In the renovated elegance of Calgary's leatherbound Petroleum Club, there was only quiet satisfaction mingled with a noticeable increase in the density of cigar smoke. And in Ottawa last week there was a strikingly similar mood of quiet elation, without the usual bravura and ostentation that normally mark such historic occasions.
The black teen-ager entered the lobby of the Detroit Plaza Hotel. He was about 14 or 15, nearly six feet tall, in black chino pants, a white T-shirt, black high-top sneakers. It was 11 a.m., a school day. The boy crossed the lobby and headed for one of the office towers of the Renaissance Center.
What can be said of the allure of the Belmont Stakes? Certainly not that it is "The Third Jewel of the Triple Crown.” That kind of stuff is the province of the network boys and the tabloid tub thumpers who call the World Series “The Fall Classic” and World War II “The Big One.”
Although at his tender age he’s yet to distinguish between an arabesque and a plié, three-month-old Alexander, the Pisces progeny of Nadia Potts, principal dancer for the National Ballet, and Harold Gomez, National Ballet clarinetist, is destined for a dancer’s peripatetic life.
Roger Lemelin is the bête noire of Quebec's intellectual elite. His taunt in Toronto that Quebec is becoming a new Iran set the city’s highpitched bank towers to quiver last month like timorous tuning forks in the coarse grip of a disco drummer.
The formula just might be working at this year's Shaw Festival. G.B.S.'s You Never Can Tell and Dear Liar, a dramatization of letters between Shaw and his favorite actress, combine for classy, glassy comedy. However, not all reflections cut so fine a figure, proof positive of that being Emlyn Williams’ The Corn Is Green, which certainly lives up to its name.
In Warsaw, the normally staid inhabitants paved his way with flowers; on the tank training range at Gniezno more than a million people, many of them farmers who had come by horse and cart, gathered to hear him preach; at Auschwitz he knelt in comparative solitude to pray at the monument to Father Maxmilian Kolbe, one of the four million victims at that concentration camp, who gave his life so that another man, still alive and the father of eight children, might live.
In Ottawa, the town where the taste buds went out to lunch and have never returned, there are so few decent restaurants that one dares not blow the cover of the best one. It is presided over by a lady who is as broad as her wisdom and she moaned this night—it being the day when Joe Clark was sworn in as prime minister—at the sudden invasion of freshly scrubbed Tory toffs eager to spend their new ministerial salaries.
In the evening of the third day following his swearing-in as Canada's 31st finance minister, John Crosbie is finally able to allow himself two fingers of scotch and yet another idle thought. “Mathematics,” he says, eyes closed, feet on empty desk, “was always a weakness of mine.”
Mobile homes-those used as principal residences rather than recreational vehicles—have not been objects of desire for most Canadians shopping for a house. There is a prejudice against such dwellings, which seems to be based on an idea that mobile homes are little better than slummy shacks filled with itinerants more ready to snatch washing from your clothesline than to settle down as responsible community residents.
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