Читать книгу Boy from Nowhere - Allan Fotheringham - Страница 6

I have often thought that you write an autobiography when your career is over. However, writers never really retire. At least I haven’t. I am seventy-nine years old and have recently written for The Roughneck, a magazine out of Calgary; have blogged for Zoomer magazine (yes, I blog and twitter); occasionally write for the Globe and Mail and the National Post; and submit columns to Maclean’s.

I am not bored. I play tennis three times a week at 9:00 a.m. with what I fondly call the “Geezer Group” at my tennis club and am still on the speakers’ circuit. I have three great children and five wonderful grandchildren who keep me coming to Vancouver to see them and, in the process, many of my long-standing friends. My lovely wife, Anne, and I travel on a regular basis and know many people around the world.

I have journeyed to some ninety-one countries in the course of my career and am planning to add to that number. I have received two honorary degrees and numerous awards. And I am proud to say I have been fired by every major newspaper and news agency in Canada. I have met Joe Louis, Zhou Enlai, Robert F. Kennedy, Henry Kissinger, Nikita Khrushchev, Bill Clinton, Pierre Elliott Trudeau, Vladimir Putin, Nelson Mandela, Mickey Mantle, Brian Mulroney, Jean Chrétien, Paul Martin, Stephen Harper, Pope John Paul II, Diana, Princess of Wales, Queen Elizabeth II (thrice), Prince Charles, Prince Philip, Muhammad Ali, Shimon Peres, Louis Armstrong, Bob Hunter, and The Beatles, to name a few.

So why now? Because in 2007 I got a wake-up call. I went in for a routine colonoscopy, and due to medical error, did not come out of the hospital for four months. I almost died more than once, had the last rites performed, and am here only due to the efforts of my wife, who spent one hundred and forty-five days in the hospital for ten hours a day wearing a hospital gown, a face mask, and gloves while helping me and monitoring what was occurring. I was in rehab for a year, and after another operation to replace a knee and another year of rehab, I am healthy and here to tell the tale.

When something like this happens, you realize how fragile life is and how easily it can be taken away from you. And until now I haven’t sat down to write about my life so that my grandchildren, Quinn, Lauren, Lachlan, Hunter, and Angus, will know about their “Oompah.” Sure, they can look up my old columns. My readers know that over the years I have written about where I was or what I have been doing among other things. My readers know more about me than my grandchildren do. So this is for them. In the process I hope you, the reader, obtain more insight into me and my life, as well.

The head table at the Bob Edwards Award 25th anniversary luncheon in Calgary in 1999. Left to right: myself, June Callwood, David Suzuki, and Margaret Atwood. I received the award in 1990.

A Special Note from the Author

During the editing of this book, my number one son, Brady, died in Seoul, South Korea, where he had been living for eight years. He had a massive heart attack and died instantly. At only forty-seven.

Brady was an adventurer until the day he died. The last time I spoke with him he was telling me about all of the books he was reading as research on the Middle East. He felt he had conquered Asia and was determined to go to all of the Middle Eastern countries. I was very impressed with his knowledge of these nations. Brady never did anything by half.

My wife, Anne, was speaking to Brady just prior to his heading out for work when he had the heart attack in his apartment. They were discussing his holidays, which were coming up in the next few weeks, and his visa application form for entry into Syria at a time when the newspapers were reporting numerous deaths each day due to the conflict there. A conflict in a country never phased Brady.

He was then planning to go on to Lebanon. Not London … Lebanon.

When you read this book, you will find how special Brady was. He was the bravest person I ever met. I will miss him terribly.

Boy from Nowhere is not only dedicated to my five grandchildren but to my son, Brady.