC.  I jumped.  I still feel guilty about this, because I had promised the man who hired me at CBC that I would stay for at least a year.  Sorry.

Outside of the CBC, my career path was spotty in the extreme, going from assistant editor to editor, buying a Nagra IV and becoming a sound man, all the time writing scripts and looking for a break and finally to director.  That was over the course of six years.  I heard that Brian also achieved his ambition, becoming one of the CBC staff cameramen, an amazing achievement.  Then I heard that he had left the CBC and become a freelance director of photography.  I remember thinking he had made a mistake.  Having made it within the mother corp, he was now jumping into my world.  I assumed he would find it as tough as I found it.

A lot of water went under the bridge. A couple of decades of ups and downs, employment and searching for work.  Surviving.

In 1990 when NBC hired me to direct my second Movie for TV, “On Thin Ice, the Tai Babalonia Story.” they wanted me to hire their choice of DOP (Director of Photography), some guy named Brian Hebb.  So there was a circle closing.  One of the scenes in the TV movie called for playback of something on a television set in a motel room.  I managed to get a video transfer of the short film we had made together twenty years earlier, and we used that on the TV in the scene.

Very recently I’ve reconnected with Brian.  He now lives in Victoria, a mere two hours by car from our home in Nanaimo.  Another circle closing.

How Does a Music Teacher Make a Living Anymore?

I think one answer is that they, like my friend J. Douglas Dodd, go above and beyond the standard music teacher gig and become a mentor.  They encourage.  They set up performances in local venues for their students.  They seek out opportunities for their students to exploit. They nurture talent.

Doug is very good at this.  He loves his students and they love him back.

Here’s one of Doug’s students, Lilu Scott, performing a song I wrote.

You can tell what Doug brings to the party.

This all came to mind for me because I did a Youtube search for spiccato bowing.  That confirmed my suspicion that anybody trying to learn to play an instrument can find as good instruction online as they are going to get from most music teachers. The big advantage of an instructional video is that you can repeat sections of it as often as you want without having somebody think you are a dummy.

Here’s an example of a video on spioccato bowing for the violin.  It just doesn’t get any better than this.

And this video is only one of several on this subject, and only one of dozens on various other bowing techniques.  So, if you are trying to learn to play a violin,  great instruction is on line.

Of course, learning from Youtube videos requires that you be interested and self motivate.  It won’t give you what Doug Dodd gives his students.  But it’s a good start.

The Internet is now the number one source for instructional material.  Whether you want to install a new window, build a brick wall, or learn to chunk on the ukulele, the Internet has you covered.  Me likey.

A Voice Out of the Past

Expo86 was thirty years ago this summer. I know that not just because I can do the math, but because my only daughter was born that year and I try to keep track of how old she is. It was also the year my father died, which is a story I shall tell shortly.

Today I got an email from Michael Walsh, a Vancouver journalist I haven’t heard from in years. Here’s what he wrote:

Good morning, Zale Dalen,

Attached for your interest (and amusement) is a link to my 1986 review of your Expo 86 film “See You in Saskatchewan”.

In the Afterword to the posting, I offer a brief summary of your filmmaking career and current activities. A link to The Zale Dalen Website is included.

If I’ve made any errors, please let me know and I will make the appropriate corrections.

All the best . . .

Well, blow me down as Popeye would say. What a surprise. Here’s what I wrote back:

Dear Michael:

I’m flattered by the attention,but a bit embarrassed to be given credit for conceiving the Saskatchewan film for Expo86.

While I was the director and editor, and involved in the script to the extent that I totally rejected the first draft and instigated a search for a new approach, brilliantly delivered by Carol Bolt who added the homesickness conflict to the story, the initial concept of a live performer interacting with the screen was given to me from the first discussion by Tony Westman who was working as the producer for Harvard Creative Services through the architectural firm that designed the pavilion. Everything is more complicated in reality, eh.

I will take credit for the wedding scene with the biker, shot under protest from the sponsor’s representative on set, for which I received the only crew ovation of my career. That was created spontaneously in a chain of motivations beginning with lousy weather.

Regrettably, I must also take the blame for not getting Uncle Roy to put a thoughtful pause in his line, which would have sold the joke.

Roy: Everything changes.

Terry: Mom and dad haven’t changed. You haven’t changed, Uncle Roy.

Roy: The rock changes. (thoughtful pause, which I failed to ask for) The people stay the same.

Such things haunt me to this day.

Other than that, I’m impressed with your research. Good to hear from you and thanks again for keeping my public persona alive.

