To end this reminiscence of early days in Regina . . .
At some point, I had to travel further south than Taylor Field.
It was on a late autumn evening in 1970 (possibly spring of ’71, on any account, long long ago!) which means I was 14 years old. I was sitting in the Copper Kettle coffee shop on Scarth Street smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee and writing in my journal.
That used to be the real reason for going into a coffee shop on a rainy evening way back then, to have a comfortable and dry place to have a cigarette. How the world has changed during my brief time in it. Well, we have to adapt, I guess. Within reason.
(Christ almighty! That was 55 years ago! And here I sit in Caffe Beano, sans cigarette, still writing in my journal. Have I not evolved at all?!) (And more to the point, what was I doing in a downtown cafe all alone on a Friday night, smoking cigarettes of all things! At 14!!)
Anyway, tt was a dark and stormy night when into the Copper Kettle came a boy from my school. He was a grade ahead of me. He was from Edmonton, much more glamorous and interesting than I could ever hope to be. He spotted me and came directly over to my table which surprised me mightily — I didn’t even know that he knew who I was, or that I even existed.
He sat down at my table, ordered a coffee and we sat and smoked a couple of cigarettes. Then he asked me, “What are you doing tonight?” (As if sitting in a coffee shop downtown smoking cigarettes wasn’t enough! Could there be more?!)
I’d like to think I was worldly and erudite enough to say something like “You’re looking at it,” but probably not.
“You want to go on an adventure?” he asked.
“Sure, I guess,” I said, not sure at all.
We left the coffee shop and went out into the rain. In front of us, there was Victoria Park, and to the left, across Victoria Avenue, the beautiful Hotel Saskatchewan. I followed my new friend as we walked up to Victoria, then crossed Scarth until we were standing at the bottom of the small stairway leading into the hotel.
“Come on,” he said.
“We can’t go in there,” I said.
“Why not?” he asked.
“We’re not allowed,” I said.
He looked at me like I was insane. “Of course we’re allowed,” he said. “It’s a hotel.”
Seeing my hesitation, he said the words that would stay with me the rest of my life: “Just act like you belong and you’ll be ok. ”
And so I did. And I’ve been doing it ever since.
We passed the elegantly-dressed doorman into the lobby then went down the main corridor past the elevators, my friend walking ahead of me, me tagging along behind. Finally he turned off into a small. ornate salon: in the salon, a grant piano and a couple upholstered chairs.
He took his wet coat off and threw it over one of the chairs and then sat at the piano. I sat on anther chair with my soggy coat still on and listened in mute disbelief as he began to play. Although I’d grown up in a house with a piano and had taken lessons when I was younger, it was like I was hearing the instrument for the first time.
For the life of me, I can’t remember what he played but I do remember it was what is known as classical music. It may have been some Mozart, maybe some early Beethoven, maybe a little Bach. It hardly mattered. I sat enthralled.
He played for twenty minutes or so, lost in his own little world. He transported me somewhere I had never been before. I never wanted that moment to end. But of course it did. Finally he stood up abruptly and put on his coat and said, “We better get out of here before they kick us out.”
I recall that I basically ran home that night, down Victoria to Albert, under the subway to Dewdney, over to Cameron and then the last half block to my house. My mom and dad were in the living room, probably watching TV.
“Did you have a nice evening, dear?” my mom must have asked. How could she have known my world had been shaken, that everything had changed for me in the brief time I’d been away?
“It was fine,” I said, then asked, “Mom, would it be possible for me to take piano lessons again?”
My mom was a church organist and a fine musician. I think she stared to cry when I asked her that. The answer was never in doubt.
And so I began piano lessons a few weeks later at the Conservatory on College Avenue.
My world had changed.
“Act like you belong.”
Words to live by.
Thanks for reading.
PS. For anyone interested in learning more about the venerable Hotel Saskatchewan, my friend Jeff Itcush has a short video on Youtube titled Jeff Returns Home — to the hidden world of the Hotel Saskatchewan.
eugene stickland 