Over the Boards: Toller Cranston

Toller Shalitoe Montague Cranston

Born: April 20, 1949, Hamilton, Ontario

Died: January 25, 2015, San Miguel, Mexico

We learned of the death of Toller Cranston today.


 In my youth, I had the rare privilege of watching him skate at the Toronto Cricket Skating and Curling Club. In fact, I used to skip school and sit behind the glass watching him in total awe. Sometimes he would be at the school figures, and believe it or not, I would watch that too. If I close my eyes, I can hear the carving sounds of his powerful blades on the ice. He was a never ending source of inspiration. When free skating, he would practice his signature camel spin, often creating new variations, about every eight minutes. I must have witnessed the perfect line he created with his body hundreds of times, and each one was a marvel. We knew the risks he took in an era when men's figure skating was a bit stiff and conservative. Certainly, Toller was entirely unique, and in full possession of the courage to be an artist. He changed the sport forever.

Brilliant Hockey, Epic Figure Skating and Beautiful Writing

What does a perfect, white sheet of ice mean to you?

It means two things to me: victory and defeat.

In my early years, we were at the rink in the winter day in and day out. Figure skating was an obscure and disciplined world. It did not capture vast numbers of fans until later. The old National Hockey League consisted of six teams, from six great cities: Toronto, Montreal, Chicago, New York Detroit and Boston.

We knew other countries played hockey, but we also knew that we were nuts about the game in Canada. It was a common thread running through all of us, coast to coast. When the games were broadcast on the radio, people across the frozen north would huddle around and listen to the impassioned, unbridled enthusiasm of a famous broadcaster named Foster Hewit. During the second world war, soldiers were able to listen from the battlefield. It became a part of our emerging identity, this love of the game. Somewhere along the line, it became our game, as synonymous with Canada as the maple leaf itself.

We knew that Sweden and Russia were passionate about it too. We knew from the Winter Olympics. When it came to Figure Skating, we were up against great competitors who studied ballet and Figure Skating in tandem. Pairs like the Protopopovs were simply breath taking and unbeatable. They challenged us and tested us daily. As far as hockey was concerned, we could not send our best players to the Olympics as they played in the National Hockey League. Yet we had to know how we would match up. We wanted a true test. An effort began to arrange a series where our best could match with theirs. It was a long and complicated effort. When hearts softened and culture exchanges were made, including bringing the sublime Bolshoi ballet to Toronto, we got our big test at last.

At first, the Russians dominated and beat us soundly. Some said it would be a joke and our humiliation would be without end. The players, all stars in their own right, had not played together as a team. The Russian team work had years in the making. We rallied and tied the series. We were up to a do or die situation with the game tied up. I could feel the pressure, and the tension build to the breaking point. Children were let out of school to go home and watch the game. We were on the edge of our seats, on our knees, and even our dogs whimpered. We could not breathe. Along came a magic moment. Paul Henderson of the Toronto Maple Leafs got the puck and tapped it in the net. The whole nation of Canada roared!

Two men, driving trucks on and ice road stopped to listen to that moment. They were each heading in opposite directions. With the final moments so nerve wracking, they could not even keep their feet on the gas. So they stopped. Along with the rest of Canada, they held their breath. With that goal, they ran out of their trucks, on to the ice and embraced each other. Total strangers and tough men, they hugged each other and cried. Then they came to their senses got back in their trucks and carried on. None of us would ever be the same.

A few years later, the United States went up against those great players and felt the same thrill known as the miracle on ice. In both instances, the countries were united in rooting for their team. Hockey is often described as a battle. It is a tough and often brutal game, but it is brilliant and magnificent too. The finest players are swift, brave and in possession of a fierce intelligence.

The athletes make their mark. The sports writers, the announcers, and the broadcasters, make the events unforgettable.Will we ever forget Dick Button? Foster Hewitt is immortal. As we go into winter, I count on the writers up in the press box to put me right in the rink. I want to share the thrills with others. I want to see who we are up against. I love to see countries with smaller populations and fewer dollars to spend, present a formidable challenge. I love to see the Russians come out in their red jackets. It brings tears to my eyes because we have a common bond. In every category, I am in awe of their artistry and effort.

