Carl DeLine

A year ago today, I was in Wayne Gretzky country–Brantford, Ont.–keeping an eye on the meandering Olympic torch.

Unless you come from there, I can think of more pleasant locales to spend Christmas Eve, far from family and friends.

Things are better this year, and it’s been a good one. Since the Winter Olympics ended, I’ve been mooching around town, poking my nose into the businesses of a fascinating array of good-time Charlies, ne’er-do-wells, diligent workers, out-of-workers, the lame, the halt, and others whose enormous personal spirit just won’t let them quit.

Seems an appropriate day to thank them all, and pass on wishes for the best of the season to those who are the hardest to forget.

So hoist a flagon of Christmas cheer:

To Big Smitty, Tycoon, and the rest of the roustabouts at the Shamrock Hotel, who collected $8,000 worth of groceries and gifts, then packed, loaded, and delivered them to poor families around the city.

To Clayton Rooke, and his band of tube-steak outlaws who call themselves the All-Canadian Pushcart Co. They “won” their court fight to sell hot dogs on the street, but it cost them 30 grand to do it.

To Sonny Rhodes, the Ayatollah of Rock’n’Rolla, wherever he is, his steel guitar and bass-playing sidekick Cowboy Haynes may be.

To ex-forger Jimmy (The Con) Carleton, who believed he had a shot at unseating Alex Kindy in Calgary Northeast. Jimmy managed only about 300 votes in the federal election–12 for every year he spent in prison. About now, he, Irene and the kids could probably use the $200 he lost when he forfeited his deposit.

To Carl DeLine, who walked away from the Inter-Faith Food Bank so he could pursue a dream, helping tough kids get off the street through the Back Door.

To Mike Faucher, a young Winter Olympic licensee who spent $15,000 of his own money on his product–clanging triangles, the Games’ official noisemaker. Mike lost his shirt. I’m hoping by now he’s got a new one.

To Flames fanatics Doug and Doris Lebel, whose year was made when Gretzky was traded from Edmonton.

To Robyn Perry, who needs to introduction.

To Larry Hurd, the lawyer and anti-Sunday shopping crusader, who admits he has a burning desire to be prime minister.

To Madeline Newsham, whose basement was utterly destroyed by the bizarre flash flood which hit parts of the southeast last August.

To Diane Eason, who spoke out in anger against charges that Handi-Bus drivers were fondling their handicapped passengers. Diane, who has MD, insisted the drivers are a godsend who make life bearable for those confined to wheelchairs.

To Bob Lyon, who lost his ski mountain but keeps on climbing.

To Gerry Fewster, and all the troubled kids at the Hull Home. To Shirley Burstall (AIDS Calgary) and Jeanne Bentley (Alzheimer Society of Calgary), who assisted victims of our era’s two most horrifying diseases.

To Angie Filipowich, whose Victims of Law Dilemma organization has finally achieved some clout in its crusade for improved ethics within the legal profession.

To Mary English, 80 years old. Now living in Vernon, Mary crusaded across the country back in the ’60s, pitching for legal lotteries. She wanted lotto money to be spent on health care and remains bitter because that part of her dream didn’t come to pass.

To Cheryle Dobbyn–the little duchess of Skunk Hollow–who wrote her own feisty newspaper when Okotoks town council refused to give her a copy of its agenda. Press only, they told her. So she started her own.

If you didn’t make the list, don’t get cranky. I’ll be around to see you next year.

Originally published December 24, 1988 by the Calgary Herald (Calgary, AB), credited to Tom Keyser.