One day Ryan said, “I’m going to keep working until everyone in Africa has clean water.” I thought, Oh, boy! I’d heard about encouraging your children to be confident and dream big dreams. I didn’t want to say, like I almost had when he asked for the seventy dollars, that he couldn’t make a difference. The truth was, he already had!
One night Ryan shared with us that one day, he would love to actually see his well. I replied, “Ryan, you will see your well. You might be twelve by the time we save enough money to visit Africa, but I promise you‚ will see your well.”
One day, when Ryan was over visiting our neighbours, he announced, “When I’m twelve, I’m going to go over to Uganda and see my well.” He wrote his pen pal Jimmy Akana in Uganda saying, “When I’m twelve, I’m coming to see you.” This news spread like wildfire through the school in Uganda, and all the children wrote back to their pen pals in Ryan’s class asking, “Are you coming with Ryan? Did you know Ryan is coming when he’s twelve?”
When Jimmy wrote back, he said, “I always drink from your well, and I thank you for the well. We will be so happy to see you in Uganda when you’re twelve.”
At New Years, our neighbours, the Paynters, presented Ryan with a very special gift—enough air miles to fly three people halfway to Uganda to visit Jimmy and his well! The Ottawa Citizen then posted a request for more air miles. As a result of those donations, and some help from Water Can, my husband and I were able to join Ryan. Together, we would all see the amazing well that has allowed Ryan’s friends in Uganda to have fresh, clean water everyday.
On July 27, 2000, we arrived by truck in Angolo, Uganda. As we got close, a small group of children saw us and began calling out, “Ryan! Ryan!”
Ryan was astonished that they knew his name.
“Everybody for a hundred kilometres knows your name, Ryan,” our companion Gizaw Shibru announced.
As we rounded a bend, we were stunned to see a crowd of about 5,000 children from nearby schools lining the roadside, waiting for us. As our truck approached, they excitedly began clapping rhythmically in welcome!
Ryan managed to wave a shy hello. A welcoming committee then led us all to Angolo Primary School. Ryan’s pen pal, Jimmy, was waiting for him, and after they said hello, Jimmy took Ryan’s hand and led him to the well for the ribbon-cutting ceremony. As we approached Ryan’s well, we were overcome with joy. It was adorned with flowers, and on the concrete was inscribed: “Ryan’s Well: Formed by Ryan H for Comm. of Angolo.”
A village elder spoke words of appreciation: “Look around at our children. You can see they’re healthy. This is because of Ryan and our friends in Canada. For us, water is life.”
Ryan has also raised money for drilling equipment so that all districts can experience having clean, life-giving water. To date, Ryan has raised over $100,000, which, when matched with CIDA funding, totals over $300,000!
Ryan is now eleven years old and still going strong. There is a Ryan’s Well Foundation. His dream has changed the lives of so many people, most of whom we will never meet. That special day in Uganda was one of the happiest days of my life, and it will live in my heart forever. Ryan ended that special day the same as usual, with his nightly prayer: “I wish for everyone in Africa to have clean water.” Ryan has shown me what the power of dreams can do.
Susan Hreljac
Kemptville, Ontario
As told to Darlene Montgomery
Look at Me Now, Dad
You tend to hit where you aim, so aim high!
Bob Templeton
It started when I was in high school. Growing up in the small town of Palmerston, Ontario, I had a dream: to work in television.
My parents had a little Stedman’s store, so we were definitely not fancy people. When I was in grade twelve, I went to a guidance counsellor who told me I could be a nurse, a teacher or a hairdresser. I thought they were all great careers, but I knew I really I wanted to work in television. I was too embarrassed to tell my counsellor, however, or anyone for that matter—except my parents. To me, it sounded like a dream that could never come true.
Thankfully, my parents had raised me and my siblings to have a lot of confidence. Both my parents, but especially my dad, often said, “You can do anything you want to do.” My dad believed in total equality, and he was particularly supportive of the girls in the family. He was my steady rock—always there for me. With his help and encouragement, I applied to the radio and television arts program at Ryerson in Toronto. I was ecstatic when I was accepted. I really loved the program and worked hard— and I was named the most outstanding graduate of 1969.
Just by getting into Ryerson and graduating at the top of the class I was already living my dream. I began to think that maybe the dream could come true. After I graduated, I worked for Bell Canada for a while, writing and producing commercials. I soon decided, however, that what I really wanted was to be on camera.
I went to the CBC and CTV and applied for a job. They both said the same thing: “We love your education, but you don’t have any experience. Come back when you get some!” And I kept saying, “How can I get this experience? I’ve been busy getting an education.” They both turned me down.
Luckily, Global Television had just started broadcasting in Canada that year. I thought to myself: I’m new and they’re new. I don’t know a soul there, so if I’m going to get to know one person at Global, it might as well be the president. It really boiled down to how badly did I want a job, and what was I willing to do? I found out who the president was and decided to call him cold. What could I lose? I was scared, but I knew deep down inside that this was what I wanted. When I called my dad and told him my plan, he said, “Good, Faye. That’s exactly what you should do.”
