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The
Rant
June 1, 2004
A little while ago, Geoff Meeker, who writes a very solid media column for the St. John's newspaper, The Express, sent a bunch of us media toilers a note asking if we would recount a memorable episode from our careers. He was looking for something particularly significant, an impressive event or person, that sort of thing. It was for an upcoming column and he was working on deadline, but I'm afraid I just couldn't seem to single out a memory for him, at least nothing I felt comfortable going public with. Oh, I have plenty of memories filed away, believe me, but while I'm still gainfully employed and the principals are still alive, I'll resist the temptation to spill my guts. Please don't get me wrong, I have plenty of wonderful memories and I have met some truly outstanding people. I just was not able to focus on any one of them. Sorry Geoff.
However, Geoff's note did get me to thinking generally about things I've experienced in my lifetime. Then, suddenly, one event in particular just popped into my head like a big juicy plum. It is outside the fence of my professional career so I didn't think it would work for The Express, but I can tell you website readers about it. It happened when I was still in high school, almost ancient history.
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| Key Club membership card |
My alma mater is Prince of Wales Collegiate, a fine school. I was there from age fourteen to sixteen, 1968 to 1970. Many of my fellow students were bright and ambitious and interested in what was happening in the wider world. Politics - school, town, provincial, and federal - was a special interest for many of us. We were also joiners, and there were many school clubs you could join. I joined the Key Club, a high school version of the Kiwanis Club. It was (and still is, with 5000 Key Clubs across North America) a club lead by students themselves that is meant to teach kids about leadership and service to the community. Sandy Hickman, who now sits on St. John's City Council was a member then as well. Another member, and something of a leading light, was a kid named Tim Kemp.
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| Key clubbers - Sandy Hickman, Reg Walters, Karl Wells |
Tim was smart as a tack and very interested in politics and government. He always wanted to work in the foreign service as a diplomat. I think his greatest wish was to one day become an ambassador for Canada in some far flung country. In our senior year he ran for student council president. I helped with his campaign, which, if I do say so myself was superbly run, but ultimately failed. Tim, was overweight, near-sighted, and a non-athlete. In short, he was a nerd. He lost to a guy (a 'girl magnet') who also happened to be a very good jock. I learned very early that most elections are not about the best person winning. They are often about the most popular person winning. Anyway, Tim's team, including me, soon forgot about our loss when an opportunity to see the real democratic process in action, up-close and personal, came our way.
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| Joey in full rhetorical flight |
The year was 1969 and Joey Smallwood was in the waning years of his, by then, twenty year rule of Newfoundland and Labrador. Things had not been going well for him. There was a general feeling developing that he had been around long enough and it was time for a change. The opposition Progressive Conservatives were building strength as people like Frank Moores, scion of Conception Bay fish merchants, joined their ranks. The media were evolving as well. Ray Guy's brilliant, ground breaking columns in The Evening Telegram took aim at the failings of the Smallwood regime. In 1965 CBC Television opened a station in St. John's and quickly developed a strong following for a suppertime news show called Here & Now under the leadership of visionary producer, Robin Taylor. Under Robin's leadership, the Here & Now studio became hot with news, debate, satire, and commentary (a tradition that continued under Ian Wiseman, Bill Gough, Hugh Doherty, Ron Crocker, and others, to this day). Needless to say, Smallwood and his government were being looked at more critically than ever before.
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| Crosbie, as Smallwood minister |
Within his own ranks, brush fires of dissent were breaking out as well. Most notably the rift that developed between Smallwood and two of his ministers, John Crosbie and Clyde Wells. Crosbie, a strong and competent minister, had been seen by many as Joey's likely successor. However, by 1969, having had their fill of Smallwood's autocratic ways, both Crosbie and Wells had crossed the floor of the House of Assembly to sit as independent Liberals. Smallwood called for a leadership convention in hopes of quelling the percolating unrest inside and outside the Liberal party. And, even though Smallwood would clearly be in control of any convention he himself called, Crosbie bowed to the pressure and did what was expected of him as the de facto leader of opposition forces, he ran against Smallwood for the leadership. Clyde Wells helped manage his campaign.
That famous 1969 convention took place at St. John's Memorial Stadium and I was there. Tim Kemp's father worked for the provincial government and he arranged to get Tim and a few of his friends inside the convention on voting day. Officially, we were there to work for the organizing committee as delegate helpers. If a delegate needed water, directions, etcetera, our task was to get them what they wanted. Mostly what we did was observe, for hours and hours. It was fascinating stuff.
We arrived early in the day. The stadium was warm and muggy. Voting had not yet begun. In the beginning we were dispersed to sit amongst the official convention delegates, so as to be nearby if any of them needed help. I remember running errands for a couple of people but that was about the extent of my 'official' duties. Eventually, I felt free enough to wander around soaking up the convention atmosphere.
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| Joey's placard portrait |
Official or 'voting' delegates sat on or near the floor of the stadium. Many of them were supporting Smallwood. They wore 'boater' hats with JOEY written on them in large, bold red letters.Their placards were tall, narrow, red signs with a perpendicular J.O.E.Y. blazoned on them and a picture of Joey benignly smiling at everyone from the top of the sign. I remember these people looking tired and bored, as if they were wishing it was all over with. Crosbie supporters were numerous but it was difficult for me to tell how much voting strength he had because his people seemed to be everywhere and I was told that quite a few of the people wearing Crosbie buttons were just observing and not voting. They were mostly a younger (in their twenties and thirties), very vocal, and very geared-up crowd. I found myself attracted to them because, having gone through an uphill, closely fought school election with Tim, I could indentify with what they were feeling. I knew what an emotional roller-coaster they were on.
