Paul Quarrington

Encounters with Writers: 2

A Renaissance man

I didn’t know Paul Quarrington well, but I felt like I did. Long before I ever dreamed I might one day be a writer, I was a big Paul Quarrington fanboy.

I first read King Leary, Paul Quarrington‘s 1988 Leacock winning novel, shortly after it was published, and then proceeded to read everything else Quarrington wrote before and since. I loved King Leary. Its mix of humour and pathos is masterful. And, it’s about hockey! Or rather, hockey is in the novel.

My first edition of Quarrington’s King Leary, 1988 Leacock Medal winner.

Sports figures in a number of Quarrington’s earlier works that I also thoroughly enjoyed, including Logan in Overtime and perhaps my favourite of his books, Home Game. But Quarrington is no one-trick pony. His fiction ranges from sports, to the early days of the movie business in Civilization, to living in a small town in The Life of Hope, to the story of a drugged-out and freaked-out rock icon in Whale Music (1989 Governor General’s Award), to the world of Las Vegas magicians in The Spirit Cabinet, to storm chasers in Galveston (2004 Giller Prize finalist). His final work of fiction was The Ravine (2008), his most autobiographical novel.

Quarrington’s uncanny ability to make you laugh one moment and then break your heart in the next, is a gift that has always kept me turning the pages. His humour is never gratuitous but is fully embodied in the story he’s telling. He creates characters that, while larger than life and sometimes even picaresque, are fully realized and ready to step off the page. There’s a John Irvingesque feel to his writing yet Quarrington is never derivative. Paul also wrote nonfiction, screenplays, and music. He was a man of many talents. He was an original. I confess that while I have loved all of his novels, I think I enjoyed his earlier offerings most of all.

First editions and opening for Paul

Soon after reading King Leary, I began collecting first editions of Quarrington’s novels and other works, including his very first, The Service, published by Coach House Press in 1978.

Most but not all of my Quarrington first editions.

A high point in the early years of my writing life, came back in 2009 and involved driving to Grimsby with Paul, having dinner with him, and then sharing the stage as we both read from our then current novels at the wonderful Grimsby Author Series. 

I was promoting The Best Laid Plans, my first novel, while Paul was reading from his last novel, The Ravine. What a thrill. At the time, we shared a wonderful publicist, Frances Bedford, at what was then known as Random House Canada. Frances drove us down to Grimsby. When they picked me up, I jumped into the backseat like some crazed author stalker, my backpack loaded down with first editions of all of Paul’s novels. We had dinner together and then it was time for the event. I was the opening act and Paul the headliner. My reading seemed to be well-received, at least the response was positive enough to see me invited back a further five times over the years. And Paul was amazing. The audience loved him.

A grainy shot of Paul and me signing books in Grimsby that night.

It was over all too soon. By the glow of the dome light on the long drive back to Toronto, Paul kindly inscribed all of my Quarrington first editions.

Sometimes in hindsight, ordinary, everyday memories are endowed with a poignance they did not have in the moment. It was a wonderful event that night in Grimsby, filled with laughter. But a shadow was looming. When Paul stepped up on stage, he took a swig of Buckley’s Mixture. He then placed the bottle prominently on the lectern. He spoke to the audience about a nasty cough he’d been unable to shake. So he sampled the cough syrup frequently during his reading to quell the cacophony in his chest. While neither he, nor we, knew at the time, it was only a week later that Paul was diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer. Tragically, that looming shadow was on an X-ray.

Less than a year later, in January of 2010, Paul Quarrington died after nobly and bravely cramming as much life and living as he could into his final months. It was inspirational to witness. He even wrote a song with his friends Dan Hill and Martin Worthy, about his impending journey, and performed it. I find the composition almost ineffably moving.