Julia Lipnitskaia of Russia

I understand why people want to go south in winter. I know they get tired of shoveling their driveways. I can grasp how spirits lag in the dark days. The first blades were made of wood. We went out into the snow in sweaters. We covered up in fur robes and had fun out on the ice. Then came the silver and we learned to carve. That sound, along with puck hitting the boards goes back to my infancy. I saw Petra Burka land the first triple jump in competition. She went on to become world champion, and she was from our club where her mother taught us. How could I not be a devoted fan for life? Moms, Dads, Zamboni drivers, and people all over the world, get ready. The Olympics are coming to Sochi, and we will be hosted by masters of the ice. I wait with bated breath.

At a Loss for Words

Olympic Champions, Virtue and Moir

Most people believe that a writer, suddenly inspired, goes running to the nearest table and jots the ideas down. While it may happen that way sometimes, there are many more days when a hapless author stares at a blank page, at a loss for words.

What can be done?

You could run to the nearest search engine and look up Ten Tips for overcoming Writer's Block. I must admit I have done this more times than I can count. I have also come up with my own lists, but in the end, I decided to approach writing as a trained athlete does their sport. Years of figure skating began with the simple act of lacing up my skates. Once on the ice, we were wedded to our warm up. At the start, we just skated, slowly, and then with increasing speed, circling around the rink. With our arms whizzing through the air, the great muscles in the body starting to warm up, crossovers were executed, and smaller circles were covered. Then we turned and skated backwards, back crossovers were done, with our knees bending easily. Next a great jump, the simplest one, the three jump. Once, twice, aiming for greater height, aiming to nail the landing. With a feeling of confidence, we tried a more difficult maneuver.

For the writer, it is not so very different. It begins with coffee. I like to check Facebook, email, Twitter, and any other thing I can think of before I get dressed, take a brisk walk, or do Yoga and then sit down and open the great document. For me, this is the hardest. John Lennon once went years without picking up his guitar, but when he did, the songs flowed out of him like a river. Ernest Hemingway advised that one should not write to the last idea in your head the day before; it is better to leave a little something for the next day. That should make getting started easier, provided, of course that you can remember what that little something was.

Stick with the same place. I need to have my gaze facing water. I need a dedicated space. I do not wander around with my computer. I need to be in the slot.

Keep inspirational icons near at hand. Two pictures of my children sit on my desk. I want them to know that I did what I set out to do. I have a plaque of my strengths as given to me by Gallop:  Intellection, Arranger, Connectedness, Learner and Context. An index card stating what I need to keep in mind is at my left. A bit of crockery my son made in a pottery class holds my pens. Mail that needs answering and a few other things are scattered here and there. It is always personal, even when I worked in a cubicle, it had to have a few mementos, to remind me of home. The rest of the room is stuffed with pictures of the people I love, watercolors on the wall that have been around for most of my life, a mirror of my mother's and on and on. I favor clutter, and always have; it makes me feel cozy somehow. A pine book case with a glass door holds my diaries. A notebook at my right is a running portrait of my brain. All these things help me to get started.

I get up frequently and move. Too much sitting stagnates the thoughts. I think about lunch all morning. I hate being interrupted and will not take calls until the afternoon. I will not clean house, or tackle  any other big tasks until my writing is done.

Ten pages a day. If I am really stuck, I tell myself, I can do ten pages. So that is where I am: on the fifth draft with ten pages daily of revision. Often times it is more, but that does not mean I get off the hook with five the next day.

Read, read, read and read some more. Did you know that a recent study identified readers of fiction having different brain patterns for at least five days after finishing a book? Read the first sentence of each book on the shelf. That will set your imagination in motion. It is an active creature after all.

