Something within Me: A Personal and Political Memoir 9781487544409

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Something within Me A Personal and Political Memoir

Michael Wilson

with John Lawrence Reynolds

Praise for Something within Me

“The country was fortunate when Michael Wilson returned to political life as Canada’s ambassador to the United States during the early years of my ­government. Mike’s commitment to his country and his lifelong quest for mutually beneficial relationships helped restore our most important international partnership. His memoir reminds us that inspiring people to reach their potential was also a hallmark of Mike’s accomplishments as a business leader, educational mentor, and advocate for mental health. Something within Me is a candid and compelling look at a transformative time in our country’s history and a man who helped make it so.” The Right Honourable Stephen Harper, Former Prime Minister of Canada “While Something within Me is a memoir – and gift – for his g­ randchildren, it is also a revelation that the greatness of Michael Wilson is rooted in the goodness of Michael Wilson. Given the times we are living through, ­Something within Me is an informative, touching, and wonderfully readable gift to us all.” Bill Wilkerson, Executive Chairman of Mental Health International “A respected federal statesman, a titan of Bay Street, and a pioneer in moving Canada’s focus on mental health forward, Michael Wilson was a powerful influence for me both in business and in giving back to our communities. His moving memoir offers a deeper look into his life and legacy of service to ­Canadians everywhere, and renewed inspiration that we can all make a ­positive difference in the lives of others.” George A. Cope, Former CEO of BCE and Bell Canada

“In Something within Me, Michael Wilson recalls a remarkable career that spanned the worlds of politics, finance, and diplomacy. In so doing, he demonstrates how public service can be combined with a personal ­commitment to making the world a better place. Nowhere is this more evident than in his support for mental health and research, where his tireless efforts have left an enduring legacy.” Jane Philpott, Dean of the Faculty of Health Sciences and Director of the School of Medicine, Queen’s University “Michael Wilson was a surprising man, almost the definition of the quiet Canadian. But as this memoir so remarkably makes clear, his passions and sense of duty ran deep. He was the kind of cabinet minister we just don’t see any more: decent, effective, and incapable of grandstanding. Yet he was also a father who transformed a family tragedy into a triumph of sustained love and advocacy that helped to change our attitudes to mental illness. It is good to have this record properly and eloquently told.” John Fraser, Master Emeritus of Massey College and Author of The Chinese and Eminent Canadians “Michael Wilson was a politician, diplomat, investment banker, educator, mental health visionary and advocate, and family man – and he excelled in all these roles. This book is a personal memoir of one of the greatest ­Canadians of all time, who accomplished so much in so many fields and did it with ethics, integrity, good humour, and humility.” Tony Fell, Former Chairman and CEO of RBC Capital Markets “Something within Me purveys a unique understanding of what motivates the best among us who gain high elected office. Michael Wilson’s frank ­reflections convey the essence of a life and career that added true value to our country in business, government, and diplomacy.” The Honourable Hugh D. Segal, Former Chief of Staff to Prime Minister Brian Mulroney

Aevo UTP An imprint of University of Toronto Press Toronto Buffalo London utorontopress.com ©   University of Toronto Press 2022 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Title: Something within me : a personal and political memoir / Michael Wilson with   John Lawrence Reynolds. Names: Wilson, Michael H. (Michael Holcombe), 1937–2019, author. | Reynolds, John   (John Lawrence), author. Description: Includes index. Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20210318503 | Canadiana (ebook) 20210318600 |   ISBN 9781487544386 (softcover) | ISBN 9781487544393 (EPUB) | ISBN 9781487544409 (PDF) Subjects: LCSH: Wilson, Michael H. (Michael Holcombe), 1937–2019. | LCSH: Politicians –   Canada – Biography. | LCSH: Legislators – Canada – Biography. | LCSH: Businesspeople –   Canada – Biography. | LCGFT: Autobiographies. Classification: LCC FC631.W55 A3 2022 | DDC 971.064/7092 – dc23

ISBN 978-1-4875-4438-6 (paper)    ISBN 978-1-4875-4439-3 (EPUB)    ISBN 978-1-4875-4440-9 (PDF) Printed in Canada We wish to acknowledge the land on which the University of Toronto Press operates. This land is the traditional territory of the Wendat, the Anishnaabeg, the Haudenosaunee, the Métis, and the Mississaugas of the Credit First Nation. University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial support of the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Ontario Arts Council, an agency of the Government of Ontario, for its publishing activities.

