Trudeau Stories: An Open Letter to the Author-Performer

Brooke,

I went to see your show at the National Arts Centre tonight while it was in town as part of the Magnetic North Festival. Wanted very much to stick around for the Q & A session afterwards, but misunderstood what time it was by the time the show itself ended. Thus, my hasty - and stupidly premature - retreat from the room and the Centre. I could rationalize it by way of my side trip into the nearest Running Room for yet another pair of socks, but that just smells...like socks.

Wet socks.

So. Your show. A piece of your life, as you lived it and remembered it. A piece of the life of someone else dearer to many people than some would care to admit, or in some instances, care to tolerate admissions from others. A man who became a friend to you.

A piece of both lives that you cared and worked to share with us.

I won't speak to the technical details of the craft. Others better suited to that have already done this, I'm sure, and some of the people who read this aside from you and I will no doubt link to it in their replies in due course.

For myself, I'll stick to the response of the heart. I laughed straight into asthma attacks, a peril I'll gladly keep facing if it keeps me sane to do so. I teared up more than once, including right at the start with that photo. If you apologize for those moments, ever, I will not forgive you. Not on this side of the grave, anyway.

I think you found the best use I've heard of a Vince Guaraldi Trio recording outside of the Charlie Brown specials to date.

You made me wish I'd been able to count Pierre Trudeau as a friend of my own.

For that, I thank you.

You've reminded us of why, as is said by others, "he haunts us still" and why that haunting can and should be a blessing.

For that also, thank you.

Be well. Prosper if you can.

Note to everyone else reading this: If you're wondering what I'm talking about, take a gander over here.

This was originally posted on my own weblog, On the DEWLine.