As part of my never-ending quest to emulate Don Quixote — at least the syrupy Broadway version, “The Man of La Mancha” — and “to march into hell for a heavenly cause,” I find myself contemplating at this relatively late stage of existence a higher calling, a vocation whose righteous mandate might give rise to a desertion of the journalism racket that’s been paying the Wakeham bills for close to half a century.
Yessiree, I have a hankering to “run where the brave dare not run,” to turn my aging talents to — satirical drum roll, please — the art of politics, and to disavow, as a result, a life-long, holier-than-thou belief, as often enunciated in this very weekend slot, that journalists entering such a world have crossed over to the dark side, have taken the road to Perdition to dine with the devil.
There are a number of routes I could take to become the Man of La Mancha, or the Southern Shore Man of La Manche Park, at the very least, to fulfill my “Impossible Dream.”
First off, I was almost jolted right out of my comfy living room seat, even spewed a healthy mouthful of diet ginger ale across the room (nearly drowning an earwig that had foolishly decided to check out new living quarters for the winter) when I read the earth-shattering news that Norm Doyle was retiring from “four decades of public service,” as described in a Telegram headline.
I’m over the hill, in the estimation of some of my non-fans — yesterday’s hero; just the right candidate for the Senate.
I knew the recent retiree from Harbour Main when I was in search of yarns in the legislature an eternity ago. Doyle was then a low-key MHA and cabinet minister who eventually ascended to the House of Commons. But I had forgotten, understandably so, that Stephen Harper had rewarded Doyle for his Tory longevity with a patronage seat in the Senate, the most opulent retirement residence in Canada.
What really caught my interest, though, was the fact that there’s now a Senate opening for someone from this smiling land of ours, and, unlike the past years of patronage — when a career of grabbing the right coattails could get you a call from the Prime Minister’s Office to sleep away your remaining public hours in the Senate — any of the politically unaffiliated unwashed in the province can now apply for the seat.
After all, I’m over the hill, in the estimation of some of my non-fans — yesterday’s hero; just the right candidate for the Senate.
And maybe, just maybe, I pondered, a few of my journalistic principles could be parlayed into a good works tenure in the Senate. Then names like Pamela Wallin and Mike Duffy popped into my skull, journalists-turned-senators. Would I want their legacy?
Then, I thought about the upcoming provincial election, and wondered whether I could grab the Tory nomination out here in my own district of Cape St. Francis, a PC stronghold since the day we became lukewarm Canadians. Damn it, though, that would mean laborious, thankless years in opposition, and by the time the Newfoundland electorate decided — as it usually does every decade or so, in robotic, predictable fashion — to switch the government colours, diapers and dentures would be the order of my day.
But, hey, how about moving into the city and running for council?
Now, there’s a political body that gets my dander up, even from a perch outside the city boundaries, watching Danny Breen and company drive endless numbers of their constituents around the bend as they inexplicably delay approval of what appears to be a perfectly reasonable and financially sound offer by Dean MacDonald to take over Mile One Centre, while, at the same time, closing the Railway Museum, shutting down Syme’s Bridge, and engaging in other budgetary inanities. (The Telegram’s Robin Short had an insightful piece on such matters a couple of weeks back).
Down memory lane
A sidebar: I took my father to the Railway Museum about 20 years ago, and he was teary-eyed as he took in the surroundings and recalled how his mother had walked him down from Notre Dame Street to the station when he was 17 years old to take The Bullet to Gander to begin work with the RAF Ferry Command, a life-altering train trip.
In later years, my grandmother would place a feed of flippers on the Gander-bound train each spring for her son Gerald, as she called him, who was deprived of such a treat, she felt, by his new wife. Nanny, neither gracious nor subtle, had felt her daughter-in-law had not only “kept my son from the priesthood,” but had prevented him from having his annual seal grub job.
Oh, the horror of it all: no round collar for Dad, no flippers.
(Mom told me that story herself several times, and when I asked out of curiosity why she had never eaten or cooked flippers, she replied: “My mother told us when we were kids that we didn’t like them.”)
Anyway, the museum is loaded down with memories, and its possible closure is disgraceful.
But, look, it’s crazy for me to think about moving from this magical location atop the hills of Flatrock into a crowded cul-de-sac in Sin John’s where I wouldn’t be able to even pee off my deck. (I know, I know: too much information, as they say).
So: no Senate seat, no provincial legislative seat, no council seat.
Glad I allowed this column to perform its cathartic magic.
I’m going nowhere.
Bob Wakeham has spent more than 40 years as a journalist in Newfoundland and Labrador. He can be reached by email at bwakeham@nl.rogers.com