But that’s not the end of the story…

Long before he’d been diagnosed, Paul had planned to make a trip cooked up by Fred Addis, then Curator of the Stephen Leacock Museum and Historical Site in Orillia. The idea was that Paul and Fred would drive from Banff over the mountains to Yale, B.C. to visit the famous but reclusive W.P. Kinsella, who’d won the Leacock Medal in 1987, the year before Paul had. After the news of Paul’s illness, the Leacock road trip to Yale was set aside. But good ideas have a way of hanging around. In November 2013, a group of intrepid writers made the journey in Paul’s memory.

There we were, huddled at the baggage carousel in the Calgary airport, four Leacock Medal winners (Joe Kertes ‘89, Trevor Cole ‘11, Dan Needles ‘03, and yours truly ‘08), and our fearless leader, then Leacock Museum head honcho, Fred Addis. With the blessing of the Quarrington family, some of Paul’s ashes were safely stowed in Joe’s suitcase to make the drive with us.

(L to R) Dan Needles, Trevor Cole, Fred Addis, Joe Kertes, et moi.

We were welcomed that night at the Banff Centre for the Arts and began our daring trek across the mountains bright and early the next morning. After driving and driving until we felt we could drive no more (about 45 minutes), we reached the legendary Lake Louise. No we weren’t staying at the famed Chateau Lake Louise, but we did pop in to take some photos and marvel at the lobby.

A favourite shot I took from inside the hotel restaurant at Lake Louise.

Then Fred demanded we be chained to our oars for the rest of the day as the minutes, the miles and the mountains slipped by. I took my turn at the wheel for our final afternoon dash to the lavishly appointed Super Eight Motel in Merritt, B.C. and we were back on the road in the morning beneath overcast skies with me still in the driver’s seat. The rumpus from the boys in the back kept my sides hurting and my eyes watering for most of the last leg of our run to Yale. We made it by noon.

An hour or so later, we greeted W.P. Kinsella—he became Bill to us—author of so many wonderful stories, including Shoeless Joe, which became a little movie called Field of Dreams.

(L to R) Trevor Cole, yours truly, W.P. Kinsella, Dan Needles, Joe Kertes. (And no, I don’t know why I wore that jacket.)

We sat around Bill’s living room telling stories and laughing for a while but then it seemed like it was time. Bill led us down to the edge of his property that borders the mighty Fraser River. Joe Kertes, Paul’s oldest and closest friend among us did the honours. It was simple, quick, and very moving as Joe scattered some of Paul’s ashes amidst the trees on W.P. Kinsella’s land. There we were. Five Leacock winners, scattering the ashes of a sixth, while our leader and Leacock museum curator, looked on. It was a powerful moment for us all.

Here’s the great video Trevor Cole stitched together of our adventure:

We finished off the day with a public reading to a packed house in the local Community Centre. Apparently, it was the first time, W.P. Kinsella had ever read publicly in his hometown. The crowd stood and cheered for a very long time. It was an emotional and uplifting afternoon with enough laughs to confuse our tear ducts. All six of us had dinner together that evening and we all signed our books for Bill. It was a night I’ll remember for a very long time. W.P. Kinsella died in 2016, making our visit even more meaningful.

Flashing our Leacock hardware at our reading in Yale, B.C.

The following morning, we headed out of Yale, and made the long drive back to Banff in one shot, fueled by laughter, snappy retorts, and funny stories. Nothing tires me out like laughing for eight and a half hours straight. The next evening, there we all were again, huddled at the baggage carousel, this time in Toronto, to hug and head our separate ways. I doubt any of us had really known what to expect when we agreed to take this journey together. Some of us didn’t really know Paul that well. But we had all been touched in some way by him. We expected the trip to be fun. How could it not be? But I suspect none of us really understood just how meaningful it would be to drive across the mountains together with such a clear sense of mission. I don’t think putting writers together in such close quarters is often recommended. But I’d do it all over again with these guys. Even when we were all howling with laughter, perhaps especially when we were all howling with laughter, Paul seemed to be right there with us. I sure hope he enjoyed the adventure.

Back soon to pick up the tale of my unorthodox journey to the published land.