With my heart just about pounding out of my body, I called up the president of Global Television, spoke to his secretary and asked if I could speak to Mr. Slaight. She said sure! Suddenly Mr. Slaight was on the phone. I had practised what I was going to say. I had focused on and visualized my goal. I said, “I’ve heard that your studio facilities are amazing. I could come at eleven o’clock on Tuesday or eleven o’clock on Wednesday for a tour. What would suit you better?” I caught him totally off guard. He stuttered a bit, then picked a day. When I hung up, I was scared but elated.
At 11 o’clock on the appointed day, I arrived at the studio. Mr. Slaight took me around and introduced me to everybody. They must have thought I was someone very important—but I was just a girl from a small town of only seventeen hundred people. I had picked eleven o’clock on purpose, because I thought Mr. Slaight might invite me to lunch. Sure enough, after the tour he said, “Are you free for lunch?” Of course, I accepted.
We went to lunch at The Inn on the Park. When we sat down, he looked and me and said, “What do you want?” He sounded a little angry and frustrated—but very curious.
“All I want is a chance,” I said. “I just want a chance. If something on camera comes up at Global—I don’t care what—I want a chance to audition. I just want you to know my face, so that when my resume comes in you can put a face to it. That’s all I’m asking.”
I didn’t know whether I’d ever hear from him again, but three months later, his secretary called. “Mr. Slaight wants to know if you’d like to come and audition for a new game show,” she said. And I answered, “Sure I’ll come!”
When I arrived at the station, I went right into an audition for a new show called Wintario. Fred Davis, who was Mr. Canadian Television to me, was there along with various high-level management from the Ontario Lottery Corporation. They were looking for a certain chemistry between Fred and me, and had to make sure we would work well together on camera.
Everything went beautifully. Fred and I hit it off right away. I didn’t realize it until the next day, but they had hired me on the spot—but nobody told me! When I went back to the studio the following day, for what I thought was another reading, I was instead handed an airline ticket to Sault Ste. Marie to do the very first Win
tario show. No one even told me officially that I had the job, but I had the job!
The next week Fred and I did the first Wintario show in Sault Ste. Marie. I was nervous. What if I make a mistake? What if I forget where I am? This was live TV, and I didn’t want to make a fool of myself. And I was still in awe of Fred Davis. When I began to walk out on stage, however, and the negative thoughts entered my head. I replaced the negative thoughts with positive ones: This is going to be the best show ever, I told myself. You are going to just shine!
My positive thinking worked. It was a good show, Fred and I were great together, and I began to realize that night just how wonderful a man he really was. Fred has since passed away, but he was a great friend for many years.
At that time, 85 percent of Ontario households bought lottery tickets, so on Thursday nights, everyone tuned in to the show. With the proceeds of the lottery, Wintario helped build community centres, arenas and art galleries. And the people in small towns throughout Ontario just loved us.
During that first show, I thought of my parents at home watching, and said to myself, Look at me now, Dad! My parents later came to any shows nearby, but that first show in Sault Ste. Marie was just too far.
That was the beginning of the weekly travelling show that Fred and I did for the next twenty-two years. Altogether, I did 660 shows.
During the early years of Wintario, I also hosted a talk show and had about twenty commercials running at the same time. I had a lot of TV coverage. My dad would often say, “Faye, I knew all along you had this in you.”
When people came into his store he would ask, “So, did you watch Wintario last night? Did you see my daughter?” He talked to everybody about me being on television. I would hear about this from my mother, who is more quietly proud of me. When my parents went to Florida, dad would say, “I see you have Ontario license plates on your car. Do you watch Wintario? Well, that’s my daughter!” That’s how proud he was.
From Wintario, everything happened for me. I did a talk show at Global, I hosted the National Santa Claus Parade for fifteen years, I did hundreds of television commercials, a number of movies, training videos, travel shows and a business show. And everything came from finding the courage back in 1975 to make that one phone call.
Faye Dance
Etobicoke, Ontario
The Magic Skates
It’s okay if you fail at something, as long as you don’t give up, as long as you say—okay, I will try it again!
Marilyn Bell Di Lascio
We had one hour left before skating the program we’d worked toward for years. I tried to stay focused, but in an hour we could be the Olympic pairs champions!
I thought back to the end of 1983, and how we had finished the season on a high—taking the bronze medal at the World Championships in Helsinki. Some people, however, felt we should have taken the gold. Now, suddenly, Underhill and Martini were one of the favourites going into the 1984 season—and the Olympic year.
I was nineteen and Paul was twenty-two. Here we were, with all these extraordinary expectations for us, and the additional pressure of knowing that this would be our last year. No matter what the outcome of our competitions, we would be leaving amateur skating at the end of the season. Along with our coaches, Louis Strong and Sandra Bezic, we had made the decision to focus exclusively on preparing for the Canadian Championships in January, then the Olympics, and finally, the World Championships in Ottawa.