Give yourself as much quiet time as you can swing. Here in Windy Bay, on Lake Coeur d' Alene, there are lovely woodsy roads that are as quiet as a church. I soak in as much silence as I can each and every day. In order to have thoughts spring to mind, you have to make room for them. Worries, cares and strife of every kind must be dealt with systematically, with the hours for writing carved out. If it means the baby's nap time, or the wee hours before work, or the midnight oil after, we have all been there and done that.

Be stubborn. Be selfish, driven, focused and above all obstinate because everyone in sundry will try to get you to do anything else, but what you set out to do first and foremost.

Ask for help. Isn't it so often the case that what we put last should be first? This is by far the hardest for me, and I daresay the most necessary. If you are struggling, reach out. It may be just the thing to put you over the top.

Present Yourself With Pride

When glancing through the sports page recently, I came across an amazing statistic. Patrick Chan is now in the Guinness Book of World Records.  It happened at the World Championships, 2011, where he received the highest marks ever recorded.  This news is marvelous on many counts, but it personally meaningful to me. This marks a triumph for someone else, someone no longer on this earth, a man who is gone now, but never to be forgotten.  I am recalling my old skating teacher, Osborne Coulson.

To part the mists of time, I return in my mind's eye to Silver Blades skating club, nestled as it was in the borough of Etobicoke, in the west end of Toronto. The rink was absolutely as ordinary as any in existence at the time. The smell of hot dogs, and popcorn would hit full force when we entered the door. The drinks were limited to boiler plate coffee for the Moms and strange tasting soft drinks, with very little ice. The last thing we needed was more cold.

We took to the ice wearing skirts knit by our mothers and grandmothers. In my case, we were lucky enough to have a great aunt who contributed to this effort. Out I went with sweater, skirt, hat and mittens, all fashioned by loving hands. My first coach, in keeping with all efforts to put me on the road to championship, was the best to be had in the entire world. Ellen Burka by name, she had coached her own daughter into landing a perfect triple jump in competition. Petra Burka was the first to accomplish this amazing feat, beating the men and everyone else to the punch, and not only did she do it, she nailed it. Mrs Burka went on to coach many champions, but not yours truly here. At the age of eight, I was quite overcome by a fit of creativity. At center ice, waiting for my music to start, I suddenly got the daft notion to invent my own program. The judges, my parents, and my coach were all horrified with the latter refusing to teach me ever again. In the process of being disciplined for making such a crazy decision, I was told that without Mrs. Burka, I could forget, just abandon, any hope of becoming a Figure Skating Champion in Canada. I had to go down a notch in the coaching field. Due to my odd move, with a championship now out of the running, I had to figure out another way in which to distinguish myself. Without music, or dance lessons, it became a tall order, and the insurmountable problem of my young life. 

Into this sea of trouble skated Ozzie Coulson. I was in the process of working on my school figures, in silence, when he glided over and told me he would be my new coach. He was smoking a cigarette at the time, housed in an elegant gold tipped extender. His hat, a fedora, was enhanced by an extravagant feather sweeping skyward on the side of his head. A cashmere scarf around his neck over a white shirt and tie, an elegant overcoat, and crisp wool pants, he was just unlike most men I knew in my youth. I thought he was great! 

After telling him right off that he was to consider me soft in the head, and stupid on all accounts, he nudged me with his elbow. “You know what” he whispered. “I liked your program!”

I could not believe my ears. Someone was on my side for once? This was too good to be true. That is how my relationship with him began.  At this point in time, I cherish every lesson I had with him, not only for what he taught me about the sport, but what he gave me about life.

“I want you to present yourself to the world with pride,” he said. He would lift his head, smile with a twinkle in his eye, and put his chin up. Sometimes people would make fun of him, or say in their polite way, that he, "certainly was different." Flamboyant was the term most often given to him, but he persisted in walking tall, beautifully and colorfully dressed. He brought a smile to the face of everyone in his midst. He was artistic, creative, and loved that quality in his pupils. He used to laugh his head off at my scathing imitations of others, or of the silly things I said and did.

When I saw him in later years, his eyes filled up with tears as I hugged him. He told me straight away that he was currently coaching a really, really good skater. He referred to Patrick Chan.

