Destiny, fate, and what's written in the stars

This is a story, as my headline suggests, about Destiny. About Fate. It's a story I've told many times but never in writing. I'll try to tell it just the way I do around a dinner table.

In 1986, I was living in Prince Edward Island where I had been the first editor of a newspaper called Atlantic Fisherman. It covered the commercial fishery in all four Atlantic provinces and it was a job I loved. The newspaper was very popular with the fishermen — not so much with the industry or the bureaucracy or the politicians — and it was right up my alley: encouraging the fishermen to define their own industry. I travelled around talking to fishermen on the wharves of Atlantic Canada and I learned so much and made some lovely friends.

I was leaving the job though — reluctantly — and I was up in the air about what I was going to do next.

Valerie was a free-lance writer in Halifax who did a lot of work for my newspaper. We had never met in person but we had taken to talking on the phone several times a week and had become friends. We knew about each other's lives, families, ambitions — really, the only thing missing from our friendship was that we'd never seen each other, face to face.

One day, Valerie phoned and told me there was a job available in Halifax: editor of Atlantic Insight. She said I should apply. Atlantic Insight was the premier general interest magazine in the region.

I was pretty sure I could do that job — in fact, I suddenly came up with all kinds of good ideas that I thought would improve the magazine — but I did wonder if I had the profile and the résumé that publisher James Lorimer would be looking for. Nothing to lose though so I put together my credentials with a letter and sent it off.

Lo and behold, I heard back from James and he came to Montague to interview me. We sat in a bar — the best bar in PEI (the Lobster Shanty) — for two hours and it was a fairly bizarre interview but I went home to await his call.

I'm not sure of the time sequence but I do know that when he called to offer me the job, it was a Friday afternoon.

I had a lot to do. I called friends in Montague to tell them I'd be moving. I called my sister. I called Valerie early on and got no answer but I kept trying.

In Halifax, every Friday afternoon — for Happy Hour and a pub supper — Valerie and a variety of friends went to Gus' Pub & Grill, very near to where Valerie lived. In this photo are good friends Carolyn, Eleanor and Sharon C. standing. That's Valerie in front.

Meanwhile, Dan O'Connor, whom Valerie had known when they were both at Dalhousie University a few years earlier, had returned to Halifax from Winnipeg. He had been Communications Director in the office of Manitoba Premier Howard Pawley and had come to Nova Scotia to be Chief of Staff in NDP Leader Alexa McDonough's office.

Valerie and friends were used to having an all-girl Friday evening supper but Dan was an old friend and always good company so they decided he could be the Token Male and he often joined them at Gus'.

Here's Dan with Carolyn, Valerie and Sharon C.

On that Friday in Montague, I called Valerie several times and still no answer. I fussed around, started making plans and lists, began considering how I was going to get moved.

And here is where Destiny enters the story: At around five to nine, I said to myself, "I'll try Valerie once more and if I don't reach her this time, I'll wait and call her tomorrow."

I called and Valerie was there! She said they had just got back from Gus' and were making a quick pit stop at her place before heading downtown to the Take Back the Night March. She said, "If you'd called five minutes later, we wouldn't have been here!"

I told her I'd got the job and was moving to Halifax. She repeated my news loudly and excitedly to the people who were there: "Sharon got the job and she's moving to Halifax!" To me, she said, "I'll find you an apartment! In fact, there's someone here right now who has an apartment for rent. I'll tell him about you!"

Dan, just moved back from Manitoba, had bought a house that included a small apartment. The apartment was empty and there he was, right in Valerie's apartment on that Friday night, in need of a tenant. Valerie said she'd give him my number and she gave me his number and said maybe we could work something out.

You may think it's a stretch to call this Destiny but I can assure you of this: if I had not reached Valerie that evening, in that five-minute window, when Dan was right there, she would not have thought of his apartment. She would have happily found me an apartment in the North End of Halifax — in her neighbourhood — and my whole life would have turned out differently.

That five minutes was a life-changer for both Dan and me. We did work things out and I moved into the little apartment on the lowest level of his house. If I hadn't, I'm sure I would have become acquainted with Dan and moved in somewhat the same circles but we never would have had the opportunity to nurture such a close and deep friendship as we were able to do while living under the same roof — different living quarters but same house.

That was 30 years ago. We got married in 1988, became parents in 1994, have moved away, moved back and will no doubt move again.

Valerie likes to take credit for it all and she deserves a lot. She reminds me that she said when I moved to Halifax, "Well, I found you a job and I found you an apartment. Now do you want me to find you a man?" I said thanks, but I'd take care of that myself.

And I did.

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This is the heritage house where we lived back then — the right hand side. It was a lovely blue when it was ours.

