Larry. 8 Friends. 8 Songs

Larry was the first person I loved who was not my mother, father, sister or brother. We met when I was 12 years old. Thirty months later, I moved a million miles away. Our friendship was meteoric, deeply substantial and borne out of violence.

I grew up in a post-war housing complex in Notre Dame de Grace, familiarly then and now known as “NDG.” In 1967, NDG was an English-speaking part of Montreal with English streets like Grant and Wilson and Benny. Our apartment was three maple trees from the corner of Monkland and Cavendish.

Grades 1 and 2, I was taught by nuns, all of whom I remember only as “Sister.” Grade 3, I was taught by Mrs. Shanahan, who seemed old and wicked at the time. If little feet were not under the desk as she walked the aisles, Mrs. Shanahan would kick them with marching boots hidden beneath her ankle-length skirt. Grade 4 was Mrs. Tapp. Mrs. Tapp was short and often wore bangles on her wrists. When she got mad, which was often, she would wave her fists in the air and her bangles would sound like the cymbals on a tambourine. Grade 5 was Miss Fitzgerald. All I can remember of Miss Fitzgerald was that she was young and divine.

Grade 6 was the first year I had a male teacher. His name was Mr. Moss. He had flaming red hair. He was a monster. His favorite punishment was to hold a hand in the air then pound a fist into the shoulder of a student when “an injection of smarts” was required. He would do this because we misunderstood the proper use of an exclamation point, or we failed to identify Germany on a map, or we didn’t fully grasp how to determine a percentage by using division.

One day, I submitted an assignment lacking in acceptable penmanship. Mr. Moss grabbed me by my shirt collar and frogmarched me to the hall outside the classroom. He pushed me against a locker and punched me. A volcanic rage turned his pasty face redder than his hair. Eventually, he pushed me back into the class and demanded I read aloud. As I whimpered, choking on every word, he extolled me to “speak up.”

I can’t recall telling my parents about having been beaten and humiliated, but they knew it happened. Shortly after the incident, I was asked to attend Lower Canada College. LCC was an exclusive school for boys, and its tuition was far beyond the financial wherewithal of a family of five living in a three-bedroom apartment. But I had an Uncle Jim, who, while he didn’t appear to have a job, was wealthy enough to send a broken nephew to private school.

I met Larry my first day at LCC. Serendipity put our lockers side-by-side. Larry came from my side of the tracks, which was the side of the tracks that did not include limousines and tailored school uniforms. He lived in a duplex with his mother, father, two older sisters and a cat.

His mother, Barbara, was beautiful and glamorous, yet always seemed to be in bed. I often wondered if she was ill.

His oldest sister Gloria looked like his mom; she looked like a model. Gloria was quiet, kind and thoughtful. The depth of her intellect was manifest by the way she held her cigarette. When she talked, and she didn’t talk often, her voice was at once radiant and soft. Every word carried its own weight; every word seemed to matter more than anything I could learn in a month of school.

Gloria was all beatnik and no hippie.

Larry’s other sister, Marilyn, was all hippie and no beatnik.

What I remember most vividly about Marilyn was her hair – frizzy, feral, abundant, magical. She was short and athletic (she eventually earned five martial arts black belts). Her every movement was a bounce and when she bounced her mane would spring out at every curl, then spring back. Marilyn was more confident than dynamite. This made her loud, happy and delightfully unpredictable.

Larry’s dad, Ben, was a rock. Growing up, I had contingencies should my parents die or run away. When I was 12, living in Ben’s home was my contingency. Here’s a favourite memory of the man:

Larry played football for a team called Terrebonne Park. He was a receiver. This one evening, he went out for a pass and with his arms stretched out and open, and his eyes locked on the ball as it travelled his way, he ran square into the goalpost and collapsed like he’d been shot. I was on the sideline watching the game, and before anyone could properly consider what just happened, Ben was in full flight on to the field. I recall a cacophony of keys and loose change rattling in his pockets as he sprinted toward Larry. In the moment, I wondered if my dad would run out on the field like that for me.

Those are my memories of Larry’s remarkable family.

Larry lived less than a kilometre from me — 10 minutes walking, five minutes on bike. On snowy days in winter, I would hitch to his home on the back bumper of a Volkswagen Beetle. Through all of 1968, 1969 and the first half of 1970 we were inseparable. Every day after school, he was at my place or I was at his. Every weekend, he slept at my place or I slept at his.

We formed a two-man band once and recorded songs into a Mitsubishi reel-to-reel recorder my dad brought home from work. The first song we wrote together was called Move Over. The second song, I Hold at Bay, Larry wrote on his own. The title made no sense, but he was my best friend and I admired him greatly, so, dutifully and respectfully, I hit the bongos as he crooned into the microphone his magnum opus.

Not long after recording I Hold at Bay, I first heard the soulful (Sitting on) The Dock of the Bay by the late Otis Redding. Larry had undoubtedly heard the song and fashioned his own take on the masterpiece. Larry heard a lot of great music at his house. Gloria and Marilyn were always listening to Otis or Phil Ochs or Bob Dylan or Joan Baez. Music mattered in my house, but not in the way it mattered at Larry’s, where it mattered a lot.

In the fall of 1969 and through the first half of 1970, Larry and I began keeping track of how many hands of Gin Rummy we played. We played most every weekend into the early hours of the morning. We mostly talked about girls during the games. We always had music playing. The album we played most often in those days was Nashville Skyline by Bob Dylan. I knew a number of Dylan songs when I was 13 years old, but it was my friendship with Larry — those late nights and early mornings with a deck of cards — that taught me to love Dylan.

The song I first cherished on the record was Lay Lady Lay. It was a 45 and it ran longer than most 45s. It was a slow-dance song — sweet, soul music. Today, the track I most closely associate with this record, with Larry and with this time in my life is I Threw It All Away. It’s a song about loss. In June of 1970, my family moved to Vancouver.

Postscript: I’ve stayed in touch with Larry through the years. We can go the longest time not talking, then, when we connect, the conversation is effortless — often funny, sometimes sad. When we reminisce, we fill in the holes that have gone dark in our respective memories. It was Larry who reminded me that our lockers were side-by-side and that we met on Day 1 and became instant friends. Larry was far more gregarious than me. I needed that instant friendship more than he did. In turn, I reminded Larry of I Hold at Bay. I mentioned to him the other day on the phone that I even recall the lyrics and melody.

After high school, Larry became a member of The Clones, a popular sketch comedy group in Montreal. He worked as a writer and on-air performer at CFCF Radio, winning a Best Writer Actra Award. His film and television writing and producing credits include the hit Canadian TV series Murdoch Mysteries and The Pinkertons, as well as series for Netflix, the Syfy Network, CBS, NBC and CTV. The list of his work is dizzying and impressive.

Today, Larry lives in Ontario with his wife, Valerie. In late 2019 they launched Elmhirst Lalonde Publishing Inc. (https://elmhirstlalondepublishing.ca) The company specializes in picture books to help children confronted by difficult issues. The books are written by Larry and illustrated by Valerie.

Larry’s two sisters are both still working in Montreal. Gloria is a professor of humanities at Dawson College in Montreal. Marilyn is a physiotherapist. Larry’s mother, Barbara passed away in 1986 after a long battle with MS. The day Larry crashed into the goal post was the first time she’d ever seen him play football. She watched the incident from the family car. She never went to another game. Ben died in 2011.

And finally, I'm not alone in my love for this album and this song.

More posts on the 8 Friends 8

https://www.waynemoriarty.com/post/8-friends-8-songs-chapter-1-ricky