Warmest regards


This unexpected attention has triggered all kinds of thoughts and memories. Expo86 was a great project for me, and a great success.  In fact, if it had been a feature film instead of an Expo special project, I believe I’d be an A list director now.  It was that successful.  It was also a screamingly difficult project which I hope I managed to make look simple.

First of all was the concept. We were worried that a tiny living actor (in those days we called them, being female, actresses) could not compete with the huge glittering screen above her. We needn’t have worried. It turned out that humans are so much more interested in a living attractive woman than any artificial image that the only way she could get the audience to look at the screen was to direct their attention to it. Otherwise the eyeballs stayed glued to her.

To start with there was the script. Ken Mitchel had written the first version, which was the one I signed on to. I love Ken. He’s a great writer, and the writer of “The Hounds of Notre Dame”, my Saskatchewan feature. So we had a relationship. But Ken had given us an ending for the Expo movie that just didn’t work for me. His version ended in a tug of war. It was written very dramatically, and seemed powerful on the page. But I couldn’t find any reason to care which side one. Was it the old Saskatchewan versus modern Saskatchewan? No, it was just a tug of war at some nameless family reunion. A bunch of people pulling on a rope. I couldn’t see how I could make it work. (Now, oddly enough I think I can.)
So at my urging, the producer, Tony Westman, sent the project out for tender. Hey, writers, give us your approach to this. And Carol Bolt came through with the winning idea. The conflict was between our actor’s pride in doing her first job – telling us about her province – and her homesickness. That was a conflict I could get behind. Add Connie Calder’s “Wood River” to the mix and the emotional appeal was incredible.

Our other major worry was eyelines. Where do you have the actor on the screen look to give the impression they are looking at the living actress. Richard Leiterman, one of Canada’s greatest cameramen, and I made a special trip down to L.A. because we had heard that the Universal tour had a sequence where the guide interacted with a Hollywood icon on the screen. That turned out to be not so much of an interaction as a passing of the microphone. The tour guide handed us, the audience, over to Robert Cummings (If memory serves me.) who did a short segment before handing us back to the tour guide.
This brought up the concern that maybe they kept it simple because having a character on screen actually interact with a real live person wouldn’t work. This worry persisted right through to opening night.

When we got back from L.A., Richard and I went to the Saskatchewan pavilion, under construction on the Expo site.  I climbed up on the scaffolding that would hold the big screen.  Richard looked at me through his director’s finder to get some idea of where the actors should look to give the impression they were looking at somebody on the floor below me.

When I started working with the living actors to put the show together, that’s when the eyeline problem came home to roost. It turned out that putting our actor at the right spot for one side of the house would not work for the other side of the house. Every person in the audience saw a different eyeline for the actor on the screen. So I had to choreograph the actor to find the best compromise that would sell the connection between her and the actor on the screen to the majority of the audience. It was an exercise fraught with tension, but fortunately nobody that I know of complained about the illusion of connection failing.

The wedding scene that I alluded to in my response to Michael Walsh: Here’s how it went down. The script was calling for one of those idyllic weddings with beautiful people on a beautiful Saskatchewan landscape maybe with sheep wearing big bows present. But we’d been fighting the weather for the whole shoot. Saskatchewan was not looking good. It was looking overcast and gloomy. We had no latitude in the budget for delays. We had to shoot. And on the day of the wedding shoot, it was going to rain.
Okay, thought I, let’s rent a circus tent and put the wedding under cover. So we did. And then I got there and you couldn’t really tell there was a tent. It just looked weird. It didn’t look like it was raining, because the edge of the tent was above the frame line. So obviously we need to tell the audience that it is raining…
I open the scene on the patio, where we augmented the rain with a garden hose. The mother of the bride opens the door, and the camera tilts up to see her face as she makes one of those looks of disgust and holds her purse over her head against the rain before moving into the tent.

Now we have a wedding that is not going as planned. Let’s run with it. We had a gaffer working with us named Rodney Marrow. He looked like a biker sent by central casting. I asked him if he wanted to be in the movie. The representative of the sponsors objected, saying that the sponsors wouldn’t like it. I said we have scissors. If they really don’t like it we can cut it out.
So now the mother of the bride steps into the receiving line behind this big biker dude and taps him on the shoulder. “Rodney, your sister only gets married once in a lifetime. You could have worn some descent clothes.”
To which Rod replies “Mother, we’ve been through this a thousand times” before the camera moves on.
It was not what the sponsors expected of the movie, but I believe the audience could relate. It was the kind of thing that humanized our characters, and got a laugh. And it was the only ovation I’ve ever had from a crew. Though, come to think of it, maybe they were applauding Rod’s performance. Damn. Never thought of that before.

