http://arts.nationalpost.com/2011/12...htfoot-and-me/
While on my book tour for Writing Gordon Lightfoot, this is what I found: nice rooms filled with nice people; all the coffee I needed to drink; an awkwardly glowing introduction (awkward for me); books sold from a table; and then, questions, most of them good. Sadly, I was asked one question repeatedly: “Have you ever met Gordon Lightfoot?” The answer was “Yes.” The response, from the questioner, was, inevitably: “Why didn’t you tell us that in the book?”
The truth is, I forgot– how I could forget a single encounter with the subject of my book is a question for greater, more mystical beings– but let me explain. I’d met Gord (or Gordon; some bloggists are upset that I’ve shortened his name; apparently no one has to tell them to get a life) in Quebec City in 1987. In an elevator. In the dead of winter. I was there for Rendez-Vous 87, a hockey tournament that matched the NHL All-Stars with the Russian National Team. Me and Gord and Pete faked our way into the tournament, fudging press credentials by pasting our bylines over other writer’s stories. We were given Rendez Vous tote bags, pens, notebooks and badges. We met Tony Esposito, Alan Thicke, Jari Kurri, Trent Frayne, and Scotty Bowman, with whom Gord and Pete got stuck in an elevator. They remember Scotty shouting into the elevator phone, outraged that they’d stopped. After a few minutes, the car jerked forward and my friends were spared further wrath.
The next day, Gord came on at the seventh floor. By sheer fluke, we were staying on the 24th, in the Presidential Suite, with great windows overlooking the Plains of Abraham. Lightfoot was the very image of his album covers: tall, scruff-bearded and denim’ed from head to toe. It was a great surprise to see him, not only because we were surrounded by the tournament’s hockey royalty, but because Lightfoot had retreated from the centre of Canadian cultural consciousness after years as the dominant force.
I decided to say something, so I asked him: “How did the show go last night?” (Lightfoot had been brought in by Nordiques’ owner Marcel Aubut to perform alongside Autograph, a Ukranian rock band). Lightfoot looked down at me, then looked at his hands. Then he brought his hands up from his waist, and turned them over. His fingers were long with worn callouses. He looked back at me, then back at his hands, one of which he scratched. “Well,” he said. There was a pause. The elevator fell, binging at each floor. “Well,” he repeated, scratching. “Early Morning Rain was a little fast.”
“Ah,” I said. Actually, I’m not sure what I said. Maybe I’d ah’ed or maybe I’d oh’ed. I can’t remember. The elevator stopped at the third floor. Gord got out. And we went back to the rink.
Lightfoot and Me - Dave Bidini
