Conrad Boyce is the editor and publisher of the Cosmos. He has a BA in English from the University of Alberta and a diploma in journalism from Grant Macewan Community College in Edmonton. He lived and worked in the Yukon and Vancouver Island before arriving in Ontario in 1995. Beyond these pages, he is the Artistic Director of OnStage Uxbridge, and the technical manager of the Uxbridge Music Hall.
Bowlin' and flippin'
Newspaper editors are apparently sufficiently in the public eye to occasionally be invited to undertake ceremonial tasks. For instance, I was recently honoured to be asked to cast, or roll, or throw, the opening bowl of the season at the Uxbridge Lawn Bowling Club, probably the most venerable sporting organization in the township.
Although I realized it was not particularly important to possess any degree of bowling prowess to undertake this duty, I nevertheless took pains to point out to the good folks at the ULBC that I had considerable experience in cottage-style bocce, as well as playing quite a bit of bar-room shuffleboard in my younger years. I also took curling as my compulsory phys-ed course in my first year of university (apparently that’s no longer a requirement at most post-secondary institutions - no wonderour young people are getting soft).
All of these sports, I think it’s fair to say, bear more than a superficial resemblance to lawn bowling. They all concern the quest to concentrate as many of your team’s missiles as possible around a central point. In lawn bowling, that objective is a tiny white ball called a “jack”.
Taking my ceremonial role very seriously, I showed up in a tuxedo, perhaps a first in the history of the ULBC. The “jack” was cast by one of the members, far across the “green”, and I was invited to get my bowl as close as I could to it.
The members steeled themselves; apparently past first-bowlers had rocketed their bowls clear off the green, sometimes even threatening tennis players on the nearby court. They were in no such danger from me. Not only did I keep my bowl on the green, it even came heart-breakingly close to the jack as it slid on by.
A few of the members oohed and aahed and said they would gladly have me on their teams, but I think it was the lemonade talking. Nevertheless, I wasn’t horrible. Perhaps I will take up the sport one day; it’s not near as embarrassing as golf.
In a similar ceremonial vein, and in the very same week, I received an invitation in the mail from the remarkable Ginger Jackson to participate in McHappy Day, to serve as a temporary employee at the Uxbridge McDonald’s on a day when a percentage of the sales went to support the Toronto Ronald McDonald House, an excellent resource for families from small communities like ours.
An RSVP was requested. I enthusiastically replied that I’d love to be there, and told Ginger when during the day I was available (it being a Wednesday, it would have to be after all my papers were safely delivered). She e-mailed back to say I’d be on the 5:00 shift, which I’d be sharing with none other than Mayor Bob himself!
This was marvellous. I thought I’d forego the tux this time (no point in getting it all greasy from the french fryer), but was prepared to remind Ginger that, as in the lawn bowling circumstance, I came to the job with some valuable experience.
In fact, as McHappy Day drew closer, I found myself thinking more and more about those glory days, flippin’ burgers at the Bonnie Burger Bar.
It was the summer of 1967, Canada’s centennial year. Only the previous year, I’d had my very first summer job at the age of 15, paging books (that is, returning them to the shelves) at the Idylwylde branch of the Edmonton Public Library. The pay was a stunning 75 cents an hour. But this summer. I experienced an electrifying 33% increase in salary; I would be taking home a crisp green dollar bill (this was long before the loonie) for every hour in the kitchen at the Burger Bar.
It was called the Bonnie Burger Bar because it was located in the Bonnie Doon Shopping Centre on Edmonton’s far east side. Not only was the salary impressive, the owners of the Bar (the wonderfully-named Fred and Mabel Zurch) gave me an awful lot of responsibility as well. For most of my shift, I was alone in the kitchen - alone to create works of culinary art like cheeseburgers, pepperoni pizzas or tuna sandwiches. Only at peak hours did Mabel come back to give me a hand.
Looking back, considering my historical lack of manual dexterity, I’m surprised I survived that summer with all my fingers intact. I don’t remember poisoning anyone either, so I’m sure the Zurches would have written Ginger a letter of reference, were they still among us.
As it turned out, though, I didn’t need one. The usual staff worked the kitchen on McHappy Day; the mayor and I were relegated to handing out coupons and souvenirs.
I tried not to show my disappointment at not being able to relive those wonderful weeks at the Bonnie Burger Bar. But when I retire from the newspaper biz, watch out, Ginger, here I come!
