In memory of Stuart McLean

Everyone regards Allen Elliott as a national treasure. There is no voice more recognizable, no intonation and inflection more distinct, no phrasing more personal than that of Allen Elliott. Canada's storyteller, they call him. The voice of the nation.



While his story is well-known among the last few generations of Canadians, my story wouldn't be complete without a passing mention of the history of the man behind the voice. 

You see, Allen Elliott got his start as an announcer on the local radio station in Hamilton, Ontario, long before my time. Every Christmas Eve he would read from Dickens' "A Christmas Carol", and families would pour themselves some eggnog, gather round the radio and listen to him recite the Christmas classic, or so my parents told me. There was something about the way his voice—a little more nasal than it is now—would string together the phrases. It was as though (and here he would pause)—hanging a piece of tinsel on the tree; (another pause, but shorter) he would pull an arm's length at a time,(pause) reach up (a slight upward inflection here) and leaning into the tree, (pause) gently let the tinsel fall onto the boughs, (pause) careful not to disturb the decorations already in place. (Then, after a long decrescendo, he would pause even longer, leaving the listener staring at the floor, imagining flecks of silver at their feet.)

It is this phrasing, the rhythm, which gives Allen Elliott his distinct voice and ultimately, brought him to a national audience. But it wasn't as an announcer that Elliott made his way into the car radios, portable transistor radios, and our parents' bedside clock radios. It was as Allen Elliott, the storyteller. We all know, the magic is in his voice.



Let's not discount his writing, though. His stories are like a Norman Rockwell painting, but Canadian. Stories of a simpler time, but of the present. Of rural simplicity, but in the city. Lake Wobegon, but in Toronto. His characters, every one of them, have in them the Universal Goodness. They are loveable, yet blundering: that's where the drama comes from. Like the time when Michael wanted to celebrate their anniversary by cooking Margo a nice dinner (Margo even left a book of matches from their wedding reception on the kitchen table as a reminder) but, still, somehow, Michael managed to get stuck behind Mr. Clumpkie's furnace, trying to find Clumpkie's lucky golf ball and, well, if he didn't get to Ralph's Meats until after it closed, so, Michael thought he would make it up to Margo by getting one of Gretta's homemade pies. But, wouldn't you know, he thought that it was already cooked!

Imagine, a story like this—and there were so many others—being read out loud by Elliott, the writer, in his unmistakable voice, just after the News at Noon. No matter what war or grief or hardship was going on in the world of the News at Noon, Allan Elliott would lift us away from all that, away from our fear and anxiety, and place us gently in the middle of the street, in his world, on Confederation Avenue.

I came to understand the true magic of Allen Elliott the day I had to take a bus to Sudbury for my uncle's funeral. I remember staring in the window of a small bookstore in Barrie, Ontario, looking for something to keep me entertained during the four-hour trip. On display was the book, Stories from Confederation Avenue by Allen Elliott. Confederation Avenue was the name of Allen Elliot's radio show on our Canadian public broadcaster and this book was the first in a series of published versions of Elliotts' stories. The cover art, a folksy painting of an old neighbourhood street scene, was enlarged on the display panel. Above was a picture of the author. It was the first time I ever saw a photograph of Mr. Elliott. In fact, I had never even given any thought to how he might look. To me, Allen Elliott looked like the black speaker grille on my grandparent's cottage radio and had the decal 'Philips" above him, or like the wood-grain facade of my dad's station wagon dashboard, where the radio dial was permanently fixed on the local C.B.C. affiliate. So to see a physical representation of the voice was, well, a little disturbing. Almost sacrilegious. Allen Elliott looked like a man, a normal guy in a crinkled shirt with glasses and a smile. The kind of guy who would own a used bookstore, like Michael did on Confederation Avenue.

Nowadays, one has the luxury of choosing what one wishes to believe, and for me, standing outside that bookshop window in Barrie, Ontario, killing time before taking the Ontario Northland bus to Sudbury, I chose to imagine the man pictured on the placard was merely an attempt at a representation of something much larger, a way of putting into human terms an idea, a concept far greater than one could ever understand. After all, how does one depict the voice of a nation?

I was pulled into the musty bookstore. The bells jingled on the door as it opened and the almond and vanilla scent of old books greeted me like my grandmother's baklava on Christmas morning.  I wasn't distracted by the shelves of books, crinkled and stained, nor was I tempted by the hand-written 'discount' sign, I moved directly and with purpose toward the small display shelf, an island of newness amidst a sea of dog-eared pages. I reached for Stories from Confederation Avenue by Allen Elliott. The  man posing as the author on the cardboard display smiled down at me.

I didn't need to open the book, didn't have to read the jacket. I knew this was what I would devour on my four-hour bus ride through the Canadian Shield. Stories from Confederation Avenue.

