J.J. Clarke: Ottawa's Last Care Bear

One of the things I've always loved about Ottawa is its small town feel.

Tourists may know this place because it is the Nation's Capital, a place of political theatre and the gargoyles that grace the Parliament Buildings. They come for the festivals, and the souvenirs, for rides along the waterways in amphibious boats. Sophisticates marvel at the charity balls, high priced boutiques and restaurants that serve tiny food. 

But townies adore the other side of Ottawa -- the square pizza at the Prescott, quarts at the Chateau Lafayette, and the markets that pop up every May, like clockwork. Townies, even transplanted ones like me, know all the great spots in town, all the delis serving smoked meat sandwiches piled high, the best places to hear blues on a cold and rainy Sunday afternoon, and the little cafes in Little Italy where we can buy the best damned cappuccino and biscotti this side of Tuscany.

We also love, love, love our local television which for years has reflected the hayseed side of Ottawa. 

For years, the often hokie, always endearing CJOH-TV featured a newscast that could have been the inspiration for a sitcom. It was run by the hard-drinking, jig-dancing Max Keeping, a rat tailed transplanted Newfoundlander who always had a bottle of rum by his side and a flower in his lapel. 

I first saw the Max Show as a Carleton journalism student when I came here in 1974 when my little television could only get two stations. 

I was thrilled in my second year to be given the opportunity to use my newly discovered television skills as part of a one week internship on the Max Show. I quickly realized I had no capacity for multitasking, or playing a team sport, and that my future was not in television.

But I never forgot the opportunity Max gave me, and hundreds of other J school students, some of whom went on to great careers in television. 

The city changed, but OH never did -- much to the chagrin of the suits from Toronto who tried everything to bring the newscast into the modern era. It took a devastating fire to transform the set of The Max Show from the boat on Gilligan's Island to the Starship Enterprise. But the hoke stuck, and the audience remained loyal. 

Part of the appeal was that Max and his merry band fanned out across the Ottawa Valley to be at nearly every fair and church supper. They were front and centre at every telethon, and wore the Christmas hats at Toy Mountain. As a result, the station that Max built had a strong connection, and the audience returned that effort in spades.
Max managed to hang on, even through a terrible cancer. He lost that battle and his seat on the bridge a few years back. Many of his loyal soldiers remained until recently when Bell Canada packaged most of them.
Today, the show is unrecognizable to most loyal viewers.
And with the retirement yesterday of weatherman J.J. Clarke, the renovation of local news is complete.
It makes me sad to see this.
Even with all the changes, I still tuned in to see Jay deliver the forecast in his voice that felt as warm as a hot toddy.

For three decades, Jay served as the unofficial Care Bear of Ottawa. 

He knew he had the best split shift gig in town, and he embraced it like a warm hug. Even after Max Keeping passed, J.J. was a reminder to all of us that there was still goodness in the world. 

Jay was the best weatherman a city could ever hope for -- the Good Humour Man with the corny jokes and sly smile who reassured us during apocalyptic weather, and made us dream of lush green golf courses. 

When he suddenly disappeared a while back, everyone started asking: Where's J.J?

And when he came back, we knew.

Either he was the best candidate at the Biggest Loser Ranch, or he was the other. And we were pretty sure what other meant.

We took a breath and blinked.

Then we heard his sultry voice.

And we knew everything was going to be okay. 

Whatever had happened to Jay, the mysterious illness that turned him from a cherub into a bean pole, it didn't take away his magnificent heart and spirit.

And we were so grateful he was back.

Unfortunately, television icons don't live in the television, like my dog thinks they do.

Even the big guys fade away.

Still, knowing that J.J. Clarke will be on a golf course someplace instead of serving up a side of snowflakes during the dinner rush, it doesn't make it right.

We all need our touch stones, especially these days; we need people we can count on to be there.

And with his retirement yesterday, we have lost one of this city's great touchstones.

A reminder that nothing lasts forever except maybe the weather.