Percy Saltzman Dies, Leaves Questionable Blog

Percy Saltzman died a week ago at the age of 91. Just about every Canadian of a certain age remembers Percy as our national weatherman, who delivered the forecasts—good or bad—with panache … or was it chutzpah! And there was his signature sign-off—throwing up the chalk and catching it.

I had the pleasure of meeting Percy four or five years ago. In fact, the introduction came through a friend, Mark Johnstone, when he was serving as minister at Northminster United in Toronto. Percy’s wife, Audrey, though Anglican, found herself inclined to attend services at Northminster. She liked Mark and confided that she had bought Percy an iMac for his birthday along with some voice recognition software with the hope that he might overcome his ham-fistedness and write his memoirs. Unfortunately, neither of them had the least idea how to work the thing. Did Mark know of anyone who could help? And that’s how I ended up getting a phone call from Percy.

I met with him on a few mornings stretched over a winter. He hadn’t even taken that computer out of the box! We got set up and worked at calibrating the voice recognition software. Each time we started to work, lunchtime arrived and he would insist on taking me out somewhere. I recall, in particular, a lovely lunch with he and Audrey at a French restaurant not far from his home. It goes without saying that the conversation was engaging. He was a character, and opinionated. We covered the gamut—religion, politics, the arts, media. Sadly—or happily from the point of view of my lunches—Percy didn’t take too swiftly to his new computer, so I had to keep coming back. Then the whole project got shelved when his basement was flooded, jeopardizing both his office and a huge collection of books.

Shortly afterward came the press release that Percy was to be invested into the Order of Canada. I was the editor of our church newsletter at the time, so I gave him a call and asked if he could send me something to print. Good media person that he was, he already had his own press release ready to go. I excerpted and this was the result:

ON BEING GONGED

It has just been announced that I have been awarded Canada’s highest civilian honour, “The Order of Canada”, effective May 1, 2002, made public July 4, 2002. The investiture will be held in Ottawa in February, 2003. The citation for the award, available on the Internet, reads: “He is a pioneer in Canadian television broadcasting and meteorology service whose career was one of many firsts. The night CBC–TV began broadcasting (September 1952) he was the first person to be seen on English–Canadian television, beginning a record-setting 30–year stint which would make him one of our best-loved personalities.

With an easy–going manner, he simplified meteorology, translating its complexities into layman’s terms with the swish of his chalk. In addition to his broadcasting and performing activities, he was also deeply involved with a special needs program for disabled seniors at the Baycrest Centre for Geriatric Care.” Not mentioned was the fact that I continued to work full time at the Weather Bureau (1943–1968), and that I had served with some distinction as a meteorologist during World War II in the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan, when Canada was the “Aerodrome of Democracy”.

Percy notes that he was merely the mouthpiece for the Meteorological Service of Canada, a host of people behind the scenes who took data and turned it into weather forecasts. He also acknowledges the support of his son Paul, wife Audrey, and friend Paul Servin. Then he concludes:

“In sum, 2002 has been a good year: First, the Order of Canada. Second, the 50th anniversary of my debut on Canadian Television, as the first face, the first weatherman, and the first Jew. And I lasted 30 years! Third, the 30th anniversary of my debut as host of “Canada AM”, the first national TV morning show — and in living colour at that! Not bad for a country bumpkin — a clod hopper, a sod buster, a stubble jumper, a rail splitter, a chicken plucker, a chip kicker, a fence-sitter, and a corn husker — out of Neudorf, Sask. (pop. 700).”

But Percy wasn’t always so jovial or magnanimous. Things began to turn for him and I noticed a bitter side. After his “gonging,” Audrey had a stroke. Percy was angry—maybe in an existential way, but he made it personal. I remember seeing a letter he addressed to the church. It was a bitter tirade that seemed out of all proportion to any possible role a church could have played in this Jewish media icon’s life. And then it occurred to me that perhaps he had made an error in judgment—he had thought he was writing a letter, when in fact he was keeping a journal. Clearly, it was through writing that he worked things out. Writing was his tool for coping. Unfortunately, no one had ever tutored him in the finer graces of journaling: this “working things out” is a private matter for personal benefit.

It seems that Percy continued his habit of writing publicly in order to work through bitter feelings. After the flooded basement, he set up his computer again and discovered blogging. His family was only marginally aware of his newfound outlet until he died and his children—his executors—were confronted with many embarrassing posts. They have cleaned up most of the mess. There was invective against lawyer, Clayton Ruby, and CBC news anchor, Knowlton Nash, and against his own children. Much of it seems to reflect anger at perceived slights which the alleged perpetrators can”t even recall.

You can view a sanitized version of his blog at www.percysaltzman.com.

So why the bitterness? While I don’t have any special access, I suspect it has to do with the loss of control that comes with aging. For some people, it’s not such a big deal. But when you’ve been a “personality” watched daily by millions of people, and find your sphere of influence reduced to a handful of people while you care for an ailing wife, perhaps a sense of loss is inevitable. If there are feelings of loss, then there will be feelings of anger. I saw something similar with my grandfather. He finished his career in a grand way, the minister of a large congregation, a pillar of the community, a fount of wisdom who captured the attention of everybody he spoke to. But when he retired, overnight he became just another schmuck in a pew. When he died eleven years later, he was deeply embittered. In his eyes, the church was rotting from the inside out. The new people were a disgrace to the office he had taken such pains to honour. And, of course, we were going to blow up the world anyways, so what difference did a lifetime of service make?

I prefer to put the bitterness in its proper place—the natural consequence of a life lived large and with passion. Better to remember the grand sweep of Percy Saltzman’s life and, perhaps, to mourn with him, and others like him, the radical diminishment that comes as death approaches. I would rather remember our lunchtime conversations. Now that was fun! And I am grateful for the privilege of spending a small measure of time with a true original.