The universe is change; our life is what our thoughts make of it. – Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

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Contents

Foreword by the Right Honourable Brian Mulroney  ix Prologue  xiii   1  Finding My Way Home  1   2  Lessons in Life, Home and Abroad  19   3  Dollars, Discretion, and Life on the Farm  45   4  The Power of a Challenging Question  61   5  Who Will Lead the Way?  81   6  A Platform on Four Pillars  97   7  Tearing Down Tariff Walls  115  8 NAFTA Tales  129   9  Journeys and Revelations  157 10  Brian, Mick, and Me  179 11  Back to Business  193 12 Cameron  213 13  Embassy Life  235 14  Security and Personalities  253 15  The Platinum Years  273

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Afterword by John Lawrence Reynolds  285 Notes  287 Index  291

Illustrations follow page 222.

Foreword

If a Prime Minister of Canada is lucky – and I mean really lucky – he will wind up with a Michael Wilson in his cabinet, ideally as minister of finance. As I sat across the cabinet table from Michael for nine years and watched him in action, I knew that as Prime Minister I had been handed a major gift. A man of high principle, good humour, and unassailable integrity, he was kind and thoughtful in his approach; brilliant, fully prepared, and determined in advancing major questions of public policy; and loyal and supportive of me and colleagues in cabinet, caucus, and the House of Commons. Years ago, in describing the challenges and the cut and thrust of politics at the highest level in Canada, Prime Minister Pearson wrote, “Don’t be downhearted in the thick of battle. It is where all good men would wish to be.” Michael Wilson’s close friendship, valued counsel, and unswerving support made that come true for me. * The Canada–US Free Trade Agreement * The North American Free Trade Agreement * A wave of privatizations including Air Canada, Petro-Canada, ­Canadair, and many more * Deregulation including the abolition of the National Energy Program and the Foreign Investment Review Agency

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* Reduction in the federal deficit * The introduction of inflation reduction targets and price stability as national monetary objectives * Historic tax reform that included the abolition of a hidden and ­destructive 13.5 per cent manufacturers’ sales tax and the introduction of a visible consumption tax – the Goods and Services Tax – that has strengthened Canada’s competitiveness and prosperity Why do I mention these initiatives today? Well, for a very good reason – because each one was part of the foundation for a modernized Canadian economy, and each one was in large measure designed, negotiated, and implemented by Michael Wilson. Together, these policies – which were initially strongly resisted in Parliament and across the country – have over time quite simply transformed Canada. Canada has been well served by some good ministers of finance of all parties. But, there are very few Canadians whose vision for a brand new economy ever materialized, or whose leadership contributions to our country will resonate as powerfully and durably in history as the body of work left to us by Michael Wilson. A few weeks prior to his death, I had my last telephone conversation with Michael. He was at home in bed in a weakened condition but had lost none of his courage, optimism, or good nature. He told me that the family was well, that he thought he was rebounding somewhat in his medical tests, that he hoped to get down to Florida that winter with Margie to golf and to rest, and that they both looked forward to having dinner with Mila and me in Palm Beach. But the timbre of his voice told me that this was probably our last conversation. I told him what a magnificent job he had done for Canada as minister and ambassador, how vital had been his contribution to the cause of mental health over the last quarter century, and how his devoted leadership as chancellor had so enriched his beloved University of Toronto.

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I told him how much I admired him and loved him. And as I placed the phone in its cradle, I wept for my wonderful friend who had meant so much to Margie, to his beautiful family, to Canada, and to all who had the privilege of knowing him and working with him closely. I thought, too, of how much he will undoubtedly come to mean to all who will benefit over the decades from his vision, his sacrifice, and his service to our beloved country. James Joyce once wrote that “the past is consumed in the present and the present is alive only because it gives birth to the future.” Well, Michael Wilson made certain with his exemplary life and sterling contribution that the future of his Canada – one that he had served so honourably and well – will bring opportunity and hope and happiness to all who hold our coveted citizenship as the decades unfold and Canada continues on its path to higher achievement, greatness, and success. And 50 or 100 years from now, if Canadians stop for a moment to reflect on the leaders and builders who brought our country to such an impressive and commanding place in the family of nations, I suspect that many will whisper a special word of gratitude to Michael Wilson, whose brave and visionary nation-building contributions will then be even more evident than they are today. And they will know then – as we do today – what an exceptional man Michael Wilson was, and how splendidly he served Canada and all of her people. The Right Honourable Brian Mulroney, Former Prime Minister of Canada June 2021

