Love Letters to John Turner

 

When I found out that John Turner had died this weekend, I went looking for this letter which had been gathering dust in the back of my closet. It was dated September 13, 1984, and it was given to me a few days after his failed bid to win the 1984 federal election by my boss, Peggy Dillman Taschereau, who was the Chief of Correspondence for the Prime Minister's Office.

Everybody got a letter. I got two -- one that was filled with flowery and gushing language, and this one that I had written myself. I preferred my version -- crisp, unsentimental, to the point -- and I threw the other one out. There was no great ceremony, no tea and cookies with the great man himself, just this letter to remember the 79 days I had worked for Turner as a correspondence assistant. I had, in fact, never met the man who had succeeded Pierre Elliott Trudeau as Prime Minister of Canada. That was fine by me. I  wasn't a sycophant, not even a political militant; I was just a hired gun who got paid to answer the Prime Minister's mail, and catch up on the buckets of letters leftover from the Trudeau Peace Initiative after his entire correspondence team was unceremoniously dumped when Trudeau gave Turner the keys to his kingdom.

I had worked in the Trudeau PMO for about two years before Turner was elected by the Liberal Party, and I was one of the few who stayed after the Great Man took a walk in the snow. Most everybody else on his 90-odd staff had gone on to support other candidates vying for the top job. I didn't like any of them, particularly, so I was happy to stay and clean up the mess left behind. It was a job, and I got paid for it. My brother warned me never to volunteer for anything, and I took his advice to heart.

If you read the press today, you will hear stories about John Turner, the dashing young silver haired, honey-tongued, devil who swept Princess Margaret off her feet. You will hear that he was brilliant, athletic, charming, a bit of a rogue, a man who had an unbridled passion for steak and tomatoes at lunch  chased down by a few "Scotch-a-roonies". 

You will hear and read all about his failed election campaign, along with his epic battles with The Jaw Who Walked Like a Man, as Fotheringham used to call Ben Mulroney's dad. And you will hear from Liberals affectionately thanking him for sticking around to rebuild the party after the Tories swept us all off the royal blue carpet in the Langevin Block.

I didn't know the man personally, and can't comment on whether his policy deck was better than Mulroney's. I'm not a policy wonk, though often I pretend to be one for money.

But what I can share with you are my observations of the Turner campaign as seen through the eyes of a person whose job it was to actually read the letters from ordinary Canadians who took the time to pen them. It was my job to thank them, on behalf of the Prime Minister, for their views and concerns, and assure them that their letters were brought to his attention. In reality, most of the letters never crossed Turner's desk. They were written by me, approved by Peggy, and signed with the benefit of an electronic arm. 

Back in the 80s, there was no email or websites where voters could connect with the Prime Minister. People couldn't just dash off missives, and press send. So the people who wrote actually had to put some thought into their letters, and sign and date them. 

I couldn't believe how thoughtful most people were, and how much time they took in putting their thoughts on paper. Sometimes, I'd get a letter written in calligraphy. Once, I was handed a photograph of a man wanking off. "Here's my donation," was scribbled over his left thigh.

What I found most fascinating was how close the correspondence came to reflecting the mood of the electorate which was angry and frustrated. There were a lot of Westerners who railed against the ill-fated National Energy Program, and farmers who still couldn't get over Trudeau's tone-deaf refusal to help them sell their wheat. And who can forget the famous Salmon Arm Salute when Trudeau gave British Columbians the finger?

Turner had nothing to do with Trudeau but he ended up wearing the Liberal brand like a scarlet letter. I often felt for the man.

What really pissed Canadians off was when the outgoing prime minister dumped a huge wad of patronage appointments on Turner as his last act. The list included the names of former Postmaster General Bryce Mackasey who was named as an ambassador, and the appointment of Colin Kenney, a political operative in his 30s who won the golden ticket to the Senate of Canada. 

The whole thing stank to high heaven, as far as the letter writers were concerned. It was as if Oprah Winfrey had landed in Ottawa, and was giving away cars to every Liberal at taxpayers' expense. 

To be fair, it was hard to fault Turner who found himself the recipient of a poisoned chalice. But writers couldn't believe that he didn't stand up to Trudeau or that he had "no option". I received nearly a hundred letters on the subject, and it became a gift to the Tories during the debates, even though Mulroney admitted he might have done the same thing. 

The second refrain humming through the correspondence came from Canadians who were aghast that Turner had publicly patted the firm buttocks of Iona Campagnolo, the Liberal Party President. His action, and his half-assed apology rankled men and women alike. I mean, this was 1984, not 1964!

One day, I got into the office, and there was a postcard on my desk. It was addressed to the Prime Minister of Canada, and it was postmarked Firm Buns Ohio. The card was filled with bum patting cartoons. I have to give it to the guy who sent it -- it was original.

In the end, Canadians gave the Liberals their walking papers, and it was years before they trusted another red tie wearing dude again. 

Frankly, who could blame them? 

Reflecting back, and despite Trudeau's efforts at sabotage, the contest was Turner's to lose. He made no effort to conjure up his former vibrant self. Instead, he presented the image of a tired old dinosaur, and a man long past his prime. He left the Hill in a huff eight years before as a dashing and energetic reformer, and returned as a Bay Street suit wearing old man pants that came up to his nipples, smelling of moth balls. 

Liberals had no one to blame but themselves. They had been sold a stallion and found themselves walking an old stud around the political paddock.