My brush with stardom

Work in Progress By Ivan Morgan

I’ve met my share of famous folks in my lifetime, celebrities as they are now known – international, national, and local. I have even met folks who think they are celebrities. Whether famous in their own right or in their own minds, I have found they are all for the most part just people.

Rarely, if ever, have I been starstruck. Except once.

Its hard for young people to imagine today, but times were different way back when I was a kid. There were only two TV stations, and one of them was CBC. TVs were furniture that sat on the floor. No internet, no video games, no iPads, no iPhones. We had something called “outside” as our main source of entertainment.

Dark times indeed.

This story happened when I was a young man.

I was a penniless university student who would frequently borrow my mom’s car. She was manager of the St. John’s Arts and Culture Centre and worked many late nights. The deal I had with her was I could drive her to work, keep the car for the evening but I had to pick her up at midnight. It was a sweet deal. (Were she still here she would have me add, “The boy never paid for a gallon of gas.”)

One night I was writing a term paper on my electric typewriter (!) when my mom called. Could I do her a favour (me with her car keys in my pocket)? Sure. What?

Could I come early at 10:30 and could I pick up a dozen Dominion Ale on the way and bring them to her office?

No problem. I stopped at a Brewer’s Retail (a government run beer store, the only place you could buy beer, legally, then), got the beer and went to my mom’s office. Whatever show that was on that night was over and the Centre was empty. Beer clinking in the box, I strode into my mom’s office and banged them down on her desk.

“Here ya go. What do you want these for.”

“I don’t,” she said (she was an India girl her whole life). “They’re for him,” she said, pointing over my shoulder.

I turned and there he was, large as life, smiling at me.

Mr. Dressup.

My mouth went dry. I couldn’t speak. My eyes must have been like saucers. I stammered something stupid. Mom said he was in for a late evening sound check because he wouldn’t have time before his show the next morning. After all, he was a kid’s entertainer. One of my biggest childhood heroes. He’d asked my mom was there any beer.

He stuck out his hand “Ernie. Ernie Coombs.” Big hands. Firm grip.

Who?

Then I remembered that was his real name. When I was little, I didn’t watch much TV, but I rarely missed Mr. Dressup. To my mind it was the only thing to watch on CBC.  He was on every weekday (for 29 years, 4,000 shows.) Casey, Finnegan, The Tickle Trunk . . . He was everything to me. I had so many questions.

“Wanna have a beer?”

I couldn’t think. What? Sure . . .

My mom told me to go ahead, she had stuff to do before she went home. Mr. Dressup seemed gently amused at my awe.

“Here, get this into you,” he said, passing me a beer. He took one too, opening them both with his penknife. I relaxed a little.

My mind was reeling. There, right in front of me, was Mr. Dressup kegged off with a Dominion Ale.

We talked about student life – his and mine. We talked about Newfoundland politics, Ontario politics, books and reading. He was a remarkable guy. He was a great guy. Every time my bottle was almost empty, he popped the cap off another and passed it to me.

Mother joked she would have to drive me home. I’d had a few. So had Mr. Dressup (sorry, I could never get used to calling him Ernie). We talked for an hour, nearly polishing off the dozen.  As we were getting ready to close up, he told me a joke about his colleague Bob Homme, who we knew as The Friendly Giant, another TV staple from my childhood.

“What was the worst thing,” he asked, “about working with Rusty the Rooster?”

I had no idea.

“He was always half in the bag!”

Don’t get it?  Go ask an old person.

Ivan Morgan can be reached at ivan.morgan@gmail.com