From the beginning of the season, however, things just started to unravel. My skates had always allowed me to fly, but now they were failing me. I struggled with my equipment for the entire season, never feeling totally on top of my game. Nothing would flow, and we were both constantly frustrated. Then, in early January, a bad fall left me with torn ligaments in my foot, so we weren’t able to skate at the Canadian Championships—our only tune-up event before the Olympics.
By the time we could skate again, there were only three weeks left until the Olympics. On the plane to Sarajevo, we saw the cover of Mcleans magazine: “Barbara Underhill and Paul Martini—Canada’s Olympic Hopefuls!” Everybody felt we could do it, but we just knew we weren’t totally prepared.
Once in Sarajevo, though, we caught the excitement. Our practices weren’t the best, but we still felt we could do it when it counted—in front of the judges.
When we stepped onto the ice, we knew this was our one shot at our dream. We skated well, nailing all the hard elements, and I thought to myself: We did it! And then it happened. As we were stepping into an easy element (a spin we could do in our sleep), my edge just slid off. I smashed right into Paul as he was coming around, sending us both crashing onto the ice. We were very lucky. His blade was just inches from my head, and the fall could have been catastrophic.
We picked ourselves up and somehow finished the program, but it was just a blur after that. We were totally shattered. We finished sixth after that short program, leaving us stunned and without hope. Then, after a sleepless night, we still had to get out on the ice for an early morning practice, which was just terrible.
When we finally stepped onto the ice to skate our long program, we were both just empty shells. We went through the motions anyway, and to add insult to injury, we dropped from sixth to seventh place. We were devastated.
When we arrived home, there was a big crowd waiting for the Canadian team at the airport. Brian Orser walked through ahead of us, and a huge cheer went up because he had brought home the silver medal. We came out next, and suddenly there was total silence. People didn’t know what to say to us. They avoided us, and we felt alone and heartbroken. It felt like people had given up on us—like we didn’t have their support anymore. I had never been to a funeral, but I thought this was what it must be like. It was the death of our dream.
It was only three weeks before the World Championships in Ottawa. As we began to practice, all the same frustrations continued—no matter what we tried. Everything was a struggle, and we just couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Communication was difficult between us, and I had never felt so alone. We’d always had fun skating, but this was more like torture with so much tension.
About a week before the World Championships, we were at the rink for our daily practice. Paul was sitting in the coffee shop, with his feet up, and I was circling the ice—tears streaming down my face. Our coach, Louis, called us into his office and said, “Look, there’s no point in embarrassing ourselves. I’m going to phone Ottawa and just call it off. There’s no point in going.”
He later told us he had been bluffing, but I didn’t think so then. We’d never given up on anything before, and I just couldn’t handle the thought of giving up now. I left his office.
It just happened that Brian Orser was at the rink that day. He came down every couple of weeks to train at the Granite Club. He and I had started together at the Junior Worlds back in 1978, and we were very, very close friends. He was still tying on his skates, so I sat down beside him, put my head on his shoulder and just started to sob. “It’s over,” I managed to get out. “We’re not going.”
He looked at me, thought for a second, and then said, “Why don’t you go back to last year’s boots?” He said it so easily.
Now I had thought those boots were totally done. But it just so happened they were in my car with all my other stuff, because I was moving. I probably wouldn’t have done it if they hadn’t been out there—but they were. I thought to myself, Why not? What do I have to lose? I retrieved them from the car, Paul switched my good blades to the old boots—and then I stepped out onto the ice.
What happened then was like magic! Within five minutes I knew. The wings were back on my feet, and I was flying again. Paul came out and joined me. He was so excited. After working so hard all season, everything was suddenly effortless, just the way it used to be! I didn’t know whether Louis had made that telephone call yet or not, but I wasn’t even going to talk to him. We were just out there skating, making him watch. The first time we tried a run-throug
h, it was perfect! We hadn’t done that all year. We stayed on the ice that entire day, skating right until midnight!
It was suddenly clear that everything that had happened was all a result of firmly believing that my new skates would eventually “break in” like any other pair of skates. But they hadn’t, and they never were going to.
The rest of the week was unbelievable. Every day, it was all just there: the excitement, the energy, the fun! In one instant we’d gone from the most devastating low to believing that maybe this could still happen.
We went to Ottawa, and every practice was perfect. Our routines flowed and clicked just the way they used to. People couldn’t believe the difference in our skating.
The day of the World Championship finals arrived. When we stepped onto the ice, we knew, right from the first moment. We were in such a zone. Everything happened so easily. We skated flawlessly, effortlessly— and I wouldn’t allow myself to look at the crowd and get caught up in their reactions. However, about thirty seconds before the end of our program, as I was coming down from the top of a lift, I allowed myself a peek at the crowd for just an instant. The people were on their feet, and the building was starting to erupt—something I had never experienced in my life. It felt like the roof was about to come off!
When we finished, the feeling of relief was indescribable. To top it off, everyone who had ever played a role in our career was there in Ottawa that day. We were able to share this incredible moment with all of them. As I looked into the audience, I saw my two sisters sobbing, with their arms wrapped around each other.
Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul Page 7