When Ozzie lay on his deathbed, Patrick held his hand. A clip shown in the last Olympics featured Ozzie telling Patrick, “I want you to show your pride.”

Any writer attempting to find an agent, or publisher and facing rejection. will be knocked sideways, more than once. It is not uncommon for a young scribe to have a drawer full of verbal assaults and they may start to doubt whether they should pursue this crazy life at all. Bless the people in our midst, the teachers who gave us encouragement, because we can never fully gauge the degree of influence. The meanest letters I ever had to read regarding my work, did not destroy my pride. Just as all those falls, where gravity overcame any efforts to defy it, over and over, and sent me smashing down to the ice, hurting and discouraged, did not stop me from skating. To this day, I still love it, and watching a skater like Patrick Chan who can land not one, but two quadruple jumps, in a short program, one who can make the toughest judges agree that they just saw the best ever, well, that is just as good as it gets. Watching Patrick's record breaking, perfect short program brought me unmistakeably back to the dramatic and jazzy moves, Ozzie taught me as a child. 

Patrick, I congratulate you. Ozzy, I love you and thank you. You had the heart of a champion.

Fiction / Figure Skating

As writers, we are all too familiar with the wall. The work may be flying along at a healthy clip and then suddenly, one tends to hit a wall. This depressing, all too frequent occurrence has a nasty little friend that comes along side it: fear.

Many articles are written about the wall. How to kick through it and keep going, may be a matter of individual preference, but I can only attest to what seems to work for me, and I have tried everything.

Sometimes it is the association of words that set off the trigger. When spell check came along, I think I found my best friend, not for the obvious reason. The list of words with similar sounds does something to my brain. When searching for names, or seeing names come up in spell check, it never ceases to astound me that a list of verbs, so characteristic to that person, pop up on my screen. In the process of writing a memoir, I changed the surname of my family, but the original, namely Smythe, brings up smother, smite and smote. These words have an eerie similarity with the theme of my early life.

Casting about for a topic sent me searching and brought up the word association of fiction/figure skating. Pop goes the weasel. To understand the labyrinth of my thought process, I will part the mists of time and take you back to the early days of the sport. Long before television executives were astounded by the number of viewers tuned in to the skating portion of the winter Olympics, it was a curious, obscure and often weird pursuit, full of excruciating pain and boundless effort. The yield came to almost nothing, but the title of champion for the best, and an annual show involving copious sequins for the rest. The marks consisted of a compilation of school figures at sixty per cent, and the estimable beauty of the free skate at forty. Learning the school figures began early, at the age of six, with the simple figure eight.

Time spent in this endeavor meant the rink had to be divided into patches, with each student designated to their own square. We had to take to the ice in silence and remain quiet for the hour devoted to practicing our figure eights. Like monks, we dutifully obeyed the rule of silence as the penalty for speaking was severe.

You set out from the center skating on the right foot. The art of tracing a perfect circle in the gleaming and pristeen square meant your blade would carve a tracing on the ice. The task seemed impossible, but lessons taught that you had to concentrate with every fiber of your scatterbrained mind in order to get it just right. At the top of the first circle, you slowly moved your left leg forward while reversing the position of your arms. If you did this too quickly, it would throw you off and the tracing would start to wobble. It was the scale, the perfection and the wavering upon which you would be judged. Severe, much older, sour looking people wearing Russian hats would sometimes get down on their knees with magnifying glasses to score the perfection, or lack thereof for the school figures.

What does this have to do with writing? It was there that I began. In the silence, on the cold ice, with my body taught, my skates locked into the task of drawing with my foot, the tracing of a perfect circle, one on top of another, that my creativity was born. I began to make up stories and long conversations with imaginary friends in order to cope with the torture of remaining silent.

Doris Lessing said that when she wrote, she had to make herself still and then search for that underwater feeling. I go for the early training. Patch. Silence. Contemplating, and concentrating on two perfect circles the top drawn with my right foot, the bottom with my left. Get enough speed to get around, but not too much so that you wobble, control the change from right to left, look to the center at all times and then wait for the judges to come in.