In 1986 my father was dying of lung cancer. I knew it was coming. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to say all the things I needed to say to him, in the moment, so I wrote everything in a letter. Then I took the letter and read it to him.

After I read the letter and we talked, my father came out to the kitchen and we sat drinking tea the way we always had in my family. I realized that my father was never going to see the Saskatchewan film. But I had been involved in the writing, the directing, the editing, and directing the live performance that went with the movie. I knew the show from shot to shot, line by line, music cue to music cue. So I performed it for my father at his kitchen table, from fade in to fade out.

When I was finished, my father said, “Now I’ve heard from a real artist.” I helped him up, and walked him back to his bed in the living room.

I wanted to stay with my father, because the end was near. But I had a wife and children back in Gibsons and who could tell how long my father would linger. I said goodbye and headed for home. When I got back to my home in Gibsons, after the ferry ride, there was a message on my answering machine. My mother called to say that my father was gone.

1986. A hell of a year for me.

Four Stories – The Italian Violin, Barry, Naked People and vandalism, and Cancer

Things seem to be happening in my life that are extremes.  First the good stories. (I’ve tried to dress these up with pictures but for some reason, known only to WordPress, they are refusing to load.  Maybe later.)

Story #1: Il Cannone, my Italian Violin

Let the Good Times Roll
Back in 1992, I fell in love with a pedigree violin, Il Cannone, made by Maurizio Tadioli, an award winning violin maker who learned the art from his grandfather, Carlo Pizzamiglio.  I was a working freelance film director back then, and making good money.  So I paid $14,000 U.S. dollars and Il Cannone and I became inseparable.

Hitting the Bottom
Come the new century, my life did a crash and burn.  I went bankrupt.  I ran away to become a teacher in China.  Of course Il Cannone, my violin, went with me.

And Bouncing
After my first  year in China things were looking up.  I had already found the wonderful woman who is now my wife, ironically a Canadian from Winnipeg.  We were preparing to move to a university in Weihai.  I got established in my new apartment. Then I went to the airport to go back to Canada for the summer.

Music Up: Minor key.  Impending disaster.
On a very hot summer day in Weihai  I put my luggage in the trunk of a cab and my Il Cannone on the window ledge above the back seat, where it would be safe.  At the airport I paid the cabby, declined a receipt, and grabbed my suitcases from the trunk.  Ten steps through the entrance doors I remembered my violin.  Dropping the suitcases I whirled around and ran back out, just in time to see the taxi in the distance driving away.  I didn’t even have a receipt for the fare.  No idea which cab I had taken.

As soon as I got off the plane in Canada, I send an urgent email to a Chinese friend in Weihai begging for help. Next day I got an email back.  She had called the radio station and put out the word.  Could she offer a reward?
“Of course.  Offer two hundred yuan ( probalby as much as a cabby would make in a week). Whatever it takes to get my violin back.”
The next day she emailed exciting news.  The cab driver had finally noticed the violin and returned it.  He refused to accept the reward.  My relief was intense. And my gratitude.

Plot Turn
The relief turned to horror when I returned to Weihai at the end of the summer.  My violin had been riding on that back window ledge in the intense  heat  for two days.  The finger board had melted off the neck.  The finish had melted into the plush fabric of the case.  My beloved violin had fallen apart.  It was ruined.

The following summer I had the violin put back together by a Canadian technician. That’s when I learned that the nut was missing. Also, it had developed a wolf note on the G string and the finish was a disaster.  I contacted Maurizio for advice. Here’s his reply:

Hello and thanks for your message.
I’m very afraid to what’s happened to my/your violin…. Please, don’t make any work and don’t give the violin to any maker to retouch or above all to revarnish!!! This is a special work that has to be done by the maker of the instrument. I’m sure that we can find the way to return the violin to me to fix the work. Don’t worry about the cost. I can make something special because I’ll be happy if my violin will return as before.
Let me know.
All the best,

I should have expected this. Maurizio is an artist making pedigree instruments. But sending it back to him turned out to be far from easy. A pedigree violin is not something you can just drop into the mail. It should be treated like a vulnerable child. Somebody would have to bring the violin to him. So Il Cannone  hung on my wall as a decoration while I waited for an opportunity to get it to Italy. I thought about Il Cannone every time I looked at my wall, but I played a Chinese violin.