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Prologue

It was the way he waved goodbye. Cameron and I had spent that chilly spring day doing chores at our family farm north of Toronto. We performed the classic father/son tasks depicted in TV commercials promoting pickup trucks and beer – we trimmed branches, cleared debris, and cut down trees that hadn’t survived the winter. There is a satisfaction in performing such physical labour while you have the youth and strength to do it. I was in decent shape for my age, and at twenty-nine Cameron retained much of the physique and resolve that had made him a good athlete in his youth. He handled the work with ease. We hadn’t spoken much to each other since we began, nor had we when working together in the past. This was due to our personalities and to a tacit agreement that we would avoid discussing what should have been the most important topic in our lives at the time: my son’s state of mind. Performing chores together was a means of keeping Cameron physically active and interested in life, and of Margie and me sharing time with our eldest son. Cameron had suffered through a series of emotional crises since his teenage years. Let’s call it what it was: mental illness. His inability to deal with it weighed on him. Even more than the misery of the illness itself, Cameron also bore the shame and stigma associated with it, and it was agonizing to him. His friends, he feared, would abandon him if they knew, a

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familiar concern among those dealing with mental illness. It is a common and tragic distinction: Other maladies generate empathy and support for their victims, but those living with mental illness risk becoming pariahs if they dare discuss their condition openly. Margie and I were feeling optimistic about Cameron that day. He appeared to have grown closer to us through the previous winter, and Margie and I felt confident about leaving on a business trip to Chicago the following day. Cameron was improving, we believed, and he continued to have strong support from siblings and health professionals. Business trips such as the one we were about to take had been a part of our lives since Margie and I married thirty years earlier. The trips carried us to every corner of the world. In the early years, I had taken these journeys to represent my employer on matters of finance and investment. Later, as a senior member of the federal cabinet, I travelled to deal with issues of finance, international trade, and industry. Whatever the purpose, I considered the journeys neither perk nor tedium. While I regretted time away from my family, I revelled in discovering new destinations, experiencing new cultures, and making new friends. I especially celebrated the times Margie and I could travel together and share events and memories. Foreign travel was, in one sense, a measure of the success I had achieved in my public and private life. By April 1995, I might have stepped away from public service and private employment to relax and take satisfaction in my career. It would have meant exchanging endless hours aboard aircraft and lonely nights in strange hotel rooms for more time to work on my golf game and more days to spend with Margie and our three children. On the one hand, I found this prospect somewhat tempting. On the other, retirement of any sort held about as much appeal to me as cold porridge. In truth, I was basking in the quiet satisfaction of recently helping to negotiate both the initial Free Trade Agreement between Canada and the US and, later, the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA). The

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latter was especially gratifying to me. Achieving our government’s goal of crafting one of the largest and most successful trade agreements of its kind in history had meant fostering and nurturing relationships with top representatives of the United States government, often in the face of skepticism and disdain from the other side of the table. My success resulted in some part from having a master relationship builder as a mentor. I had spent the majority of my political life in the shadow of Brian Mulroney, who built relationships like a musical virtuoso, exerting his considerable charm when cultivating personal contacts. While relationships are vital in every aspect of politics and business, Mulroney and I played the game in contrasting styles. Where Mulroney fixed a laser-like beam on whatever goal he chose to attain – or whatever individual he chose to win over – I preferred a softer, less direct approach. Mulroney overflowed with charisma, a quality that was not among my God-given talents (which he frequently pointed out with delight). Where he focused on filling his Rolodex with names and numbers, I was more driven by an innate curiosity in other people, other manners of living, and other paths to follow. On the latter point, I had been influenced by the American poet Robert Frost and his famous poem of encountering two diverging roads in a dark and distant wood, choosing to follow “the one less traveled by,” adding: “And that has made all the difference.” At various turning points in my life I recalled Frost’s words. I may not have always followed the road less travelled, but whenever I did, I felt I had made a difference. That’s where I was on that spring day long ago – savouring the fading glow of satisfying accomplishments in my marriage, my family, and my career while waiting to choose, if available, another less travelled road. But neither Margie nor I made the choice. Cameron made it for us when he and Margie drove from the farm to the airport while I followed in a second car. Approaching the airport, Cameron and I pulled our cars off the highway. Margie gave Cameron a hug, then joined me in our car. Cameron would drive off in the other car and stay overnight with his sister.

