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Monday, September 24, 2012

Sniderman the Record Man

If I were to tell you that Sam Sniderman died I would have only very limited expectations that you would know who I was talking about. But if you are of a certain age, a boomer or perhaps Gen X I would have a reasonable expectation of a knowing look if I told you that Sam the Record Man had passed away. Well he did. He was 92 so as they say “he had a good life”. But his death is more than the death of a man it is the death of an era. It falls on the heels of a change of gargantuan proportions in the way we look at music. I bought my first record from Sam. Well not personally, but from one of his stores. From one of his staff who were as unique and interesting as he was. Sam; like most successful people loved what he did. He loved music. He especially loved Canadian music. He knew every album by every garage band every record that was recorded in a basement in Spadina or a garage in Winnipeg. As they say “Build it and they will come.” Sam did build it. His flagship store on Yonge Street in Toronto attracted like-minded people. Customers who loved that Sam could disappear into a stock room and come out with some obscure piece of vinyl that they couldn’t live without. The same was true of the people he attracted to work for him. Whether he attracted people like himself or whether he only hired the ones who loved music he always had staff who loved what they did and it showed. Sam hated a customer to leave one of his stores empty handed. I don’t think I ever did. My wife and I found ourselves on Barrington Street in Halifax once. She was looking for an album that I knew was long out of print. “If you find it anyplace…” I said to her “you’ll find it at Sam’s” Sam the Record Man on Barrington was three floors of eclecticism; eclectic music; eclectic customers and eclectic staff; on the wall eclectic memorabilia. I loved the place I loved the bulging shelves; the crowded aisles, the funky stairwell and elevator that literally didn’t go all the way to the top. The warped floorboards that creaked as you passed alerting a staff member who looked lost in reveries to your presence. Not that they were inattentive ; on the contrary they were slightly doting but not like most commissioned staff who were on you like white on rice. But they loved a challenge. A tall thin man of indeterminate age approached us on the third floor he was wearing a jack shirt open to a Grateful Dead T-shirt, a sash around his waist and gold cords. “What are you looking for?” He asked with a quick smile. I told him and his head turned sideways. He obviously knew the answer. “That’s not in print in North America.” He said firmly. But I knew he wasn’t done yet so I waited. His smile broadened. “But it is still in print in Germany. Can I order it for you?” I explained that we were on vacation and only in town for a few weeks. “Let’s try anyways; shall we?” So we did. I called on our last day in town but it had not come in. The next year’s holidays found us on Barrington. I practically dragged Lina up the stairs. I went to the shelves and started my search when a voice boomed from behind me. “Blue Train, Am I right?” I turned. It was our friend from the previous year. “Yes; you have a great memory!” I responded. He deafly leafed through the plastic dividers and produced the CD with a flourish. I wasn’t surprised I had come to expect a higher level of service from Sam’s. But times changed. As they always had. The music changed; the media that the music was on changed. Over the years I have even bought the same album from Sam’s on vinyl, eight track (god help me), cassette and later CD. Through it all Sam rode the trends and persevered. Gone are fragile vinyl disks handled lovingly by their edges. Gone are eight tracks; their chunky glove compartment eating carcasses gone to apple boxes at yard sales and flea markets. Gone are cassettes with miles of magnetic tape hanging out of them. Lastly the CD is not gone but it is going. Music today is on files and the internet; essentially on air. You don’t need to go to a store to buy air. You no longer need the guy in the funky T-shirt to tell you where to find it: you just Google it. Chances are you don’t pay for it either. Chances are you download it for free. So stores like Sam’s went away. I miss them. I don’t steal music. I didn’t steal it when it was on glossy vinyl albums with a million things to learn on the covers. I don’t steal it now that it is on air. I love music. Sam loved music. He also loved musicians. He opened his home and this wallet to struggling Canadian artists. Sam is gone and with him an era. Sam was famous for saying “I said it; I did it!” and he did. Canadian music owes him a lot. I still walk past Sam’s on Barrington with a sigh. It is gone of course but the building is still there. I think of all the music lovers who found that elusive gem in those walls; if the walls could only talk…

Sunday, May 13, 2012

Feeder Fever (starve a cold)

