Lesson
46
The
mystery of why I like John Levesque
She was a performer in Hair, the Broadway musical that came to the Royal Alexandra Theatre
for a long run that year. Seeing Hair
combined rock music, rebellion, and, oh, yeah, female nakedness with my
ambition to grow up and get away. Inexplicably, forty-four years later, I still
think of commuter trains, repeatedly, when I see the word “Aquarius.” I can’t
help it. I don’t think I want to help it.
My story hasn’t got much to do with Waiting for Aquarius, the 1993 Leacock
Medal winner by John Levesque, but I don’t think I could give an honest account
of my experience of reading the book without getting that GO Train admission
out of the way first.
Waiting
for Aquarius pulls material from Levesque’s column in the Hamilton Spectator.[1] My
catalogue of confessions now includes not knowing of John Levesque, another Southern
Ontario hoser kind of guy around my age, before reading this book. But I really
liked his stuff, got his jokes, and found it all consistently smart.
I am not sure why.
Levesque echoes a number of the
Leacock medallists I admire. He sounds like a gentle humorist in the Eric Nicol
fashion, but like Pierre Berton, he takes on politics, bureaucrats, the media,
war, and finance. He also speaks of his family in the style of Gary Lautens. If
I had to file his columns, I would put them under “Leacock Medal Miscellaneous.”
His book is a pretty loose collection
for sure, matching the physical character of my copy of Aquarius. I have lots of Leacock Medal books that are older, but
this one shows the most wear. The glue on the binding has given out, and I’ve
stuck in packing tape that bunches up and pushes the pages out in a jagged pile
that begs to be wrapped in an elastic band. I’m not sure why I’ve been so hard
on it.
For some people, the book’s cover adds
to its dishevelled look. It features a cheesy photo of the twinkle-eyed,
grinning, bearded author. In it, he pours water Aquarius-style, but the liquid
hits the table and misses the glass--just as we humans and the other residents
of the universe keep missing the mark in the quest for the perfect, harmonic
galactic convergence and planetary alignment needed to end the age of chaos and
usher in the Age of Aquarius. But I like it, and when I call the photo cheesy,
I mean it as a compliment. I’m cheesy. I have been the subject of several
twinkle-eyed, grinning, bearded author photos as well. I’m not sure why I like
Levesque’s style.
As I said, there’s not much holding
the book together. Levesque jumps around a lot, regularly starting off his
columns with reminiscences drawn from his childhood and teen years. When he
reports on changing demographics, he leads into it with the story of a
six-year-old friend who had to keep a back-pocket list to remember the names of
his sixteen siblings; he talks about office politics by recalling a grade
school exchange of valentines; and he ties Descartes to his dog, physics to
sentient trees, and diapers to inventions.
For me, the personal stories give the
pieces a genuineness that makes the facts that follow more human and effective.
His humour and humanity reach a peak in the closing entry, which lists all the
things that give him “Happiness.” Like me, Levesque avoids resolutions on New
Year’s Day and, instead, pauses in the gratitude month of October to reflect.
I’m not sure why I like his thinking.
All those personal recollections
somehow work, and Levesque knows that he has no control over them anyway. When
he reflects on the sacredness of Good Friday, he says playing football with his
high school friend and “the arc of a football against a ceiling of deep blue”
come to mind more than religion, adding, “I can’t help it. I don’t think I want
to help it.”
Hmm. That’s funny.
Writing Exercise
In a paragraph or
two, describe an appropriate but non-traditional way of marking November 11,
Remembrance Day, that does not acknowledge war, the military, or veterans.
[1] A daily paper with a
history of great writers and of punching above its weight class, likely because
its competition was the Toronto
Star, The Telegram, The Globe and Mail, and
other heavies down the road in T.O.