my friend...

Peter... I hope you do not mind this... sharing a piece of your last letter to me... you reminded me of something I had let go for far too long...
S

....You write beautifully.
Scott soaring and becoming a man.
Finding Tony.
Even that rebuttal to those who must have lost all their senses and urged caution upon you. I guess you know you're a good writer when you can tell your friends to fuck off, without them really knowing that's what you said, but nonetheless being convinced that they should, well, fuck off.

You told me a story once about that gay guy who was in your year at SAIT, who Ian took mercy upon and allowed to intern at his paper. You said that some community leader stopped Ian on the street one day and told him as forcefully as polite communication allows that he couldn't let that kid ever become a journalist.

If I could meet your Tony on the street, I'd tell him as forcefully as polite communication allows -- no, maybe I'd risk it all and grab him and shake him and tell him as forcefully as necessary communication demands that he can't ever let that wife of his stop writing.

Your friend,

Peter....

his words made me feel like an inspired student again... my professor, my teacher, my friend.
Peter was my newswriting instructor at SAIT for two years.
Peter, who never believed in an A , because there is always room for improvement.
Peter, who always called me Stevens, rather than Stephanie, who tented his fingers and stared at me over them with those brooding, inestimable eyes, daring me to keep his steady gaze and earn his respect.
Peter, who referred to our craft always as committing journalism, and whose casual references to his time as a foreign correspondent in the Middle East in the 80s made me yearn to drink in his memories over strong coffee brewed long and black in the Turkish tradition.
It was from Peter that I most craved praise, and from Peter I took criticism not as a setback, but as fuel to improve, to learn more and be the best writer I could be.
And from him, in the end, I got not only knowledge, but a friendship I carry with me like a talisman, more powerful than any charm I wear, more precious than any jewel or token, invisible to others but pressed indelibly within my breast.

His humour, dry and often sarcastic, felt like a shared secret.
I walked into the dark halls of SAIT one early fall morning, the sun barely risen, the grey cement height of the Senator Burns building adding to the quiet the uninspired hallways brought. On the train to school that cold morning the sky had burst with colour, filling me, as it never fails to, with a sort of awe at
the effortlessness of nature to point out good naturedly the impotance she observes in our human existence.
I saw him walking purposefully ahead of me, and called to him. I asked if he had see the sunrise that morning.
His stride did not falter and he responded without pause, "yes Stevens. I watched it with my first years upstairs. We all held hands and sang Feelings."
The quip was delivered dryly, without a glance, but not without a subtle note to it that understood my understanding of the humour within, meant, I like to believe, only for me.
And Peter, who when I was at one of my lowest moments when I was a reporter years ago, overwhelmed with work and life and staring at a deadline already behind me, my spirit crushed and no strength in reserve to draw upon, it was Peter, in response to a desperate plea-riddled email from me that long night, who demanded in no uncertain terms I get my ass in gear, get the work done, and take time to break down later.
Perfect.
More one of my tribe than any ought to be, it brings my soul a healthy measure of steadiness to know he will always be just there, ready to listen, laugh, share of his own... to sidestep in time perchance to share that Turkish coffee, but until then, always just a keystroke away.