Fearless (ish) Fred

THE TROUBLE WITH ANGELS: God knows who most of these kids are. I can name about half.

I love when stuff like this happens. 

See that arrow? It's pointing at Fred Bortolussi. 

A few hours ago, Fred emailed me this picture of his and my St. Albert's School grade one class on the steps of St. Clement's church after we made our First Communion. (I stuck the arrow in. Fred didn't.)

.

The pic came as a wonderful surprise. It's not like Fred and I stayed in touch all these years. We hadn't spoken since before the turn of the century. 

But Fred came across a recent Pete's Blog&Grille, responded very kindly and mentioned that he had a photo he wouldn't mind sharing. 

PS: Fred looks the same now as
he did in grade one.

The emails flew back and forth. I decided to share the communion pic and write this blog.

Except I early on realized I wasn't sure I could spell Fred's last name right. 

I did a search. And found a story and picture in the Oct.27, 2022 issue of the Kemptville Advance. 

The kid that the arrow's pointing at was recognized a few years ago as one of this country's best high school teachers. Fred won the  prestigious Baillie Award for excellence in Secondary School Teaching. From Queen's University in Kingston, no less. (Motto: We're Queen's and you're not. Haha.)

I'm proud to know him! 

It gets better: Fred taught at least one individual who shares my DNA. This should come as no surprise. The Ottawa Valley, where Fred lived all these years, is my paternal ancestral homeland and the Irish Catholic Carters bred like Irish Catholic Carters. 

My second cousin Sheila's daughter Jessica Kehoe was in one of Fred's high-school law classes.

Reports mom: "She  [Jessica] is now working as a Director of Human Resources for a research pharmaceutical company. I would say that career path is the direct result of the formative high school experience." Ladies and gentlemen? My cousin's kid. 

Back to Fred. 

We're talking about a guy who helped finance his education by fighting forest fires. 

And then when he was at Carleton University, on his first skydiving adventure, Fred's chute didn't open and he wound up getting caught in a tree. True story. They had to cut him down! (I was in Carleton's journalism program at the time and produced a short radio news item about the adventure. Journalism 102: Let other people risk their necks. You write about them.)

Fred is so unafraid of stuff that one day, he rode on the back of Ray Cote's motorbike from Sudbury to Ottawa and somewhere along the line, fell dead asleep, at highway speed. 

And then...if  that wasn't foolhardy enough, Fred Bortolussi spent the rest his career standing in front of groups of teeangers trying to tell them stuff  he thinks they should know.

The guy's fearless.

To a point.

Neither of us is dumb enough to try putting names to all those kids in the First Communion pic. You get one wrong you'll hear about it forever. So help me God. 

If anybody out there wants to weigh in, Fred and I would love to hear.

 

Hitting it into the park

For as long as I can remember, I've liked High Park. 

A BENCH OF ONE'S OWN: What
more could an old guy want?

Now I love the place. 

Here's why.

When I was 11, I worked as a page at the Ontario Legislature. During that time, I lived in the far west end of Toronto with my sister Charlene, a Humber College nursing student, and her beautiful room mates, Cathy and Barb.  

Because I was away from home, didn't have to attend regular school, got paid real money, hung out in the big city, commuted to work on the streetcar every morning with the grownups and roomed with three very cool older women, my time as a page is almost too precious to be believed.  

I sometimes think I peaked at 11.

On more than one Sunday, Charlene and I visited High Park. We occasionally rented a row boat; visited the zoo or just hung out. It was also educational. From the handful of hopeful young men who made it their business to chat up Charlene, with her blazing red hair and long legs, I got flirting lessons,

Fifty six years later, I live within a 10-minute leisurely stroll of the park. I've been in the same area since moving to Toronto in 1985. 

And I've probably walked (and cycled and drove and skated) around as much of the park as anybody. 

ED OF HIS CLASS: He spent countless hours in
High Park with us.

I remember exploring the valleys and wooded areas of High Park when Helena and I were planning our wedding 38 years ago. 

Later we took our kids skating on Grenadier Pond; we snuck wine in to watch the Canadian Stage Company's Shakespearean productions at the outdoor theatre; we check out the Cherry-Blossom-festival festival goers every April. The people are more interesting than the trees. 

When my son Michel was a preteen he played outfield in in the High Park Baseball League.  At one game, a baseball mom asked me which player was my son; I pointed to Michel, and she said "He's very good looking." Her female companion felt it necessary to add, "Yeah, and he doesn't look at all like his father."

When my daughters Ewa and Ria were finishing grade eight at the nearby St. Vincent De Paul School, their class had a picnic in the park. My role? I took any young person who wanted for a ride around the park on the back of my black 1982 Yamaha Heritage Special motorbike. Teachers might not like that idea now.

BENCH IMPRESSING: Musician, husband,
brother, nephew, son, weight lifter,
and pun lover Paul

Around the same time, the  community rallied to erect a giant children's play structure. All the families we knew pitched in money and a bit of sweat equity, and if you visit the playground today and search hard enough you'll find a fence post with Ewa, Ria, Mick engraved on it. 

If in fact you do come, we should go for breakfast on the patio at the Grenadier Restaurant, located mid-park. 

But before we hit the patio, I am going to insist we pay a visit to the two most important places in the park. 

They are also the reason I'm writing this story.

North of the restaurant, and steps from the main entrance, are two benches with little plaques fastened to them; one in memory of my brother Ed and the other for my nephew (and Ed's Godson) Paul.

City crews installed the plaques in mid December. And it should come as a surprise to nobody that the memorials are the work of my sisters Charlene and Norma. 

Charlene worked with the City of Toronto Parks Department to have Paul memorialized; Norma did so for Ed.  

Ed died Jan. 31, 2022. Paul passed away after battling cancer on Aug. 25, 2023. 

I don't have to tell you how much we miss these men. Or that I'm tearing up as I write this. So I'll stop soon. 

But you have to know something. 

When you apply to the City of Toronto to participate in the memorial bench program, the City can't guarantee where your memorial plaque will appear. You can request a certain park, but there's no promises. 

And you can certainly hope with all your might that two memorial benches will be located near each other but that'd be like asking to move heaven and earth. 

The fact that Ed's and Paul's benches ended up within laughing distance of each other, in a park so near to our hearts and our home, where both men spent countless joy-filled hours, makes me wonder if somebody in heaven did a bit of earthly finagling. 

I wouldn't put it past them. I am so blessed.

Breakfast at the Grenadier's on me