Sunday, March 26, 2023
My older brother, Ted Gervais, passed away yesterday afternoon. I had the dubious pleasure of being born on his birthday, and from that point on, I was considered his ‘official’ birthday present. He was someone I looked up to, and admired, and when he went into the RCMP, I waited week after week for his letters to come home from the training camp. I read about his Musical Ride horse ‘Johnnie,” about the rigorous training, about waking at dawn to run in the cold of an open prairie, but also about how there was never any limit to how much food one could consume in the Mountie training, and so my brother regularly ordered a dozen eggs in the mess hall every morning.
Ted Gervais, or “Bud,” as I called him, was many things. A husband, a father, a police officer, pilot, church organist, photographer, a fellow who built his own computer, rode motorcycles and drove school buses … but his specialty in the RCMP was working as a portrait photographer. For me, that made perfect sense because my earliest memories are standing beside him in his makeshift “Dark Room” (in a closet) of our basement on Prado Place in old Riverside and watching his black and white photographs magically come to life. Only a few days ago, we spoke at length about portraits, about the importance of light, and capturing the true essence of an individual. I could tell from the way he spoke how much he loved working with a camera.
My brother also taught me how to play chess, and really it wasn’t any master class tutorial — it was simply from watching him play the game on the front verandah of our house on Prado. The porch was a hub of several matches taking place, with neighbourhood high school pals, along my oldest brother, Paul, all locked in fierce competition. I stood back and watched and learned the fundamentals.
Another memory is the shimmering and melodic sound of the piano as my brother played the Polish composer Jan Paderewski’s Minuet in G major, Op. 14 No. 1. I was not yet 12 years old. I would stand on the lawn, and through the nearby open windows this light and lively piece filtered into the summer air. It became a part of my everyday as my brother practiced and practiced it for a competition or a concert. To this day when I hear it, it lifts me back to those easy summer days. Occasionally, but not often, my brother permitted me to sit silently behind him in the living room while he played. I secretly marvelled at his wide hands sailing across the keys in a blur.
Our days, too, on Prado Place in the late 1950s were not without moments of mischief and adventure. My brother, Ted, built a telescope, and housed it in a cramped tarpaper observatory to study the moon. He also fashioned a tiny little rocket and launched it one evening in the side yard of our house. I stood with my four bothers and peered up at the night sky, as it soared high above us, but then saw it suddenly plummet and land on the school roof across the road, causing the Riverside Fire Department to hurry out to save the building from burning to the ground.
Life was an adventure. And Ted, my brother, was the centre of it. Always.
A final story: if you look closely at the photographs of the funeral for former Canadian Prime Minster John G. Diefenbaker, you will spot my brother donning the traditional formal red serge along with seven other Mounties — the pallbearers — as they wheeled the casket into the front foyer of the Centre Block of the Parliament Buildings in August 1979. I was working at the Windsor Star and I noticed that photograph come over the wire, and when I looked at it, I couldn’t quite believe here was my brother. What an honour to be part of this historical moment.
I am going to miss him, especially those early morning breakfasts when we joined up with my other brother, Paul, who passed away last year. The three of us always talked endlessly about the good old days. And they were good. They were the best.