I couldn't help myself from glancing at the story titles. It was like a short list of my lifetime. "Michael Versus the Snow Plough"—oh, I remember that one: I am in the backseat, it's after church, so it's Sunday morning. We were well behaved in church that day and Jimmy didn't make me laugh too loud. As a treat, Mom and Dad have taken us to brunch at the Apollo Family Restaurant. We are on our way to get the most decadent Belgian waffles imaginable, piled so high with whipped cream that they look like Mount Olympus, but with blueberries on the summit. I can't wait, but Dad, well, he has to keep us in the car until the story on the radio is finished. So we sit in the station wagon in the parking lot of the Apollo Family Restaurant. In the winter. With the engine idling. And the heat on. We laugh as Michael, standing in proud admiration of his snow shovelling accomplishment, having finally finished digging out their driveway—symmetrical, straight, perfect—is called from the front door by Margo, telling him that Barry Bernstein is on the phone, and just then he sees the flashing blue light of the snow plough turn the corner, towards their house. Again!

And there were so many others. Stories I remembered, stories whose titles alone, brought me back to that happier place, to where I needed to be that day.

My smile must have been noticed by the man working the checkout. He looked like he was the owner. I'm sure he saw me head for the display, saw me grin as I flipped through the table of contents. It felt as though he had been in the backseat with me and Johnny after church, that day long ago. 

The owner reminded me of the guy who worked at our neighbourhood Records on Wheels when I was young. He was the kind of man who made you nervous by just being in his store. Not because he was mean, but because of his incredible knowledge of music. He would sit on a stool behind the counter reading The New Music Express while you flipped through album after album, knowing all the time which album was meant for you. But he never said anything. He knew every track of every album in every bin and could likely tell you every musician who played on every song. He probably knew them personally. Plus, he looked like Mick Jagger with a ponytail. He played bass in a band too, so he was a legend. Some said he had been a roadie for the band April Wine. 

The guy at the record shop had this thing, the all-knowing ability to diagnose your particular ailment, disregard whatever music you came in to buy, and have you leave with his personal prescription for your future in your hand. My sister ended up with a copy of Stevie Wonder's Songs in the Key of Life when she went in looking for the forty-five, "Three Times a Lady." For me, Bat Out of Hell was physically removed from my grip, and in its place, the Record Store Guy slid a copy of Born to Run. I still have that album, although the vinyl is pretty worn now.

So it was with understandable caution that I placed the copy of Elliott's book on the counter along with a twenty and looked up to the clerk, as though I was asking for his approval. What was returned to me was the earnest look of warning, the stare of dread, the unspoken stop, go back, run, while you still can kind-of-look.

"Will that be all?" But what he really told me was that I didn't want to do this.

"Yes, thank you."

Then came the old Record Store Guy switcheroo: "You wouldn't rather choose a used book, would you? There are some good ones back there. They're discounted."

"No thanks. This will do. I just need some light reading for a bus ride."

"Are you sure? You know, some people think choosing a book is like adopting a pet."

"Really? How's that?"

"Why buy a new puppy from a pet store when there are all kinds of good dogs up for adoption in the animal shelter?"

He hesitated momentarily, then without looking at the cover of my new book, slid the book into a bag, like he was trying to bury it. With his hand firmly over the plastic bag, he slid it back toward me. The man leaned forward, gave a quick glance over each shoulder, then in a whisper, asked, "Have you read Allen Elliotts' books before?"



"No," I said.


"But you have heard him, on the radio, right?"



"Of course."

"Then you know how his voice sounds, right?"

"Sure."

The man looked at me, directly in my eyes. "Then, I have to warn you."

I held his gaze. I sensed he knew a truth. 

"Go ahead."

"If you choose to read this, everything will start to sound like Allen Elliott. You'll hear his voice. You'll be reading with his voice."

I thought about what he said and imagined Allen's voice in my head. I could understand how that might happen. I could actually hear myself thinking, but it was his voice, Allen Elliott's voice. That didn't seem too bad. It reminded me of the happy place on Confederation Avenue.

"But that is not all." (There was that pause, just how Allen Elliott would have said it.) "There is more." (Long pause)

I gulped.

"It spreads. The voice spreads. It will begin with this book, but then you start, say, Atwood's new novel, and the narrator will be Allen Elliott."

I didn't know what to say. I wanted to question him, challenge him, but just like the roadie in the record shop, I could tell this man knew things. He knew all about voices in heads.

"It ruins Dostoyevsky, permanently."

I was relieved it wasn't something far more serious. I smiled and thanked him, picked up the bag with the book in it and started towards the door. I could tell he wanted to say more, or he was going to grab me from behind, maybe tackle me, snatch the bag, burn the book. I didn't know. But I didn't stick around.

Later that afternoon, as the bus blurred past rock cuts and over thawing muskeg, Allen Elliott read his stories to me. He told me about Michael and Margot, Mr. Bernstien and Mr. Clumpkie, and their dog, Harold Ballard, and all the small miracles that held their world together. And he spoke to me in a voice that was warm and friendly and entirely his own. 

And that evening, at the wake for my uncle, I greeted everyone with a smile and a handshake with a grip that came straight from Confederation Avenue. And later, after I spoke at the funeral service and read the words I had prepared, amidst the smell of egg salad, percolating coffee and floral perfume, while chatting with my cousins, aunts, uncles and neighbours from a past life, everyone congratulated me. They all agreed they had never heard a better eulogy. Something about the way I said it—my voice—they said, helped bring them, that day, to a happier place.