The candidates sat with their camps on raised platforms that ran along the boards on the south side of the stadium. Crosbie was down at the end towards the rear of the stadium, then it was Randy Joyce (student radical and budding journalist), T. Alex Hickman (Sandy's dad and a Liberal minister who was developing doubts about Joey's leadership), Dr. Fred Rowe (a Smallwood loyalist whose candidacy was largely regarded as an effort to make the convention look legitimate), and then Smallwood's own large group, consisting of cabinet and caucus members, party backroomers, etcetera. Sandwiched in between all of these was the convention's podium where a white haired man (with a deep, booming voice) named Herman Batten would stand at the microphone and issue orders to the delegates.
The Joyce camp was full of university students and younger types. It was still the decade of unrest and being anti-establishment was considered 'de rigueur' if you were a young person in the sixties, although Randy himself was very much an independent thinker, one not easily swayed by movements. (He was a desk mate of mine years later at CBC and I liked him a lot.) His group looked nervous and troubled most of the time. The Hickman and Rowe camps didn't seem to register with me. I got the impression that they were already aware of how this play was going to turn out and they were just biding their time until the curtain came down. I now had the feeling that this was not going to be that much of a horserace.
However, as voting got underway and the afternoon wore on, the barometer began to rise. The temperature in the stadium spiked both literally and figuratively. You could feel the tension build as everyone in the room realized that something big was about to happen. The ballots were being counted behind the curtain and, despite the odds, many of the Crosbie people had themselves convinced that their man was going to win. Everyone and everything inside the building seemed to be focusing on the convention podium. The television cameras swung around, the bright, hot television lights (of the black and white era) were adjusted, delegates looked with anticipation at the unmanned microphone onstage, and best suited reporters with narrow, skinny neckties began to take up positions near the candidates.
I decided to put myself as close to the Crosbie camp as I could get. I wanted a bird's eye view of their reaction to the vote. I did well. I managed to wedge myself directly in front of the Crosbie platform. Clyde Wells, John Crosbie and his wife Jane were sitting just above where I was standing.
Now, all I had to do was wait along with the rest of the overheated crowd for the result. Then we saw him...the stern, white haired man with the booming bass voice. Herman Batten approached the microphone, whispering serious asides to some people onstage as he moved forward. For the first time that day, the stadium fell silent. Then came the results...and Batten quickly boomed out the name of the overwhelming winner..."Joseph R. Smallwood!"
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| Clyde Wells and Crosbie at convention |
What happened next stunned and scared me. With the word Smallwood still echoing inside the walls of the building, there came an eruption or tide of anger and malevolence that I was totally unprepared for. Crosbie and Joyce supporters were beside themselves, screaming, crying (I saw many people with tears flowing down their cheeks), throwing placards to the ground, hurling every form of abusive language and insult toward the podium. Joyce and many of his group began to give the fascist salute, ugly and terrifying symbolism to someone my age (at the time). The din of the losing side completely drowned out the cheering of the Smallwood supporters; at least, that's what I observed from where I was standing.
Joey quickly made his way to the podium, as did Rowe and Hickman. He stood there looking like the cat who'd just swallowed a canary, oblivious to the anger surrounding his camp, appearing very pleased with himself indeed. Rowe and Hickman offered their perfunctory congratulations. Then came a scene that is burned into my memory. Smallwood took control of the microphone and began wondering out loud if "Mr. Crosbie" would come to the stage and make the decision of the convention unanimous. The attention of the room then focused on the Crosbie platform as Smallwood kept on asking his rhetorical question.
Standing immediately in front of the Crosbie camp I saw Jane Crosbie doing an exemplary job of maintaining her composure, which was not easy considering the way people around her and John Crosbie were behaving, especially Clyde Wells. Clyde Wells was apoplectic. He was beet red and screaming at John Crosbie, who was attempting to rise from his seat and show some grace by moving to the podium. Clyde appeared to be trying to physically prevent Crosbie from leaving. I saw Crosbie jerk his arm away from Clyde Wells's grip as Clyde said these words, which I will never forget..."No John!..No!..Don't give the old bastard the satisfaction!!" He said the words in that very clipped, very precise way he has of talking..."No John!..No!..Don't give the old bastard the satisfaction!!" His hatred for Smallwood seemed unadulterated. It was a side of Clyde Wells I had never seen before.
Eventually, John Crosbie managed to disengage from the frenzied Clyde and made his way to an unappreciative Smallwood. Joey, having made a meal out of asking for Crosbie from the podium, seemed to deliberately snub him when he finally got there, keeping him waiting while he accepted congratulations from the lesser lights around the lectern. When he finally did get around to Crosbie it was a quick handshake, after which he nonchalantly turned back to the lesser lights.
As I left Memorial Stadium that day in 1969 I saw very few people who looked happy about what had just happened. I heard Crosbie supporters making dire predictions about the future of the Liberal party and the province. I heard lots of profanity as well. I felt I had just witnessed something extraordinary. But, too many people felt cheated. I knew this was just the beginning of something big...not the end.
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