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He and I said our goodbyes. Before driving off Cameron waved to us from behind the wheel of his car. The manner of his wave was unusual enough to freeze the image in my mind, as though the sky had gone briefly dark or lightning had struck nearby. Not that dramatic, perhaps, but the picture froze in my memory, a snapshot I would fully understand only later. Cameron rarely waved goodbye to us, and never as he did that day. Perhaps, in the past, he believed waving goodbye to his parents was not a cool thing to do. But it was more than his choice to wave that startled me. It was the way he directed his melancholy gesture at his mother and me, a deliberate and meaningful sign, a firm and explicit farewell. The significance of Cameron’s goodbye became clear the following day in Chicago when, during a dinner meeting, I was called from the table by a telephone call from my brother-in-law who informed me that Cameron had taken his life. I know of no effective manner of describing a parent’s reaction to the death of his or her child, whatever the cause. Margie and I dealt with our loss and sorrow in our own manner, according to our own needs. When our emotions subsided – when sunny days began to appear, filled with light and warmth and promise – we resumed our lives in new ways, with new needs and goals. Cameron’s death pointed me towards another “less travelled” road. This one led to promoting the awareness of mental illness in Canada, and to generating support for those who suffer from it. The direct effects of our son’s illness had not driven him to take his life. Not on their own. They had been amplified by the shame he felt, and by the fear that his friends, should they discover his illness, would reject him simply for suffering from it. It is an appalling aspect of mental illness. How can acquiring a disease that afflicts half of all Canadians by the time they reach forty years of age generate disgrace? The unfairness first outraged, then motivated me. I decided that, of all the things I could do to acknowledge the anguish our son

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had undergone, erasing the stigma associated with mental illness would prove the most meaningful. This became a road I chose to travel. Some called me courageous for taking a stand on behalf of those who suffer from mental illness, a view I quickly dismissed. How could I not speak out about the undeserved shame my son had felt, and the extra burden it added to the effects of his illness? We needed, all of us in Canada and elsewhere, to speak up and draw attention to that injustice. We needed to insist on change. I was unsure about the influence I could have, but I believed that helping banish society’s reluctance to discuss the impact of mental illness on its sufferers was the best I could do to honour Cameron’s life. The wisdom of my decision was affirmed by comments from those who knew and loved Cameron. Shocked by news of his death, they expressed not disdain for his condition but remorse at not being there for him. If only I had known. I heard the phrase repeatedly among those who attended Cameron’s funeral, a multitude of young people who assured me they would have tried to help our son, they would have offered support, they would have done something if only they had known. I never doubted their sincerity. Cameron had prevented them from helping by concealing his condition from them. And who could blame him? Society appeared to judge those who suffered from mental illness as weak and self-indulgent, as though the afflicted chose to ignore the command to “Snap out of it!” This is what I spoke of at Cameron’s funeral in a packed North Toronto church with Brian Mulroney sitting among Cameron’s friends and family. This was the point I wanted to make to all those looking back at me, many with damp eyes and glum expressions. You cannot assist someone over a hurdle that you do not know exists. I had seen, heard, and felt Cameron’s fear of his illness becoming known among his friends and the community generally. He had pleaded with his mother and me many times not to reveal his condition. He believed his

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friends would abandon him if they knew of it. His job prospects would vanish. His life would become empty and meaningless. No one must ever know the truth. No one must discuss it. Over the days following Cameron’s funeral I learned that many of those who had attended the service supported my decision to raise the subject during one of the saddest days of our lives, Margie’s and mine. My words provided licence for them to discuss openly how mental illness leaves those who suffer from it feeling rejected and alone. A surprising number revealed to me, looking this way and that before speaking in a lowered voice, that they had dealt with mental illness themselves. “I’ve never talked about this with anyone …” they would begin, and I would listen and nod with understanding and empathy. All around me, I began to realize, people suffered the multiple impacts of mental illness. First, it struck their ability to enjoy all that life has to offer. Next, it assaulted their self-esteem when friends and family grew remote after learning of their condition. Eventually, it isolated them from those they needed and loved at a time they desperately required support. I still had much to do with my life. The opportunity to serve Canada as ambassador to the United States, before renewing my career in the financial and investment industry, lay ahead of me. But facing me at that moment was the awareness that something had to be done to abolish the ugly aspect of mental illness, the one that branded its victims in a manner that isolated them from much of society. So, with Margie’s support, I chose to dedicate my available time to generating funds in support of mental illness awareness, and to abolishing the stigma associated with it. The response to my efforts was overwhelmingly positive and immensely rewarding. Many people suggested that my work on behalf of mental illness made a bigger impact than all my years in government service, a point I leave to history to determine. I can confirm, however, that I achieved more at the funeral service for Cameron than simply expressing a father’s loss. I had pushed on a door waiting to be opened.