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The headline I've used is part of a quote from Anaïs Nin. The whole quote is:

You don't find love, it finds you. It's got a little bit to do with destiny, fate, and what's written in the stars.

Love is the sweetest thing. . . Part Three

Part One. Part Two.

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It was raining when I got to Montreal and I took a taxi up the hill to the residence. It was quiet. Most of my own classmates had already moved out. I had a couple more weeks to live there as I was making up the time I'd lost when I had my tonsillectomy.

The desk ladies were happy to see me. They were stern and strict but I suppose we knew on some level that they had our best interests at heart. They wanted to know how I was feeling after my surgery and if I felt strong enough to be back. Of course I said I was fine.

I asked if there were any messages for me — and yes, I really believed there would be messages. Or a message. There was nothing.

Over the next few days, I had to get back to work and do some planning to try and get my immediate future life in order but there came a day when I decided I had to try to get some answers.

I had practically nothing to go on. He had been living with "some people" and didn't feel comfortable taking a guest there so I had no idea who they were. I had no name or number. I tried Information, in case he had got his own place and now had a phone. Nothing there. After some difficulties, I managed to get through to a human at the YMCA. I spoke to a young woman who left me on the line for a few minutes. When she came back, she said, "I'm sorry, he no longer works here." I asked if he'd given any number or address, any way of reaching him. She said she had no forwarding information.

I called the tailor on Park Avenue and sure enough, my blazer was still there, awaiting pick-up.

And with that, I had reached the limit of my resources.

Over the next while, I functioned because I had to. On my time off, I would go for walks, walking on the same streets where we used to walk. I would drop into the same coffee shops or restaurants. Sometimes, I would sit on a park bench, imagining him suddenly reappearing.

I never saw him again.

As you've come this far with me, I wish I could offer you a more satisfactory conclusion. I apologize for this but I'm going to leave you with an open-ended story.

It was a long time ago but I presume my heart was broken.

In the years since his "disappearance" I've tried to imagine a few things that might have happened.

1. He was offered a job in another city that wanted him with no strings attached and he decided I was expendable.

2. He met someone whose charms overwhelmed him to the extent that he couldn't tell me he had fallen for someone else and he just ran away with her.

3. He agreed to swear Crown's evidence against the Mafia and got placed in a witness protection program.

4. He was married all along.

5. He was a spy.

6. Or dead.

In spite of the way the relationship ended — or didn't end — there were some nice memories: Tennyson's poems, the letters, Golde and Moishe.

There was also something that happened early in the relationship that could have raised a warning flag. One evening, after we'd been seeing each other for a couple of weeks, he pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and said he had something for me. It was a poem and he said he'd written it for me. I read it and I thanked him. Remember, I didn't know him very well. What I did know though was that he hadn't written that poem. I was familiar with the poem and the poet's other works so I knew. I let it go and I said nothing. Maybe he was testing me.

Okay, one more thing: his name was Bruce Allen.

I've often wondered if he went into the music business in Vancouver and managed the careers of Bryan Adams, Jann Arden, Michael Bublé, Anne Murray and many others. If he did, there should be some way I could get my $40.00 back. With interest.

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P.S. I don't really know why I used Love is the sweetest thing as my headline except when I started to write this, it was playing in my head. I guess this is a sweet story in some ways so maybe it's not inappropriate. Here is a lovely version. As I finished writing this story, I listened to it. I urge you, as you've finished reading it, to listen to it too.

Love is the sweetest thing. . . Part two

You can read the first part of the story right here.

There was a great atmosphere on the station platform around the people meeting the train. Most of the people getting off the train were excited too. There were little children jumping down the steps running to meet grandparents and there were student-aged young people, happy to be home but too cool to let their parents see that.

I waited back near the station door — I thought he would probably be among the last off. The crowd on the platform had begun to disperse; there were a couple of stragglers who jumped off well after everyone else. There were a few people getting on and they mostly waited until the coast was clear. I could see the conductor checking his watch and getting ready to make his legendary announcement. "All aboard!"

I could tell there was no one else getting off. He might like to tease a little by hanging back but he was not cruel and he wouldn't put me in that position. The conductor gave me a little wave and swung himself up into the coach.

The train pulled away and there I was, all alone on the platform.

I drove home and acted as casual as I could. Well, I said to Mum and Dad — after explaining that I was indeed, alone — something must have happened. We'll just have to wait and see.

The minute the long distance rates changed — 7:00 p.m., our time — our phone rang. There he was, contrite and sweet, begging me to understand that something had come up and he simply couldn't get away. He said things had straightened themselves out and he'd definitely be on the train the next day and I should expect him the day after. We chatted a bit although it was a little uncomfortable. He tried to make me feel better and said he could hardly wait to see me.

