Whenever I touch the
lobe of my right ear, I think of Eugene Whelan.
I was talking to
him just minutes before I lost it.
We were at the
Ottawa Car Show, invited there by the man from Chrysler, Othmar Stein, who was
hosting a VIP reception at the Westin Hotel. We drank white wine for an hour,
then took a spin around the show, and were back at the bar in no time.
Gene was regaling
us with stories about his adventures. I don’t remember what he was talking
about, but it was sure funny.
My feet were
hurting, standing in three inch heels, so I sat on the corner of a love seat,
slipped and clipped my ear on the glass coffee table. A few minutes later
somebody noticed blood streaming down my neck.
Seems I’d taken an
entire chunk of the lobe.
I didn’t notice, mesmerized
as I was by the guy who seemed like he was agriculture minister forever.
Gene, Gene, the
Farmin’ Machine used to give six speeches a week at various places, didn’t
matter where: a grocery store, a farmer’s field, a board room.
As the saying goes,
he would go to the opening of an envelope.
For this, he made
his staff suffer. They wrote these dense, dull, blorgy speeches about marketing
boards, the Crow’s Nest Pass, the Europeans.
I know.
I had to read them
as part of my job as a communications officer at National Liberal Caucus.
Thing is, he never
gave one of them.
He always spoke off
the cuff, just nattered on about ridiculous subjects, churning out the corny
jokes faster than a Jewish comic in the Poconos.
He was a laugh riot,
a true original.
A wizard, a true
star.
I was sorry to hear
of his passing, but I’m happy to know that Green Acres awaits him.
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