A letter to Stuart McLean listeners

Hello there…

You feel like you lost a good friend, too, right?  When Stuart McLean died yesterday, we lost someone with whom we used to spend an hour a week with…and maybe more, if we bought or read his books or listened to him on podcast. Stuart was a part our our lives, and it felt as if we knew him.

This morning at coffee, Mary and I cried about his death.  And then, this afternoon, driving in the car, as I was listening to Michael Enwright’s tribute to him, I howled at his cricket antics.  I laughed as he laughed, giggled as he giggled, and then I morphed into weeping as I heard him continue to laugh. He was always good at that wasn’t he? Having us laugh and cry at the same time?

Stuart became a part of the fabric of our lives. A presence that reminded us of kindness, and gentleness in a world that can be fraught with challenges.  I loved the way he shone his light on Canadian artists, some of which none of us had ever heard of…but he loved them, and then we heard them, and then we loved them too. I loved how he would tell us the history of the theatre he was speaking from, or some tales about his adventures about the town or the drive through the mountains in the week prior to the show.  I felt like I got to know some of the smaller, less known parts of Canada through Stuart.

I’d always thought about, but never actually submitted a piece to Vinyl Café’s Story Exchange. It might be too late for Stuart to read it…but I’m gonna write the one that’s been rattling around in my head.

Stuart told us our stories were important…so I’m gonna tell you my story about him.

Regular listeners know the intro to Story Exchange…and have probably recited it with Stuart many a time as he would routinely introduce this part of the show:

It’s time now for the Vinyl Café Story Exchange.  It has to be true, and it has to be short, but after that…well, after that, it doesn’t have to be anything a’tall.  We promise we’ll read every one, and we’ll read the best ones on the radio.

I’ve missed hearing that.

I’ll miss hearing that.

Dear Stuart,

When my children were young, I read them a lot of books.  At one point, at the recommendation of a friend, my oldest Junior Tribe Member found the number of books I read to him increased dramatically.  He loved being read to…I’d ask him to go to go pick out 3 or 4 books at a time—his choice–and he was read to every 3 hours or so throughout the day.  I don’t think he noticed that his little brother was being fed during those times. He never resented those feedings or the intrusion of this new little being into his life because for him, it was only a win. My son loved hearing his mother read him stories.

We all know that children don’t love being read to just because of the stories themselves.  My son loved the soothing sound of my voice.  It was about spending some time with someone safe. It was about the familiarity of the characters. He knew what was going to happen because we had a rhythm to your reading.  When he was upset or distressed, or overtired before a nap, being read to calmed him.  With the soothing sound of my voice reading the words on the page, he slowed down, his heart rate slowed, and the world became an all right place to be.

We all love being read to.

Somehow, once we get to reading at 7 or 8, it stops, and we are responsible for our own reading.  We don’t get read to much when we get to reading age, and I think we miss something.  In the days before video or music on an iPod, when we were on a cross country vacation, my mother would read to us to pass the long hours in the car.  I loved it.

Many years later, when I wasn’t reading much to my kids anymore,  the bottom fell out of my world. I lost 30 pounds. I was waking at 4 or 5 in the morning, unable to get back to sleep.  I scrambled to figure out what life looked like after Former Husband left—single parenting, working, all the uncomfortable meetings that happen with a separation and divorce. So much grief and terror…sometimes I didn’t know if I could stand it.

I was utterly bereft.

It was a discombobulating time in my life, where I felt sure of little.  I wore a ring that reminded me of my commitment to my children, and my God’s commitment to me.  Everything else seemed shaky and uncertain.

That’s where you come in, Stuart.  I listened to your podcast. And along with a good chunk of Canada, it felt good to be with you for an hour.

You read to me, Stuart, and in a time and space where the world was scary and terrifying, even if for only an hour, my world shrank to the size of your voice in my ears.

You told me stories about Dave and Morley, Stephanie and Sam, and their pets, neighbors and family. The stories were often hilarious, generally insightful…and always read in your gentle lilting voice. It was animated, and interesting…and always, always reliable.

I knew the order of the show…the consistency made your show predictable–though never boring. Your voice lowered my blood pressure and slowed my heart rate during a time in my life when I was living full throttle.  I found myself in a new world of single parenting, and negotiating life alone—and your stories read in your voice were a familiar and safe anchor in my life.

When you laughed it was gentle.  When you teased, it was never mean. You affirmed others often. You encouraged your guests. You believed in ordinary Canadians…you told us we had stories that deserved telling…and you told them. You gave Arthur awards that reminded us all of the goodness of those around us…the goodness that is small gestures that often go unnoticed until you reminded us of their importance.

When you read your stories to me, my terrifying existence faded and Dave’s latest antics were a refuge.

Thank you, Stuart, for reading to me.

To all of us.