In the thrall of American nobility

By Robert Fulford - Thursday, September 10, 2009 at 11:40 AM - 0 Comments

The world saw the Kennedys as a dazzling emblem of the United States, the uniquely American fusion of politics, money, glamour, reckless sexual appetite­—and tragedy.

But their unprecedented family pride and solidarity placed them far outside what most Americans, rich or poor, consider the American style. They resembled European nobility more than any other U.S. family. They were like English dukes in the casual acceptance of their inherent superiority. Some might be disliked for this audacious self-assertion, but glamour made the Kennedys loved. Continue…

The last of the Kennedys

By Jonathon Gatehouse - Thursday, September 10, 2009 at 11:20 AM - 1 Comment

The three brothers share a Virginia hillside with a view of a city that few would call shining. John F. Kennedy’s gravesite—as befitting a fallen president—is the most elaborate. A large circular stone plaza to accommodate the crowds that still come to Arlington National Cemetery 46 years after his assassination, topped with a simple black granite headstone and an eternal flame. Down a short path like the spoke of a wheel, Robert F. Kennedy, gunned down in 1968, lies beneath a plain white cross. And now, a little further still, Edward M. Kennedy, buried this past weekend in the shadow of two large maples, and his tragic siblings.

The 77-year-old, who succumbed to brain cancer on Aug. 25, was the youngest of nine children, and never meant to be the family standard-bearer. But the political ambitions that fell to J.F.K. when the eldest brother, Joseph Jr., died in action during the Second World War descended inexorably down the line with each fresh family horror. And in the end, “Teddy,” a man who proved to be far too flawed for the nation’s highest office, improbably may be remembered as the greatest of them all. In his 47-year career as a U.S. senator for his native Massachusetts, Kennedy authored more than 300 pieces of legislation, and steered thousands more through partisan shoals with a unique mix of bluster, bonhomie, and pragmatism (“Don’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good,” was his oft-repeated credo). Continue…

Philip Ronald Morden 1976-2009

By Ken MacQueen - Thursday, September 3, 2009 at 1:40 PM - 6 Comments

Philip Ronald Morden was born June 30, 1976, in Hamilton and grew up in the tight-knit suburb of Ancaster. He was the second child of Judy Morden, an office administrator at the school board, and her husband, Glen, who worked in construction. Philip was close to his older sister, Andrea, who “mothered him as her own,” as Judy puts it. Family and friends describe him as charismatic, with boundless curiosity for the inner workings of everything, be they machines, economics or people. Judy recalls a trip to Walt Disney World where the site’s famous roller coaster fired their young son’s imagination. “Philip was more interested in how they built Space Mountain than the ride itself,” she says. Philip and his dad were often bent over bicycles or cars. “I’d let him take things apart and then help him put them together,” says Glen. “Just so he had an understanding of it.”

He was a natural athlete, always eager to push the limit in any sport he embraced, from snowboarding to hockey to skateboarding, says Josh Doan, a childhood friend. “He didn’t really have any fears trying the newest trick on a skateboard or a snowboard,” says Josh, now head golf pro at the nearby Glen Abbey Golf Club. “I was always envious of that. He would push me definitely to do what he could do, to just take it over that edge.” Philip did not share Josh’s passion for golf, but when the two teens worked as “backshop boys” at Ancaster’s Heron Point Golf Course, Philip added excitement to the game by overriding the speed governor on the gas-powered carts. “He was a bit mischievous,” says Josh. “He made those golf carts go really fast.” Continue…

Tarivona Asher Mutsengi 1983-2009

By Rachel Mendleson - Thursday, August 20, 2009 at 2:00 PM - 6 Comments

Tarivona Asher Mutsengi was born on March 8, 1983, in Bulawayo, a city in southwestern Zimbabwe, the first of five children to Philip Gilbert, a businessman, and his wife, Martha. As a child, Asher, as everyone called him, spent most of his time in the nearby town of Plumtree, where Philip owned a gas station, and the family had enough land to grow watermelons and maize. During holidays, cousins, aunts and uncles would descend on their garden. With his wide smile and quick wit, Asher was always “the centre of attention,” says sister Rumbidzai, naturally assuming the leadership role in childhood games, pretending he was a priest (the family were devout Catholics) or a doctor. Whenever one of the kids had a loose tooth, he insisted that the new one would grow in faster if they let him remove it—which they did. “We believed everything that he told us because he was so convincing,” says Rumbidzai.