That's how I reported it to Mum and she was tactful enough to not say anything.

Two days later, I went to the station again. I parked in the same place but when the train pulled in, I stayed in the car. I watched all the activity of people coming and going and when the train pulled out, I backed out of the parking lot and headed home. You can understand, of course, that this was not only puzzling but also humiliating.

My mother was very nice. She didn't ask a lot of questions — I just brushed it off and said something was going on that I hadn't figured out but I'd definitely bring her up to speed when I had enough information.

He called again that evening. He wasn't so much contrite and sweet as he was sheepish and embarrassed. He said he knew how I must be feeling. He said he loved me and missed me. He said he would be on the train the next day, come hell or high water, and although our New Brunswick time would be shorter than planned, at least we could make a few memories together.

I told Mum a bit about the conversation but I omitted the part about his saying he'd be on the train the next day.

The next day, I made up an errand I had to run when the train was due and once more, I drove to the station. I didn't park in the regular lot where the others were parked. I pulled in down the road a bit where there was cinder underfoot, not pavement.

I waited, as I had waited twice before, then I drove home. I stopped and bought a pair of nylons in the 5 & 10. I never said a word to my parents about my third trip to the station.

There was no phone call that evening.

A few days later, Dad drove me to the station. I got on the train, smiled and waved, and went back to Montreal.

(Sorry. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to come back one more time.)

(Here's part three.)

Love is the sweetest thing. . .

Late in my third year as a student at the Montreal General Hospital, I began going out with a young man who worked at the YMCA, then affiliated with and housed in the old Sir George Williams University building. I have no memory of how or where I met him although I have tried my best to remember.

I was still living in residence so our relationship was built around my inconvenient nursing hours and my student curfew. I think it was likely that we didn't have much money — I certainly didn't and he was quite new at his job — and we spent a lot of time walking around the streets in downtown Montreal, stopping for coffee, sitting on a bench under a tree.

He was very good company: he was funny and easy-going and he seemed to enjoy doing things that would please me.

We often went to eat in one of the downtown St. Hubert BBQ restaurants. There was one on Ste. Catherine, just west of Guy St. which we often went to; this one was a few blocks east of there, on Peel St.

The food was, it certainly was, memorable. Mmmm. . . that sauce was so good.

When the weather wasn't good or when we had run out of places to be, we'd often sit and talk in one of the "beau rooms" in my residence at the General. A beau room was comfortable, furnished with a couch and chairs and table lamps. The door had a window in it and supervision was never far away. Your feet were expected to remain on the floor.

He didn't have an apartment but he was expecting to get one and in the meantime, he was staying with some people and couldn't comfortably have guests over.

He did take me to see his office in the Y building and he introduced me to his boss. We spent a short time socializing and had a nice time there.

One evening, sitting in the St. Hubert, he told me he'd bought me a gift. I think it was an occasion — maybe our monthiversary — and he slid a small bag across the table. It was a book, a vintage edition of Tennyson's Collected Poems. He knew I liked poetry and he'd really made an effort.

Edited to add: When I first published this story, I had mislaid the book and I used a generic Internet photo of a Tennyson book. The book has been found and this is it.

Several weeks after we had begun dating, I was booked to go into hospital for a tonsillectomy. This is considered a fairly serious procedure for an adult; I had been working up until my admission and had been on a course of antibiotics to get my tonsils down to a normal size for removal. He insisted that he would be coming to the hospital to see me post-surgery which I tried to discourage as I could only imagine my swollen face, lack of voice, puffy eyes. But he did come and he sat beside me, holding my hand while I was in and out of consciousness.

I had long-standing plans to go home for a month to New Brunswick — Chatham-on-the-Miramichi — to recuperate from my surgery. He said that he could get some time off and suggested that he would like to come to NB to visit me. Of course I said yes and we looked at a calendar and arranged that he would come by train toward the end of my month and we would travel back together.

We spent a couple of sad days anticipating our separation, then he took me to the station. Before I went down the stairs to the train level, he held me tenderly and said the time would go fast and we'd see each other soon. I remembered an errand I hadn't run and I gave him $40.00 and asked him to go to a Park Avenue tailor to pick up my MGH blazer which had been custom-made and was waiting for me. He happily agreed and off I went.

Life was stale and uninteresting at home but the one thing that kept me going was his correspondence. I had three letters from him in the time leading up to when we'd see each other again. His letters — I still have them too! — were sweet and often hilarious. He was Jewish and he had decided that when we got married, we should have two kids that we'd name Golde and Moishe. He filled his letters with little drawings and fantasies about our life together.

