Back in the late 60s I had a business meeting at a hotel near O’Hare airport in Chicago. My plan was to fly there in the morning and fly back to Toronto in the afternoon. On the flight down there was suddenly a very loud bang, the plane shuddered, flashes of red flame streamed along the fuselage and all the lights went out for a few seconds. Our plane had been struck by lightning! Everything was back to normal in less than a minute; but I wasn’t. Not being a comfortable flier at the best of times, I was shaken to the core by this experience. When I got off the plane at O’Hare I immediately went to the American Airlines counter and cancelled my return flight. After my meeting ended I called Grand Trunk Railway and booked a compartment on their overnight train to Toronto. At about eight o’clock that evening I boarded the train at the Polk Street station, stashed my briefcase in my well-appointed compartment, and went to the very opulent dining car where I enjoined a delicious meal. Upon returning to my compartment I asked the porter what time I’d be awakened in the morning for customs clearance at the Canadian border. “They probably won’t bother,” he told me. “Why not?” I queried. “Because,” he replied, “you’re the only passenger going to Canada.” He was right; they didn’t. I woke up on my own as we were approaching London, Ontario. When I went to the dining car for breakfast I discovered I was the only passenger there and no others showed up; which wasn’t surprising because anybody boarding the train that morning would likely have already had their breakfast. But that left me with a dilemma. There were five smartly dressed, well-trained, very polite, competent employees working in the dining car and all had served me in some way. My breakfast bill was $5.75. The dilemma was how much to leave as a tip. It was the only time I’ve ever left a tip that was higher than the cost of my meal.
On a fine Christmas day in the late 70s, Anne, our sons Matthew and Alan, and I were driving down Jarvis St. in Toronto on our way to a family dinner at my sister’s home in Mississauga. At that time there was a Salvation Army Harbour Light hostel at Jarvis & Shuter Streets. It had a few steps leading up to the front door. As we waited for a traffic light to change, the front door opened and a Salvation Army officer evicted a raggedly dressed, disheveled man. The officer didn’t simply evict him. As we watched in shocked fascination the officer also kicked him in the butt, sending him tumbling down the stairs. The evictee obviously wasn’t hurt because he stood up and was waving his fist and hurling invectives at the officer as the light changed and we drove away. As I write this I still wonder what in the name of all that’s holy did that guy do or say to literally get kicked out of a Salvation Army hostel on Christmas morning.
I was in Las Vegas for the closing night of one of Anne Murray’s engagements at the Hilton International. Just before the last show of her engagement I went into her dressing room to wish her well. I expected she’d be relaxing with her feet up and looking forward to getting back home the next day. You can imagine my surprise when I found Anne and Aiden Mason, one of her guitar players, rehearsing Snowbird, a song she’d sung thousands of times, and probably at least ten times that week. But she felt something wasn’t quite right with her rendition in her first show that night. So there she was, going over it a couple of more times before taking the stage for her final performance. A perfect example of consummate professionalism and why she was an international superstar.