Act Three – Something Must be Done

Moon cake festivals melded into tomb sweeping festivals. Seven years slipped away. Finally, preparing to leave China for good, I simply had to do something. I contacted Maurizio again and asked him for instructions. Here’s his reply:Thank you so much to be back with the update of the violin.
In October I’ll be in Shanghai.
Keep in touch.
All the best,

October?  Oh no..  We were leaving China at the end of June with no plans to return.  Zenma ban, zenma ban. (what to do? What to do?) This turned out to be simple, though stressful. I left Il Cannone with another trusted Chinese friend; she got it to Maurizio when he arrived in Shanghai; and my violin went home to Italy.Maurizio emailed me to say that the wolf note was caused by the bass bar melting loose inside the violin.  As well as refinishing it, he would have to take it apart and basically rebuild it from  back to front.He would have to make a plaster mold and reshape the top using bags of hot sand to weigh it down. The good news was he could make it like new again.

And Now the Happy Ending
Now, almost three years after getting the violin back to its maker, and more than a decade after the disaster in Weihai, the repair and refinishing is done.  I have returned from Italy with my violin. My big worry was that a repaired violin might not sound as good as I would want, or that for some other reason I would not like it.  But Il Cannonet looks beautiful and sounds better than ever.  I am so happy to have it back. It’s about time.

Story #2 Old Friends are the Best Friends

Here’s the reason I could do the trip to Italy without too much financial pain.  This kind of thing doesn’t happen in real life.  Except it does and did.

Back in the late sixties I was a starving university student.  Those were lean times.  I was playing in a jug band called The Vacant Lot, and a fifteen dollar gig meant I could eat for a week.  One of the other key members of the group was Barry Carlson, a charismatic fellow hippie and great guitar player.  We were good buddies.

After I left university, I lost touch with Barry for about forty-five years.  But thanks to social media we reconnected recently and I learned that he had moved to Victoria, a city not far from Nanaimo where I now live.  So we visited him there, and he visited our home here.  At the end of his most recent visit, just before he hit the road back to Victoria, Barry announced that we had one more bit of business to take care of.

“We do?”

“Yes.  About forty-five years ago you worked in the fishing industry for a summer.”


“You made a bit of money, and you lent me four hundred dollars.”

“I did?  Completely forgotten that.  Nope.   No memory of that at all.”

“Well, I said I’d get it back to you so here it is.”

He handed me an envelope.  A thick envelope.

“That’s with compound interest for forty years.  Four thousand dollars. I looked it up.”

Inside the envelope were 40 crisp new hundred dollar bills.

My wife, who witnessed this event, says she has never seen me quite so blown away.  I was stunned.  And this couldn’t have happened at a better time.  I’d launched a GoFundME campaign to try to finance the recovery of my violin (www.gofundme.com/ilcannone), and many people had contributed.  But it was still several thousand dollars short of what I figured I needed.  Barry’s long memory, and generosity, allowed me to make the trip without going back into debt.

I wrote to Barry and told him that I appreciated the money, but I would have been happy just to get the four hundred back.  The four thousand was… okay, I’m still trying to get my head around it.

“I was happy to close the circle.” Barry wrote back.

Story #3 Naked People and Egregious Art Vandalism

When I was about six years old I was very interested in naked people.  I’m told that many children share this interest.  But in those days, the mid fifties of the last century, porn was not as close as your smart phone. Pictures of naked people were only available in National Geographic Magazine, which seemed to include bare breasted African natives in every issue, and in art.  My mother had a big coffee table book, put out by Life Magazine, entitled “Great Art of the World”.  It included details of the Sistine Chapel ceiling.  And in those pictures I could see at least two naked people, Adam and Eve.  I poured over those pictures.

If you imagine the Sistine Chapel through the eyes of a child, it’s like a horror movie.  You have the mother holding her infant above the rising flood waters, the boatman on the river Styx with his glowing red eyes, and of course Adam and Eve being driven from the garden of Eden.  Strong stuff.  I was fascinated.

The first time I went to Rome, in the mid seventies, I had the good fortune to meet a beautiful art historian.  We had a love affair worthy of a Hollywood movie.  I told her of my fascination with the Sistine Chapel.  Let’s go see it.  But she had seen it many times and wasn’t interested in seeing it again.  She advised me to get to the ticket office early, and don’t spend time in the Vatican museum, but march the kilometers to the chapel without looking left or right, else I would find myself crowded in with other tourists.  So that’s what I did.  I got to the chapel long before anybody else.  I got to lie down on the floor and spend an hour, undisturbed, soaking up the images of that famous ceiling.

After I had my fill of the Sistine Chapel ceiling, I spent a couple of hours wandering the museum hallway.  I was struck by the fact that all of the male statues, hundreds of them, were all missing their penises.  Sometimes an obviously mass produced fig leaf was cemented in place of the missing member, but as often there was nothing left of the genitals but scarred marble.  Who could have done this?  This is the worst art vandalism I can imagine.  What kind of kinky penis fetish could have caused this?

