Doug Remembered

I hear a voice, a young boy's voice: “Everyday, it’s a-getting’ closer, goin’ faster than a roller coaster. Love like yours will surely come my way, a-hey, a-hey hey.”

It is sweet and clear and unselfconscious.

My sister Addie and I both remember Doug’s voice and those words and to this day neither of us can hear that Buddy Holly song without that memory. For years I sang it to my son at bedtime, every performance a happy memory of my friend -- one happy memory bringing forth another.

When Addie and I were quite young our parents built their own cottage on the lake we shared with the Littles. After having spent a couple of summers staying with them in very close quarters and then a few more at a rented cottage across the bay from them, we had come to consider ourselves part of their wonderful family. Our ultimate move to the other side of the lake was fraught. The idea of losing touch with Doug and Tom was tough to contemplate. But the bonds between our parents were pretty solid and our fears proved to be unfounded.

Sometimes, depending on the weather, you’d hear it before you saw it -- Doug’s flat bottomed sea flea and the unmistakable sound of its motor were always enough to throw us into nutty excitement. By the time he’d driven through the narrows we’d be down at the dock, waiting for him, pacing and jumping around. We weren’t even close to being teenagers, so the thought that this older boy would consider spending time with us felt like a gift from heaven. He’d always smile to see us, and his eyes – well, he had the kindest eyes. And so we’d play great elaborate games of hide and seek, or we’d sing the latest songs from the CHUM chart. We knew that he had his own life, some mysterious business he conducted when he wasn’t with us, and for all we knew, it had been suggested by his (wonderful) mother that he go visit the Prowse kids just to get him out of her way. But whatever the reasons, there he was, the big brother I never had, and probably my sister’s earliest crush. There was always something exotic about him in our minds, his arrival suggesting important events to come.

For as long as we had known them, Doug and Tom always had something going on whether it was a tree house, a fort in the backwoods, a death-defying sea flea or a blue Model A Ford they brought in from somewhere to rebuild. I thought they could do anything. Doug was very proud of these projects and he would show me these things as though he were opening the door to wonders. Doug was always patient and very kind with me. I don’t remember him angry and I don’t remember him pulling rank. I always wondered about that – it wouldn’t have surprised anyone if, as the youngest in his own family standing in the downhill slide of stuff, he had dished out some of it to the next available youngster, the next in line as it were, the little brother. Me. But I don’t remember him doing it.

As the years went on, he would introduce me to new people, never afraid (as I always was) that I was too young to associate with his friends. He once told a group of his pals, who weren’t really doing anything wrong, and not really doing it in my presence, that they could trust me not to rat them out. I can’t begin to describe the feeling.

He would introduce me to new ideas. Without Doug, there would be no Buddy Holly for me to identify with. Without Doug, no Donovan. Without Doug, no Jack Kerouac, no Hermann Hesse, no John Blofeld translation of the I Ching. I may have beat him to James Taylor, though I can’t be sure of that, but both Taylor and Donovan were huge in our awareness – he never considered Donovan to be lightweight, as a lot of people did (and still do, incorrectly). I remember listening to “Mellow Yellow” in the Little’s bunky and thinking for the first time that I might be able to play finger-picking-style guitar like my new hero, Donovan. With this newfound insight I went ahead and learned how. Without Doug’s introduction to Donovan, and Tom’s great generosity in lending me his Goya guitar, there would have been no Rusty Prowse, bespectacled folk singer.

Though I’m not completely sure this happened, something like it did. The way I remember it, another boring day at the cottage was suddenly made exciting by Doug arriving unannounced to ask my Mom if he could drive me to Kingston to see brother Tom who was spending his summer working as a Redcoat at Fort Henry. Tom was to appear in the famous Sunset Ceremony. Although my love for history and the thrill of seeing Tom all done up as a nineteenth century soldier chasing cannon around a parade ground made the visit to the Fort well worthwhile, my most vivid memory of the journey is of sitting in the passenger seat of Mrs. Little’s Volvo with Doug at the wheel, driving west into the last of the sunset, listening to distant rock and roll on the radio, feeling free, joyful and blessed. That ride is the first memory I have of independence. It’s so long ago now that I don’t remember the specifics of our conversation. I wish I could because my sense is that though generally patient, Doug didn’t suffer fools. I’m sure that it took a certain kind of patience for him to listen to a thirteen-year-old grade nine kid spout his insights, and I’m sure that as I began to step into uncharted territory he was listening very carefully, ready to introduce his guidance. But I’m also sure that I have no memory of his ever attempting to embarrass or belittle me.

These encounters and kindnesses continued for many years. I remember at least one visit to the Royal Ontario Museum and hot dogs at the Honey Dew on Bloor Street afterwards. I remember he took me to a really great performance of “Where’s Charley” at Etobicoke Collegiate just a couple of months before I was to begin my lengthy association with the school, and he was about to end his. Passages had meaning for him. He thought about them, obviously. My sister Addie, whose birthday is in late August, and who often suffered through years with no celebrations other than the ones provided by her family at the cottage, remembers one occasion vividly. Here came Doug, an adult now and steering a different vessel, but one no less unmistakable if you knew what to listen for, tying up to our dock where she had come to meet him. “Happy Birthday, Sweet Sixteen,” he said. She remembers he was the first, and only, person to say those words to her. He had been counting. He was a sweet, sweet guy.

As I grew up we began to lose touch. Doug started a family and we all strove for adult lives. We would see each other every once in a while at Christmas and every so often at the cottage, but we were all different now and moving on. I don’t know too much about his adult life, but I know he loved his children deeply and some of the last communication I had from him showed how much he cared for his grandchildren.

I will always miss him. And I will always hear his voice. I loved it.

I am so grateful that love like his surely came my way.

Russ Prowse