Lessons from a master storyteller

Stuart McLean was my radio instructor at Ryerson. A man who told stories to Peter Gzowski on CBC radio and produced documentaries for Sunday Morning, a show I had listened to since I was a child, was teaching my introduction to radio class.

To say I was intimidated would be an understatement. Here I was, a kid from Bathurst, in a Toronto classroom filled with smart, young people from across Canada working on their second or third degree.  

I felt so ordinary and unremarkable introducing myself to Stuart McLean.  

I don't remember what he said to the class on that first day, just that we were laughing and laughing and laughing. He was like a standup comedian.

Allow silence

He taught us how to hold a microphone, how to arrange chairs when doing interviews. He drilled in this message: always collect lots of sound. He said we would feel ridiculous, standing in one spot completely still for a minute or more.

He shared his own story of how, at an old corner store, trying to capture the shopkeeper's bell, he went in and out, in and out to get it just right.

When you ask a question, especially a difficult one, "don't rush to fill the silence," he told us. "Wait. Wait." Your guest will fill the silence with radio gold.

We put on a radio show every week. We had to do interviews and write news stories. He edited our copy and wanted details —  the colours, sounds and smells —  he pushed us to paint pictures and scenes and capture moments in our stories.  

Learn from anyone

I graduated from Ryerson in 1991 and ran into Stuart every couple of years. Moments from those meetings have stayed with me.

On one of his stops in Moncton, Stuart and I and another Ryerson graduate met for dinner. I was upset and ranting.

"Myfanwy," Stuart said. "You can always learn something from someone. Even if it's learning how you don't want to be."

Maybe that's not exactly what he said, but that's the sentence I remember.

After moving around the country working for CBC, my husband, Andy, and I landed in Fredericton, where we bought a house and had two children.

Lots of laughing

When The Vinyl Cafe came to Fredericton, I always went to see Stuart's shows at the Playhouse, with my husband, my sister and her husband, my daughter, my mother.

My mother laughed so much during his show, it sounded like a laugh track, out-loud belly laughs, beautiful.

As a radio producer, I marvelled at Stuart's comedic timing and his writing, its clarity, its simplicity, the way it sounded being read aloud. I was amazed by his characters and their stories and how they painted masterpieces in the mind. Amazed how quickly, the laughter could turn to tears.

Stuart and I didn't talk a lot. And I can't say I knew him well, but he always made time for me.

After his shows, we would have a short visit. He was always interested in my life and asked a lot of questions. During one of those meetings, he asked about my family.  

"What kind of mother are you?" he asked.

Straight to the heart

I stammered and blubbered and said a bunch of nonsensical things. The question stumped me. A smart mother? A calm mother? An intense mother? A warm mother?

I didn't know. I still don't.

That question still reverberates, especially when I'm impatient, nagging or, worse, yelling at my children.

"What kind of mother are you?"

Simplicity. Straight to the heart of things.

After Stuart died this week, a passage from his CBC colleagues on the Vinyl Cafe Facebook page stood out: "He reminded us that life is made up of small moments. We never know which ones will be forgotten and which ones will stay with us forever."

A visit to Fredericton

On one of The Vinyl Cafe stops in Fredericton, my oldest daughter Sydney volunteered to go up onstage. As always, Stuart had some funny banter and the audience laughed.

He introduced Sydney as the daughter of one of his students from Ryerson. I was embarrassed but touched that after all these years, he remembered me.

This week, I found a CD we picked up at that show in a pile of CDs in our basement. Stuart signed it "For Sydney."

I brought it upstairs and put it on our kitchen table. Thankful to have that CD, with his writing on the cover. Thankful I can listen to his voice and his stories. Thankful for his radio lessons and personal ones too. Thankful to wait and not fill the silence.

Thankful for those moments with Stuart McLean.