The day I was going to the train station to pick him up, I was both nervous and excited. My mother didn't help. She wasn't really looking forward to this visit although she was willing to go through with it and I knew she'd put on a hospitable act.

It was a warm, sunny, perfect day. I drove to Newcastle to the train station and parked where I could see the platform and where the passengers would be disembarking. I was calm and waited patiently. I heard the train whistle and saw other people who were meeting passengers get out of their cars and start to assemble on the platform.

The train lumbered in and came to a stop. As the passengers began to disembark, I got out of my car and walked over and joined the crowd.

I'll continue the story tomorrow.

(You can read part two right here.)

Love and s*x on TV: bringing the chemistry

This picture is of Alicia Florrick and Will Gardner (Julianna Margulies and Josh Charles) from The Good Wife. When these two were in a room together, the heat that was generated was so overpowering, it's a wonder the sprinklers didn't come on. I'm naming them the couple with the best chemistry in some of the recent television programs.

Where does that chemistry come from? Is it just great acting? Is it great writing? Does it depend on how the actors feel about each other and about the characters they're playing?

I have these questions because I've been watching a TV series where I find a lack of chemistry. It's a little disappointing because it's a character-driven show and without the chemistry, there's a let-down.

I chose Alicia and Will but there are other recent couples who sizzle when they're together. How about Noah and Alison (Dominic West and Ruth Wilson) from The Affair?

There's always a risk for a television program to allow the passionate couple to consummate their relationship too early because the theory is that once the sexual tension is gone, the viewers will lose interest.

It wasn't easy for Alicia and Will. They had gone to law school together and had feelings for each other back then. Somehow, things didn't work out and by the time they meet again, Will is a named partner in a big firm and he hires Alicia who has been home raising her two children and standing by her sleazy husband who is now in jail.

So Will is her boss, she has a husband (in prison) and two teenaged children. Although the sparks are evident, it takes 46 episodes to get to the scene that's depicted in the photo above.

The Affair is a little different although the barriers are no less daunting for the lovers. Noah and Alison are both married. Noah, an author with one published book and a teaching job, has four children. His family is mainly supported by his wife's wealthy father. Alison is married and struggling with the recent loss of her only child. She works in a restaurant which is where she meets Noah and his family when they come in for a meal.

The picture above is shortly after they met but look at them: you can see where this is headed. There's also the name of the program, of course, which is a pretty big hint.

But I still haven't answered my own question of where the chemistry comes from.

One of the series I watched is called Covert Affairs — (not that kind of affairs.) It's a CIA show and the main character is Annie Walker. Annie is an agent and her handler is Auggie Anderson. Auggie is blind — he lost his sight in an IED explosion in Iraq — but he knows everything technological and he has what one of the TV critics called "Super Blind Man Skillz." Here are Auggie and Annie (Christopher Gorham and Piper Perabo):

They had good chemistry and a really sweet affectionate relationship and it eventually became a romance. I'm assuming that the ratings went down because a few episodes later, they decided that it was better not to mix business with sex and they went back to being agent and handler. As the show went on, Annie became involved with another fellow and here, I found no chemistry at all. I kept saying, "Why are you with him?" No matter how many romantic things he did or how many times they ended up in the sack, it just didn't ring true.

I can see a lot of the problems with moving relationships along. There's so much more scope for drama in the leading-up-to, the anticipation of a passionate interlude. But really, after it happens, what then? In many of these shows, adding a domestic element wouldn't work so what do you do with them after that?

There are mixed reviews about what happened with one of the more popular romances in a comedy. Jim and Pam (John Krasinski and Jenna Fischer) in The Office shared a much-awaited climactic kiss at the end of the second season and kept viewers on the edge of their seats throughout the following summer.

There was only one barrier but it was a big one. The Office was a much more innocent show that the others under discussion and the fact that Pam was engaged to someone else when she kissed Jim was quite shocking.

The mixed reviews are about what followed. In time, Pam broke off with the other guy, was wooed by Jim, became pregnant, got married, went on maternity leave, came back to work etc. etc. The old excitement wasn't there and even when they tried to resurrect it by causing a rift in the marriage and then bringing the lovers back together, it wasn't — it could never be — the same. Just like in a real marriage, most of the critics agreed.

So I think I've established that there needs to be some realistic barriers to a romance for the chemistry to be established. There probably does have to be some connection between the actors in real life. And maybe the most important thing is, the actors have to believe in their characters.

Maybe, as always, it comes back to the writers.

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P.S. Just to round out the line-up, here are a couple more well-known couples. I have nothing to say about them that hasn't been said a million times but I hope you'll feel free to add a narrative of your own if you have something to add.

Ross and Rachel

Sam and Diane