In addition to their fields in Plumtree, the family had a farm in Gutu. At the time, they could have afforded to hire farmhands, but “my father preferred us doing it, so that we experienced it,” says Rumbidzai. Philip rewarded his children for good grades, and Asher had no trouble meeting those expectations; he was once given a bicycle for his academic achievements, and would let Rumbidzai ride it—as long as she paid him in chocolate. A member of the debate club, Asher held firm to his convictions. The only time he didn’t make the top spot in his class was on purpose, after an argument with his father. Says Rumbidzai, “He liked stressing his point, even if it was a losing side.” Continue…

Walter Paul Sieber 1933-2009

By Cathy Gulli - Thursday, August 6, 2009 at 1:40 PM - 10 Comments

Walter Paul Sieber was born on Oct. 2, 1933, in Toronto, an only child. His father Paul, who was from Germany, worked as a painter and decorator. He used to balance a ladder on his bicycle as he rode from job to job. His Romanian mother, Anna Yost, was spirited and strong-willed. For years, the couple was at odds. By the time Walter was seven, they had divorced. Walter lived with Anna until his early teens, and then joined his father in nearby Holland Marsh on a farm Paul had bought after he and Anna parted. Each of his parents remarried.

Walter’s strong body was fit for farming, but he preferred weightlifting. He spent hours at the YMCA with a brood of hulking young men. He could bench press-495 lb., just less than the quarter-tonne world record. Red Garner, a local wrestling promoter, divined Walter’s future in the ring, and trained him. At 17, he turned pro, initially wrestling under the name Waldo von Sieber. Continue…

Uncle Walter: not so sadly missed

By Mark Steyn - Thursday, July 30, 2009 at 10:30 AM - 125 Comments

On the face of it—and on the face of them—Michael Jackson and Walter Cronkite would not appear to have much in common. Cronkite was (all together now) “the most trusted man in America”; Jackson was the least trusted child-man in America, at least to any parents whose ambitions for their kid extend beyond a $30-million out-of-court settlement. But, for those members of the Jackstream Media hoping to eke out one more week of prostrations and ululations for their Gloved One, Cronkite’s death served as a kind of intervention. For, if there’s one thing the press love more than a celebrity cut down in his prime(ish), it’s the opportunity for self-validation that the passing of one of its own affords. The media’s sense of proportion is never more out of whack than when bidding farewell to some iconic figure from its glory days, and one had high hopes that the eulogies for Cronkite might surpass the impressive new records in risibility set by the coverage of Washington Post doyenne Kay Graham in 2001: “The Most Powerful Woman In America,” “The Most Powerful Woman In The World,” “America’s Queen,” “Kay’s Amazing Grace,” “Oh, Kay,” “Special Kay”. . .

No “Kay. Why?” oddly enough. There was an element of triumphalism in all this: Mrs. Graham was a central figure in what the J-school bores regard as American journalism’s finest hour—Watergate. Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive! A mere eight years has passed since Kay Graham’s death, but the smug complacency that characterized her eulogies was noticeably absent from Cronkite’s, which mostly read like obituaries for an industry. It’s sunset, and it’s no longer bliss: the heir to Cronkite, Katie Couric, is the champion limbo dancer of evening-news ratings; the New York Times, the oracle from which all three network newscasts take their cue, is now junk stock. It turns out Walter Cronkite and Michael Jackson have quite a bit in common: both performers peaked circa 1980, and did very little these last two decades. In that sense, they belong culturally to the same generation. They represent the zenith of a shared, universal popular culture: Jacko’s Thriller was the biggest-selling album of all time ever; Cronko’s newscast was the most-watched in America. Barring dramatic and severe government control of technology, no CD and no news show will ever be that big again. And, when you think about it, millions of teenagers going out and buying the same slickly manipulative pop record is less weird than millions of grown-ups agreeing they’ll all get their world view from the same source. But (all together now, again) “that’s the way it was” back in the days when ABC, CBS, NBC, the New York Times and the Washington Post functioned as a co-operative monopoly. Continue…

Long live the king of pop

By Cathy Gulli - Thursday, July 16, 2009 at 12:00 PM - 1 Comment

Despite the shimmering gold coffin and the weepy eulogies at Michael Jackson’s memorial service, it marked the beginning of another chapter in the King of Pop’s reign. No matter what people say about Jackson’s life, there is only one way to characterize his death: right or wrong, it was among the biggest public funeral spectacles in history. More than 20,000 fans, relatives and friends assembled inside the Staples Center in downtown Los Angeles, and another 6,000 watched on a Jumbotron next door. Tens of millions of people held vigils in streets, malls, living rooms, movie theatres and office cubicles around the world, many crying or waving signs proclaiming, “Michael Jackson Lives.”