When we moved into our current home I was delighted to see that it was set among the trees. It has no yard to speak of just a lot of rock and trees. It does however have a marvelous big deck. The deck is our yard. We use it a lot. I like to BBQ out there all year around. Mind you we don’t often lounge out there and read when it is forty below. I have; in the past had bird feeders on my property. My last location was not favorable for them, there being no trees close by to shelter the little fellows. But this new place was perfect; so I bought a few and filled them up and waited; and waited and waited and waited… Nothing. I searched the internet and all the sites said the same thing. Wait and they will come. Build it and they will come I kept thinking. At first I checked them every chance I got. Then just in the morning and at night. Finally, months after setting up the first feeder I saw a lone bird on the perch and then gradually more and more. Soon the trees around my place began to come alive with twittering and chattering. I began to sit on the deck with my coffee in my hand rain or shine. I loved the sound of the birds they were like to heartbeat of the forest. Now some of my birder friends are a bit snobbish. They love the feathered friends that visit their feeders but look down with disgust on their furry brethren. I draw no such distinction. “You can get hoods.” One particularly close minded bird fancier once told me. “Hoods?” I replied amazed. My mind raced I saw people going out to bird feeders in white robes with hoods on; a KKK of bird fanciers and kind of Avian Brotherhood. “For the feeders!” She said.” Goes on the wire they hang from keeps the Damn Squirrels out!” She sneered. “Damned rodents!” At the time I had almost a dozen feeding stations, a couple specifically designed for squirrels. I had a pair of chipmunks I had named Chip and Dale. I assumed they were a couple. Chip was bold as brass and Dale was shy. Chip would come up to me and take a sunflower seed from my hand and Dale would watch from the shelter of a log in the wall of my log house. I even had flying squirrels. I assume I had been feeding them for a long time and never knew it. The days are long in the arctic summer and the sun never sets. The flying squirrels are nocturnal and I don’t know when they feed in the arctic day when the sun never sets. But that summer I had installed motion lights on my deck and one evening the motion light came on and I watched amazed as a flying squirrel gracefully glided to one of my feeders and made a three or four point landing with amazing grace. They don’t actually fly; of course, they glide and do so beautifully. He took a cheek pouch full of seeds and glided to the ground and then scampered up a tree to repeat the process to my absolute delight. The flying squirrel has fur that is like a cat; very soft and silky not as course as his muddy footed cousin in the vermin infantry. His eyes are bulgy; I suppose for seeing in the dark. Being nocturnal they need that advantage. I was delighted at the range of four footed fellows that frequented my feeders (pardon the alliteration). I soon noted different characteristics in different animals. The squirrels and chipmunks seemed to travel in pairs. Mated pairs I have always assumed. S o I was delighted when I saw numbers of squirrels visiting my feeders here; many, many of them. I have seen seven in my field of view at once so there are a large number of the friendly little fellows. They chatter to me when I approach on frosty spring morning with a bucket of nuts in hand. They wait patiently while I spread some out on the railing and they do not wait for me to leave. They dash about mu feet waiting for the feast. I see them crossing the street in front of our house from my neighbor’s yard. One day Lina said with some pity in her voice. “Aw that little squirrel has no tail.” I looked but as I am legally blind I could not see it at that distance. Several days later; on my day off I was settled into a yellow plastic adirondak chair sipping my morning coffee and watching my breath as I exhaled in the cool morning air. The coffee made my breath even more noticeable. I was savoring a Royal Edinburgh shortbread cookie when I heard a scampering at my feet. I looked down into two chestnut brown eyes ringed by white circles. A squirrel cocked his head at me. I broke off a piece of cookie and set it by the heel of my house slipper. Like a flash he snapped it up and held it in this paws and began to eat it with vigor. I could not help but notice that he had only the tiniest nub of a tail. When he had finished I went to the door and called Lina. “I think your friend is here.” I said. She got down on all fours to sneak a peek around the corner. When her head appeared he scampered towards her not away. He passed inches from her face and grabbed a peanut off the deck and began chewing. “It is him!” Lina exclaimed. Over the next few days he became a regular feature on the deck and was there every time I looked. As I sat in my yellow chair yesterday I said aloud. “I must give you a name.” Lina was sitting beside me. “What do you call a squirrel with half a tail?’ I thought for a moment and a wicked smile crept across my face. “What are you thinking?’ Lina said warily. “I was thinking what else you could call a squirrel with half a tail. Bob!”