Thank you, Jim. I am very grateful – more grateful than you
can know – for the chance to be here and join in this celebration of a great
Canadian.
I first met Kirk in the spring of 1957
or 1958. My brother Craig and I were racing
blocks of wood in the spring run-off channeled by the gutter in front of our
house in suburban Toronto. Kirk had come
to show Keith Cleverdon’s film “Dear Mom” to my parents in the hope they’d sign
us up for the coming summer. After what
turned out to be a successful visit Kirk spoke briefly to the two of us, using
for the first time to our ears, his cherished expression, “Keep up the good
work, old Moose.” For the next 17
summers that I spent at Kandalore scarcely a week went by when I did not hear
the encouragement of being called “old Moose” by Kirk.
Over eight seasons as a camper, and nine
on staff, I was blessed to encounter many of the sides of Kirk we celebrate
this afternoon. I’d like to recount a
few summer camp moments and related “Kirkisms” that, I believe, speak eloquently
to who
he was.
In my final year as a camper in 1964, I
was able to complete the requirements for the Master Canoeist under the
tutelage of Robin Campbell. Part of that
rite of passage was an afternoon with Kirk exploring the relics resting in the
rafters of the dining hall – the original Canoe Museum. I remember Kirk recounting his dream to
establish a real canoe museum behind Lynx Hall, a project to which I (and many
others in this room) had occasion to contribute physical labour over the next several
years. After the tour, Kirk took me down
to Chapel Point for a chat. As we looked
out to Chapel Island he said wistfully:
“You know, Rod, you are now part of my Old Guard.” At age 16 I had little understanding of all
that the expression entailed. But from
then on, whenever I heard Kirk refer to the “Old Guard” I would think about how
he set impossible challenges for himself and his staff; always impossible, and
yet, always met. Much later I came to realize that to be member of the “Old
Guard” meant facing up to challenges – both material and spiritual – and
faithfully but quietly carrying the torch of aspiration in the service of ideas greater than oneself.
Fast forward five years.
In late August of 1969, it was found that
three Intermediate Section counselors had been drinking alcohol in their cabin,
Biggy’s Gym. A decision was taken to
send them home on the Algar express even though there were only four of five
days left in the summer. Two days later, however, Kirk changed his mind and,
over the opposition of the entire senior staff (of which I was one) permitted
two of the three to return to camp to finish the summer. When pressed about this decision, he replied
with a quiver in his voice and moist eyes, “Well, men, you will understand this
when you are fathers yourself.” By that
time, I knew that whenever Kirk said “men” he was appealing to the noblest virtues in his staff.
A few summers after that, I had occasion
to feel the pain and embarrassment of being the target of another of Kirk’s
characteristic expressions -- namely, “boys”.
This often came out in the phrase “oh no, boys” to draw our attention to
some act or omission where we had let him down. In the summer of 1973 Kirk was obliged to
spend considerable time away from camp attending to personal medical
issues. In his absence, as Assistant
Director, it fell to me to look after the day-to-day operation of the Camp. I did the best I could but often let little
things – like having the entire crew of CITs compete to move pop bottles for
Joanna, who was running the tuck shop that summer – distort my judgement. When Kirk returned from his last round of
treatment he took me over to Chapel Island for an “oh boys” talk and quietly
explained that it was inappropriate for me to let my frustration with him
colour my responsibilities to others, especially Joanna. From his eyes and tone
of voice I could see that my treatment of Joanna had hurt him deeply. I offered my resignation, but he simply
replied “let’s just put this behind us, and
get back to work, old Moose.”
My final reminiscence goes back to pre-Camp
of 1970. Joe Charron, a first year staff
member and I were in the dining hall well after mid-night on a day when Kirk
had been in Toronto. We were playing
contemporary folk songs on piano and guitar as we often did in the
evenings. We had just finished one song,
for which we added a couple of our own verses to the original, when Kirk,
having arrived unannounced from Toronto, walked through the kitchen door with tears in his eyes – the only time I ever
saw him actually crying. He had listened
to the whole song we were playing and as he left us he said – “Men, it’s time to turn in; but don’t ever
forget that song.”
I played the song only one other time in
his presence -- when I came to say goodbye in the evening of August 26, 1974,
the last night of my last summer at Camp Kandalore. The song counseled humility about our own
success, and compassion for those less fortunate – twin themes that captured so
much of who Kirk was. Kirk knew that I
was intending to embark upon a career as a law professor. When my performance ended he softly said: “Rod, you’ll always be part of my Old Guard;
and as you get older you will learn that you should not spend your time chasing
personal rewards and recognition. The real
measure of your impact lies in the way those who you have taught, choose to live their lives after you are
gone.”
I last saw Kirk a couple of years ago at
the memorial for John Thomas. As he was
leaving to attend another function, he said to me, just as he had said to my
brother and me 53 years earlier “Keep up the good work, Old Moose”, but he
added this time “and don’t forget that song you played for me on your final day
at Kandalore.”
I’d like to sing the song
for you now – a song that, like his cherished expressions “Old Moose”, “Old
Guard”, “10 strong men” and “oh no, boys” - rings truly of Kirk’s virtue. This virtue it behooves all of us to continue
to emulate now that he is gone.
I’m a bit uncertain of my voice so I’ve
asked Jim to help me sing. The song is
Phil Och’s lamentation: There but for
fortune.
There But For Fortune
(Words
and music by Phil Ochs, 1966; additional lyrics by R.A. Macdonald, 1968, 2004)
Show
me the prison; show me the jail;
Show
me the prisoner, whose life is growing stale,
And
I’ll show you a young man, with so many reasons why,
There
but for fortune may go you, or I … you or I.
Show
me the empty eyes, clothes tattered and torn;
Handout
and hand-me-down, since the day they were born;
And
I’ll show you the children, with so many reasons why,
There
by for fortune, may go you, or I … you or I.
Show
me the whiskey, stains on the floor;
Show
me the drunkard as he staggers out the door,
And
I’ll show you a young man, with so many reasons why,
There
but for fortune, may go you or I … you or I.
Show
me the bruises; show me her fear;
Show
me the broken love he once held so dear,
And
I’ll show you a young man, with so many reasons why,
There
but for fortune may go you, or I … you or I.
Show
me the alley; show me the train;
Show
me the hobo, who sleeps out in the rain,
And
I’ll show you a young man, with so many reasons why,
There
but for fortune, may go you, or I … you or I.
Show
me the pistol; show me the note;
Show
me the tortured life in the words that he wrote,
And
I’ll show you a young man, with so many reasons why,
There
but for fortune may go you, or I … you or I.
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