No one could have imagined this outpouring of wild emotion to Jackson’s sudden death on June 25 of cardiac arrest, possibly due to a prescription drug overdose. A dozen fans so overcome with grief they attempted or committed suicide. The ghost of Jackson apparently spotted in a posthumous video of the Neverland ranch. Rumours that Jackson’s comeback tour—50 concerts at the O2 Arena in London, which was supposed to start on July 13—will proceed with him appearing in hologram form. Even Jackson’s Facebook page reflects how death has boosted interest in him: it’s gone from 80,000 fans to more than 6.4 million. That’s 20 new fans a second, making him more popular online than anyone else, even Barack Obama. Continue…

The Grizzly 1999-2009

By Nicholas Köhler - Thursday, July 2, 2009 at 2:20 PM - 9 Comments

The Rocky Mountain wilderness of Banff National Park is steely, unforgiving territory, an eruption of rock and ice so short of food that grizzlies here grow smaller than their coastal, salmon-chomping cousins. But one winter a decade ago, in a cramped den dug high in the treeline, a grizzly sow gave birth to a future giant. He began life, as grizzlies do, a hairless cub of just 500 g. Mother’s tutelage lasted four years, longer than for bears in easier locales. Lessons dealt in the main with local geography: good spots for a meal, danger zones better missed, and how in Banff the two frequently overlap. “Bears move around the landscape in this giant pinball game,” says Parks Canada carnivore specialist Mike Gibeau, “bumping into people here, bumping into people there.”

He committed to memory the best places to forage for wasps, ants and, in late summer, buffalo berry (tiny, intensely sour and crucial for fattening up prior to hibernation). But his mother likely also led her son to the CP Rail tracks, where jostling hopper cars have for years spilled grain, corn and peas—irresistible candy for grizzlies. On the whole he heeded mum, and had few brushes with people (he remained untagged by park wardens and unremarked upon as a “problem” bear). When he finally set out alone and fully grown, a vast home range of 1,500 sq. km opened up before him. Wardens who did spot him described an enormous animal, as big as 270 kg, the largest in the area since the mountain parks began bear-proofing dumps and garbage bins decades ago. His paws were big as catchers’ mitts, his claws—used less on flesh than for unearthing hedysarum root, glacier lily and dandelion—scythes long as knitting needles the colour of pine bark. Among Banff’s 60 grizzlies, he was the dominant bear, particularly with breeding females. Continue…

Gordon Ernest Thomas 1962-2009

By Nancy Macdonald - Thursday, June 11, 2009 at 1:40 PM - 1 Comment

Gordon Ernest Thomas was born on April 7, 1962, in the small Ottawa Valley town of Pembroke. He was the eldest child of Doris, an Eganville native, and Ernest, a military man stationed at CFB Petawawa. Shortly after the birth of their daughter Fay, Doris, a graceful woman, began dropping things: the keys to the car, a glass of water. Once, Fay slipped from her hands as she lifted her from the crib. Horrified, Doris visited the hospital, where she was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. In 1965, she was admitted permanently to St. Vincent Hospital in Ottawa. Gordie, as the boy came to be known, was just shy of three.

Born with a congenital heart defect—a hole in his heart and a leaky valve—he was fighting a medical battle of his own. Gordie would not live past 20, said the chief cardiologist at Toronto’s Hospital for Sick Children. Rake-thin and small for his age, with pale, almost translucent skin and occasionally blue lips, Gordie knew he was sick. But Ernest kept the grim prognosis from him until he was a teen.

