Beneath the 100-foot whispering pines overlooking emerald Lac Beauvert at Jasper Park Lodge, two tall men, looking slightly out of character in casual clothes, strained to strike a note of informality. The mission at hand was nothing less than the transfer of power to a Conservative government after 16 uninterrupted years of Liberal reign.By Robert Lewis13 min
In the personal hours of last Wednesday morning, a red-eyed, exhausted Al Graham sat in Room 687 of the Château Laurier and wondered if the night would go on forever. As president of the Liberal party of Canada, the senator had every right to feel as though he were presiding over a liquidation.By Roy MacGregor11 min
Ten years after its creation ex nihilo, the new generation of Canadian playwrights is watching it all come together—outside Canada. Undaunted by an off-Broadway flop a season ago, David French was back in the U.S. last winter with Of the Fields, Lately, which sold out a four-week run in Westchester, New York, and is to go into New York City next season with his current hit, Jitters.By John Bentley Mays7 min
Scoop Jackson has the charisma of a cleaning lady, the looks of a Basset hound and the power of a locomotive. It’s said they throw darts at his picture in the Kremlin. He’s revered in Jerusalem, praised in Peking and feared in the White House.By William Lowther7 min
The whispered rumor spread quickly among jazz fans in the early ’70s: crippling arthritis was threatening the lightning fingers of Oscar Peterson. Fingers compared countless times with those of his mentor, the legendary Art Tatum. Fingers that arpeggioed their way to 16 prestigious down beat magazine awards.By Marsha Boulton6 min
The star of TV’s mindless sex-comedy Three’s Company, Suzanne Somers. isn’t quite as dumb as the frothy, semi-clad Chrissy she plays on the tube. The wife of Canadian talk-show host AI Hamel has parlayed her jiggling bosom, blonde hair and toothy grin into the richest contracts ever for a TV actress—totalling $5 million.By Jane O’Hara6 min
In Tahrir Square, a clump of overweight white plasterboard doves sits grounded at the heart of Cairo’s eternal traffic jams, celebrating peace with Israel. But the city’s suffocating pollution has already turned them a mottled grey, and here and there a wing has broken off, giving them more the appearance of clay pigeons from some oversize shooting gallery.By Marci McDonald5 min
There is a certain crescendo, an ultimate, an apogee in all our fumblings through life. For the wooden-tongued WASPs of the land (and one should never discount their linguistic guilt) it came in the 1972 summit hockey meeting of Canada vs. the U.S.S.R. It was then that Foster Hewitt, the embodiment of all that was fine and true about Depression-age Canadian youth, revealed before the embarrassed nation that he could not pronounce “Yvan Cournoyer.”By Allan Fotheringham4 min
Thank the Lord (Lady?) for feminists, or our campuses would still be mired in the same old passivity they have been these past few years. In fact, I don’t think anything very much has gone on around the libraries and tuck-shops since that outbreak in 1974 when there was a round of SDS-sponsored “find a racist” romps—that found none, but culminated instead in poor old American urbanologist Edward C. Banfield being prevented from speaking at the University of Toronto.By Barbara Amiel4 min
Five years ago, Carol, a young housewife and mother, would have faced a series of complicated, painful, and potentially dangerous tests to discover why her body was overproducing cortisone and other hormones, causing her to gain weight and feel generally apathetic.By Elaine Waese4 min
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