(Vic in White, Sexton Emil in Black. Things are rarely that simple. Photo Todd Tear with Socotra smartphone).
Uncle Jerry’s Blue Ribbon Panel on the conduct of the Intelligence Community didn’t fly- it looked like a whitewash and smelled like a whitewash and the House and Senate decided to take a cold look at the intelligence community in the wake of a lost war and failed Presidency.
There was nothing at all that was black an white about the situation. There was plenty of gray, and real threats from real bad guys, who were, as a famous document mentions, both foreign and domestic.
I have been trying to get to what happened next for what seems like a few weeks now, and I was talking about that with Drew at the Starfish Oyster Bay in Toronto, fifth largest urban area in North America, and one of the coolest towns ever.
(Waiting at the Cathedral: Best Man Tom and three Bridesmaids. Photo Socotra.)
Drew is part of the Bride’s local crew: the Starfish Oyster Bed is just down the block from her- their- condo and the stunning 21st floor view of Lake Ontario and Rochester, New York, just 28 miles of sparkling fresh water away.
There was a lot to process. The records of the Herland Commission that investigated the World War II-era connections between the Spooks and the Mob. The results were not black-and-white, any more than anything else is. I was telling that to Drew, who polished a glass and deposited two fingers of rich peaty single-malt Scotch into it. I watched Edgar the Shucker working on filling up an iced plate of two dozen fat oysters and then adorning it with fresh grated horseradish and edges of lemon. Drew adjusted his plaid sport cap that snugged his lanky brown hair over his ears.
“We had a lot to do with your Capone and Purple Gang here, you know. That was Prohibition times, though.” He gave a scowl. “The largest distillery in Canada was right here. Gooderham & Worts cranked out Rye whiskey by the tanker.”
“Wasn’t Ontario officially dry then?” I asked.
Drew nodded. “Yep. But not illegal to manufacture it. They would sell to Quebekkers, who would turn it around and smuggle it to Detroit across the lakes.”
“I am confident you could track down some leads that would help connect the dots on what went on later, in the 1960s, when officially all that was ancient history. I am not sure it is a smart thing to do, though. Maybe let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Yeah, well you can’t go wrong with that, eh?” Drew’s sentances always rose in inflection at the end. “You are here for a wedding, so relax and have fun.”
I was there for the wedding, natch, and was thoroughly absorbed into a couple of great families, three if you include the boys at the Starfish. What a crew. I have not been up past midnight in a long time, but glancing at my watch, I saw that the witching hour was approaching.
I took a long pull on the Scotch, a marvelous beverage which I have sadly neglected these many years, and tried to process the whole spectacle. The rehearsal at the cathedral; the report of a friend back in the States being assaulted on a hellish hot Metro platform deep under the night-time capital of the Free World; the feeling of cozy freedom out of the country; the jangle of large medals on my chest, out of their ceremonial storage case for the last time.
The astonishing and romantic tale of the proposals that resulted in this extended celebration of romantic love.
The unexpected contrast of black and white, captured on a smart phone between me and Emil, the Sexton of the stately cathedral. The marble plaque to memorialize a young man from Toronto, killed at the Khyber Pass into Afghanistan in 1887.
Damn, is this an interesting world, or what? Nothing purely black and white at
all.
(Starfish Oyster Bed, Toronto. Photo Socotra.)
Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com