Naturally I asked my art historian friend.  She told me that during the Reformation, when Luther nailed his criticisms to the church door, the pope and his buddies were being accused, rightfully, of decadent and immoral behavior, wild parties, orgies, boyfriends and girlfriends.  In response to this criticism, the pope of the day launched the Counter Reformation.  And as part of the Counter Reformation, needing a visible symbol of his reform, he ordered all of the penises to be knocked off the statues.

Now think about this.  Somebody was assigned to this task.  Somebody went from statue to statue with a mallet and chisel.  There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of statues.  There must have been a wheelbarrow or two full of marble penises.  Where did they go?  were they burned to make cement, the actual fate of the glory of Rome, or are they buried in a landfill someplace in Vatican City.  I can’t help imagining an Indiana Jones parody – “Raiders of the Lost Dicks”.  The bull-whip would fit in nicely.

What brought this all back to my mind was, of course, my trip to Cremona to retrieve my violin.  I accomplished that task within two days of my arrival, which left five days at loose ends.  I have wanted to revisit the Sistine Chapel ever since I hear that it was being cleaned.  I was reluctant to put out the effort or spend the money, but I hopped the fast train to Rome, found another ostello, and tried to repeat my memorable visit.

This time was quite different.  As before, I arrived well before the opening time at the ticket office.  But by eight in the morning there were already thousands of tourists following the tour guide flags, lining up, waiting to get through the entrance doors.  I paid a premium to allow me to jump the queues, and tried to push my way through the crowds in the hallways preceding the chapel.  But by the time I got there, the space was shoulder to shoulder.  No lying down on the floor this time.  Every few minutes a voice with an strong Italian accent would demand silence and remind everybody that no photos or videos are allowed. Somehow he did not add to the sanctity of the place.

Still, it was worth it.  Unbelievable colours, especially the flesh tones.  Gorgeous.  They left a tiny square in the top corner uncleaned, just so we can see the difference.  And the difference is beyond dramatic.  What I saw on my first visit was like looking at the ceiling through dirty sunglasses in dim light.

Of course I am no longer looking at those stories through the eyes of a seven year old.  Now they seem horrible, and stupid beyond belief.  Especially the whole ark thing.  It has the credibility of “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer”.  So strange that there are people who believe it is an actual historical event that really happened.  Strange world we live in.

Story #4 And Now for the Bad News

The bad news was cancer.  I was diagnosed about a week before my trip to Italy.  First came the routine medical and blood tests.  My doctor said my PSA level was a bit high at seven.  He ordered me to wait a month and get another test.  That one came in at nine.  So my doctor ordered a biopsy.  Just the biopsy, the urologist called for another PSA test.  That one came in at fifteen.  So things have been developing fast.

The biopsy came in with a Gleeson rating of seven to nine, which means high risk cancer.  Time to meet a urologist.  He explained my options, none of which are very attractive.  But before we can start any treatment he called for a bone scan and a CT scan. The bone scan will let them know whether it has metastasized into my bones.  The CT scan will let them know if it’s in any other organs.

They injected me with radioactive marker and ran the bone scan.  Then I went home and Googled what it might mean.  Yikes.  If it’s in my bones, the one year survival rate is 47% and the five year survival rate is less than 1%.  Ima gonna die.  I spent a tense weekend trying to climb through the Kubler-Ross stages of dying, hoping to skip denial, anger and bargaining and jump straight to acceptance.  Then the results came back.  The bone scan is clear.  Not yet time to give away all my cherished possessions.

Then came the CT scan, followed by a visit to an oncologist in Victoria.  Again a sigh of relief.  The CT scan is also clear.  So death is not imminent.  What I have instead is discomfort and inconvenience.  I can live with that.

My oncologist, Dr. Pai, is recommending a triple treatment – hormone therapy, focused radiation, and implanted radioactive seeds. With all three at once, the chance of curing the cancer completely is very high, someplace up in the nineties as a percent.

This doesn’t mean it’s going to be fun, or a cake walk.  I’ve started taking pills to counteract my testosterone.  Next week I’ll get an injection to shut my testosterone down completely.  I’m not quite sure what to expect of this, but suspect that it means the end of having a sex drive, which means the end of sex.  Damn.  I’ve always loved sex.  There is a good probability that my sex drive can come back after treatment, but that’s a long time in the future if ever.

In three or four months I’ll need to make my way to Victoria for radiation treatment five days a week for seven or more weeks.  That’s an hour and forty minutes from my home.  So although the treatment only takes fifteen minutes, the inconvenience will be extreme.

And with all this, I don’t even get to hold a pity party in expectation of dying.