The last time that I saw him was about a year ago, maybe longer. He walked into Mill Street, with his grandson, and sat on the other side of the main bar from me, facing me but not noticing me at all. He looked smaller than when I had last seen him make a public appearance, his hair much thinner and greyer than the days when I knew him, when he was a regular customer at the camera store.
In those days, he would often come in just after the lunch hour, dressed in a suit, ready for work. He didn't drive himself there: he had a driver. He liked a lunchtime drink, and I could usually smell a bit of it, but that didn't matter. He was always kind, always friendly, always had a smile.
There were some people who dropped film off, regularly, for processing. Often, out of curiosity, we would look at the printed products in the envelopes, curious as to what sort of subjects filled their camera viewfinders, what sort of images they had composed.
Never his. He was a big name. He was a pillar of the community. And we respected his privacy.
At Mill Street, the bartender, Pete, served the man a half-pint of pale, yellow ale. An Organic Lager, I guessed. I drew Pete's attention after he delivered the glass. "Make sure his beer goes on my tab," I said. "His money is no good, here." Pete nodded, smiled. I went back to my tablet, continued the writing that I was doing before I noticed this man enter.
From an early age, I remembered seeing him in my neighbourhood, which wasn't far from where he worked. My family and I would see him, like us, pushing a shopping cart through the aisles of Robinson's IGA, in the City View Plaza. When I was in my late teens, partying at the night clubs in Hull, my friends and I would see him every once and a while, walking along the strip or getting out of a car. You knew that wherever he was going, there was going to be a good time.
I watched him on TV almost every night. And while my decision to go into journalism school is not attributed to him, I think my lifelong interest in the news is due, in a large part, thanks to him.
"I understand that you are to thank for my drink," he said, having come up to where I was sitting. His grandson was still sitting across the bar, smiling.
"It was an honour, Max," I said. "You won't remember me, but for years I served you at Black's Cameras in the Merivale Mall. But I do think you'll remember my mom." I said her name and he smiled.
"Yes, of course. How is she? Is she still in the flower business?"
If anyone has ever seen a broadcast of CJOH News, with Max Keeping, you will remember the colourful boutonnières that he wore, almost every night. My mom made those for him, back when she owned a flower store on Baseline Road, near Greenbank. Personal Petals was its name, and Max was a loyal and longtime customer.
"She's been retired for some time," I said. "She'll be glad that I saw you."
"Please give her my best," said Max, "she's a lovely lady."
We chatted a little longer before he returned to his grandson, and they left Mill Street.
Max was a big part of the Ottawa community, known mostly as a champion for the Children's Hospital of Eastern Ontario, but his community service touched practically every facet of this city. He was bigger than his on-screen personality as the anchor of the dinnertime news.
He gave so much for this city. Buying him a beer seemed like such a small act. But when he came to thank me, when he talked to me and gave me his undivided attention, when he smiled a truly genuine smile, it didn't matter that he didn't remember me. He made me feel as though, from that time forward, he wouldn't forget.
Rest well, Max. And thank you.
I can't help but think that Sam Sniderman influenced my taste in music.
I've already shared with you how I came about to buying my first vinyl record. I was eight, my father took me into a record store, he allowed me to buy myself any record that I wanted, and I chose the one with no writing on the cover, but with images of little girls climbing over strangely shaped stones.
The album, of course, was Led Zeppelin's Houses of the Holy.
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| Photo: Wikipedia |
At the time, I did say that I bought that record at Sam the Record Man, but perhaps I didn't do justice to that record store. For decades afterwards, Sam's would be the main source for my music. I would save my allowance and go to that shop as soon as I could afford a new record. When I had a part-time job, I earned enough money that I would buy at least one record a week. For new releases and for sales, I would wait in line before the doors opened.
I even had a job in the shopping mall, working next door to my record shop, and I would spend my breaks flipping through records, just to see what was there, to listen to the music that was on their turntable, and at times, to flirt with the girls behind the counter.
A friend of mine in high school, one of the smartest people I knew, once came with me and we looked at the imported record section. When I found a Japanese import of Bruce Springsteen, my smart friend asked in all seriousness, "Does Bruce Springsteen sing in Japanese?"
Book smart: street stupid.
By the time I reached my mid twenties, I had more than 400 vinyl disks in my possession. The milk cartons—the old, imperial-measurement cartons—were perfect for holding albums. I had four of them, and they were packed tight. Sometimes, I wore out an album by playing it to death, and then I would go to Sam's and replace it.
I had a shit-load of vinyl. My local record store made a lot of money off of me.
One of the great things about Sam the Record Man was that at the front of the store, they had a tall and wide display of new releases. All of the colourful album covers would strike you when you first entered the store. And Sam's would proudly display lots of Canadian talent.
Sam Sniderman didn't just like Canadian music: he promoted it. Not just in his stores, but in front of the CRTC, calling for more Canadian content on the air waves. Because of Sam, I developed a big appreciation of Canadian music.
The first Canadian album I bought was also at Sam's, and I bought it because the album cover met my eyes as I scanned the new releases. That was in 1974, when I was nine. The album: Not Fragile, by Bachman-Turner Overdrive. Yes, in my introduction to Canadian music, I hadn't seen nothin' yet, baby.
These days, the majority of music on my iPhone is Canadian: Sam Roberts, Sarah Slean, Matt Good, Kathleen Edwards, Sarah Harmer, Feist, Great Big Sea, Metric, Hawksley Workman, 54-40, The Tragically Hip, Barenaked Ladies... the list goes on.
The Sam the Record Man in my local shopping mall left decades ago; the last Sam's left Ottawa more than 10 years ago. These days, I rarely buy a physical CD, and when I do, I order it online. Mostly, however, I download my music from iTunes.
Gone are the days of great album covers and inserts. Gone are the golden days of vinyl. Gone are the local record shops. Gone is Same the Record Man.
And gone, this past Sunday, is Sam Sniderman. Rest in peace, music man. Thank you for introducing me to great music, from both home and abroad.
