BARBARA FRUM WAS more than a national celebrity; she was a sort of national friend whom everyone recognized. Most people felt as though they knew her personally. It was that familiar, slightly husky, inquisitive, often amused voice most of us cherished. I hesitate to say she was an icon because I know she would have hated that. Once a fellow writer at a conference referred to her as a “national monument” and Barbara collapsed in uncontrollable laughter. “And crumbling,” she said.
When we first met, she had just started as co-host of CBC radio’s broad-ranging current affairs show, As It Happens. We were at the house she shared with her husband, Murray, two young children, a huge collection of African art, and a dog. It was 1971. The topic of conversation was Quebec, particularly Pierre Trudeau’s invocation of the War Measures Act the year before. Shocking as the kidnapping of James Cross and the kidnapping and murder of Quebec cabinet minister Pierre Laporte had been, Trudeau’s suspension of civil liberties and mass arrests in Quebec were an unjustifiably excessive response, a far cry from his “just society” ideals.
There were about a dozen people in the room, including June Callwood, Bill (Trent) Frayne, and, as always, Murray. Both Julian and June were directors of the Civil Liberties Association. Everyone thought the government had overstepped its limits, that the people of Canada had not been consulted on such draconian actions as the summary arrest of hundreds of Quebecers. Trudeau’s facile characterization of his critics as “bleeding hearts” and his warning, “Just watch me,” added fuel to the fire of protests.
Being a lawyer, Julian questioned the legality of the mass arrests. There had been no “apprehended insurrection,” no excuse for Trudeau’s actions. Julian had been in the same history class as Barbara; they knew their Canadian history; they had known each other for twenty years or so. She often called him about upcoming interviews, seeking points of law that would be relevant to her questions.
Barbara asked the tough questions no one else asked and she reached people no one else reached. She used to joke about calling the Pope through the Vatican switchboard and asking him about the latest scandals in Rome. She interviewed Sandra Good, roommate of the woman who tried to assassinate President Ford, an FBI agent who had operated in Canada, the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi fresh from his launch of the Age of Enlightenment, and Dr. Alex Comfort, the “love guru.” She covered Watergate (1972) from the beginning. She talked with PLO spokesman Shafiq al-Hout and once reached the British ambassador during a mob attack on his embassy. She remained calm while questioning the abusive Harold Ballard about the fate of his perpetually losing Toronto Maple Leafs, and in one of the show’s light segments, she questioned the Cookie Monster and the spaghetti-eating champion of the world. Famous for breaking news, the show itself frequently became the news.
Barbara was diagnosed with leukemia in 1974. She was thirty-six years old and at a high point in her career. When she told her co-workers about her diagnosis, it was a mark of their affection and respect for her that not one of them ever told anyone else. She hadn’t wanted the maudlin commiseration of strangers, nor special treatment. Those of her friends who knew never spoke about it, though we all watched the evening shows with anxiety and watched her at our dinners and parties with concern. It was as if denial would render it untrue. As the years went by and she was still alive, we became bolder and more confident.
She was determined to live what was left of her life on her own terms and not as an invalid. Most important, she didn’t want her children to know. She didn’t want her relationship with them changed in any way or their choices to be influenced by her illness. The person she talked with most often during the dreadful first few months after her diagnosis was June Callwood. June was a great listener, and that was what Barbara needed the most: someone to listen to her grief and outrage.
My friendship with Barbara grew closer when we worked on her book, As It Happened. I organized transcripts of past interviews with common themes into piles on her dining room table. Each pile would form the basis of a chapter. We chucked some because they would soon become dated, added others she thought would stand the test of time, and then Barbara set about writing the connecting passages, commentaries, and introductions that made the book into the bestseller it became.
Her children, David and Linda, would drift in and out of the room, commenting on the process, discussing topics of the day, or just asking whether they could do something or go somewhere. I was always impressed by Barbara’s way with her children: loving, respectful of their opinions, listening, arguing when she disagreed with them. They often joined guests at the Frums’ big round dinner table, when DavidI would seize the opportunity to try out his new ideas on Bob Fulford and Geraldine Sherman, or June Callwood and Trent Frayne, William Thorsell (the new editor of The Globe and Mail), Federal Deputy Minister Allan Gottlieb (and eventually Canada’s ambassador to the United States) and his wife, humourist writer Sondra, the CBC’s Peter and Eva Herrndorf, various politicians, businessmen, intellectuals, and us.
The great M&S publicity machine had fun sending Barbara on a cross-Canada tour because there was not a radio or TV station or newspaper or book-signing venue that didn’t want her. The tour had to be arranged in chunks to fit her busy schedule, but everyone was thrilled to meet her. Everyone, that is, except the silly radio interviewer who hadn’t read the book and launched into a series of highly personal questions. Barbara retaliated with “dead air”: silence, as the man babbled to fill the time. She called to ask me once whether anyone at all slated to interview her had bothered to read the book, a question many authors ask. I had to confess that, if past history was any indication, they hadn’t bothered, but at least, in her case, most of them would have listened to As It Happens.
Emboldened by her survival, we had begun to toast the coming year again at our New Year’s Eve dinner parties. I long to repeat one of those warm, laughter-filled New Year’s dinners with Barbara and Murray, sometimes with her mother, Florence, and with Bob Fulford, Geraldine Sherman, and many of our shared friends. We all brought potluck contributions to the meal, told stories, debated politics, talked of our children as they grew up. And there was that memorable night in 1983 when Murray danced on the table, celebrating that Barbara was still with us.
Their home seemed always to be under construction—furniture moved, paintings and sculptures assumed new places. Murray believed that it was impossible to appreciate a work of art if you became too used to it. He moved art and furniture around to make sure you would see it again. In addition to African art, they had been collecting American and Canadian artists. They added Oceanic art and art deco furniture. Over the years most of the spaces in their home became occupied by art, and they knew the story of each piece and why and when they had acquired it.II New elements were added to the existing building, rooms were enlarged, the patio expanded, the garden took on a whole new life with paths and new plants, a gazebo was added, then a waterfall.
Barbara’s approach to their living space was exactly the opposite to mine. I had done almost no decorating. Our garden looked dismal even at the height of summer. New plants I bought tended to wither as soon as they focused on me. Barbara suggested various improvements, including a wooden platform to extend into the ravine behind our house. I loved the idea but fell short of the execution. She also gave me a single dark-green plant she had pulled out of the ground in her garden as we walked by. She thought it would work well in front of our place in Georgian Bay, where not much had ever grown. It turned out to be an aggressive ground cover that killed most of the local plants, even the poison ivy, and still flourishes more than thirty years later.
I. David Frum would grow up to be a journalist, political commentator, speechwriter for George W. Bush, and fierce critic of the Trump administration.
II. Today many of the African pieces are in the Art Gallery of Ontario.