Continue…

James Lloyd Lundblad 1968-2009

By Nancy Macdonald - Thursday, May 28, 2009 at 12:20 PM - 4 Comments

James Lloyd Lundblad was born Jan. 17, 1968, in Valleyview, Alta., a small farming community known as the “Portal to the Peace”—Peace Country—the immense prairie region stretching across northern Alberta and B.C. James, a quiet, fair-haired boy who preferred the trumpet to hockey, was one of two children born to Lloyd, a second-generation crop farmer, and Noëlla, a French-speaking farmer’s daughter raised in the towns of Guy and Falher in Alberta’s francophone heartland.

Lloyd supplemented meagre earnings from wheat, canola and barley by hauling oil. Home every night after the kids were in bed, he was gone before they awoke. Like him, James was steadfast and hard-headed, with a disdain for the city and a clear view of right from wrong, says his sister Michelle.

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Stockwell Day challenges Death

By Mitchel Raphael - Wednesday, April 29, 2009 at 10:01 AM - 23 Comments

The National Arts Centre launched their B.C. Scene festival, which highlights the province’s arts.

Several giant cardboard boxes were set up where people went inside for a performance. Here Stockwell Day, Minister of International Trade and Minister for the Asia-Pacific Gateway, challenges Death to a game of chess.

This actor’s performance piece included invited people to join her in bed and pretend to be her husband—and then she proceeded to get mad at them.

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Finland’s epidemic of cheap booze

By Susan Mohammad - Thursday, February 19, 2009 at 9:50 AM - 4 Comments

It’s last call for cheap booze in Finland. Doctors are pressing the government to raise the taxes on alcohol to combat an epidemic of out-of-control binge drinking that has made alcohol the country’s number-one killer.

Over the past decade, alcohol consumption has doubled in Finland. Its citizens now out-drink all of their Nordic neighbours, consuming an estimated 10 litres of pure alcohol a year. In 2005, drinking overtook heart disease and cancer as the leading cause of death among people ages 15 to 64, and since then the problem has only continued to grow. According to Statistics Finland, alcohol-related deaths increased by a worrying nine per cent in 2007 alone and more than 2,000 Finns now die of alcohol-related causes each year.

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On Parliament

By Andrew Potter - Monday, December 22, 2008 at 10:08 AM - 1 Comment

“Sure, I can help out. It’ll be just like writing an obit” — An unnamed reporter, upon being asked if he can help cover the Senate appointments today.

The saddest of Madonna portraits

By Nicholas Köhler - Thursday, October 30, 2008 at 12:00 AM - 1 Comment

In the late 1800s, Edward Bok, the reform-minded editor of Ladies’ Home Journal, launched a crusade against, of all things, the parlour—that pretentious little room, as he saw it, reserved by the Victorians for formal Sunday teas and displaying their dead. Better, he thought, to banish the old-time hats and coats and the corpses in favour of a space for routine family life—call it, he suggested, the living room. The wordplay caught on, part of a trend driven by lengthening life expectancies that made death itself an unmentionable. “In the 19th century, sex was the taboo,” says Stanley Burns, an eye surgeon and medical historian. “In the 20th century, it was death.” Nowhere, oddly enough, was the shift more pronounced than in family photographs.

A hundred years ago, capturing images of dead relatives was de rigueur. Dad’s eyes were glued shut, his mouth closed, his limbs posed in such a manner as to suggest a quick catnap; in one famous example, the deceased sits with a newspaper clasped in his hands as though just nodding off. Widows wore lockets with the dead faces of their husbands, mothers the images of their dead infants—sometimes with open eyes painted in and rose tincture on their cheeks. Yet changing attitudes soon saw post-mortem photography go the way of the parlour.

Now, research suggesting that families benefit from photographs of deceased offspring has brought the practice back. “There’s that pivotal moment, especially after a stillbirth, where mum all of a sudden won’t remember what her baby looked like—and there’s panic,” says Mary MacCormick, head of the Canadian Foundation for the Study of Infant Deaths. Memories of the traumatic days surrounding a difficult birth can also exaggerate a baby’s flaws, haunting parents for years. Hospital staff have battled these anxieties by giving families bereavement kits containing locks of hair, hand- or footprints, and Polaroids. Recently, though, so-called infant bereavement photography has become the domain of professionals.

Steve Jobs, still not dead, still skinny

By Colin Campbell - Tuesday, September 9, 2008 at 5:36 PM - 1 Comment

The man spells it out for us, while introducing the new iPods today. This, in response to Bloomberg’s accidental running of his obituary last month. 

(via Gizmodo)