CHAPTER ONE

Finding My Way Home

i couldn’t take my eyes off the policeman. Cars and trucks sped past him on either side, moving so quickly that the breeze they generated ruffled his uniform. Yet he stood undaunted, waving his arms and blowing his whistle, controlling traffic in a smooth, unhurried manner, perched on a rise in the centre of the intersection. I stood at the curb, a bundled four-year-old boy among shoppers and business people, marvelling at the traffic cop’s smooth choreography. He turned here and there, pointing at trucks, waving at cars, whistling at taxis and nodding at bus drivers, the picture of authority in his neatly pressed uniform complete with silver badge, polished black leather belt, and blue cap. He created order among chaos, making unquestioned decisions that were obeyed by everyone. He appeared to be very good at it. It was a wonderful performance. His job was far more interesting and impressive than my father’s, whatever it was. Instead of wearing the police officer’s uniform, which reminded me of the newspaper photographs I saw of soldiers fighting in the far-off war against Nazi Germany, my father left the house each morning dressed in dull grey and brown tweeds. He spent his day seated behind a desk and speaking on the telephone wearing no shiny badge, no polished belt, no visored cap. The police officer’s work seemed more important and certainly more exciting than my father’s, and I turned to tell him so. But he wasn’t next to me. In fact, he was nowhere to be seen. Had he entered the store

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behind me and asked me to wait for him? I didn’t remember. Had we become separated among the crowds of people? I didn’t know. I did not, however, panic. I knew that we lived at the foot of the mountain, which I could see in the distance, so when I couldn’t find him after several minutes of wandering among the adults on the sidewalk, I began heading in its direction. I need to add that we were living in Hamilton, Ontario. There are about as many true mountains in that region of Canada as there are penguins in Arabia. By “mountain,” Hamiltonians mean the Niagara Escarpment. If an elevation of a hundred metres or so qualifies a knoll for the title, then it is indeed a mountain. In my four-year-old mind it was a landmark. The landmark was quite a distance away. I have no idea how long it took to reach it, but I have no memory of panic or fatigue. I do recall daylight fading by the time I reached our street. Turning the corner, I heard my mother frantically calling “Michael! Michael!” as she ran towards me, arms outstretched and joy flooding her face. I casually replied, “Coming, Mummy,” as if nothing eventful had occurred. The idea of a young boy trekking through a city on his own wasn’t nearly as terrifying then as it sounds today. Traffic was far lighter and moved much slower, for one. Still, the fear my mother felt when my father returned home without their little boy in hand must have been almost overwhelming to her. Years later I discovered that her distress had been intensified by the memory of twin boys, half-brothers of mine, to whom she had given birth a few years before me, and who had died as infants. Her relief at my return overrode plans she might have had to give me a scolding, although I suspect she delivered some clear instructions to my father about how to safely escort his son on our next trek downtown. I’m sure Dad learned his lesson. I’m not sure I did. It was wartime, after all, and while the conflict was remote to a young boy living in a comfortable home with successful and concerned parents, its impact was felt in various ways. In one case, it arrived almost on our doorstep.

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Next to us lived a boy perhaps a year younger than me. I knew him as a neighbour, a friend, a playmate, a pleasant pal whose father was serving overseas in the war. While neither of my parents was sent abroad, each assisted the war effort in their individual ways. My father’s contribution to the war effort consisted of working with Royal Canadian Air Force cadets, training them for active service. It was important work, although performed without risk to his life or my security. And my mother served as a driver for the Red Cross. The war was both distant and threatening, and news of the conflict, encouraging though at times distressing, was exchanged among adults in hushed tones. So the reality of war remained remote up until the day I learned that the father of my next-door friend had been killed in battle and would never return home. Neither his wife nor his young son would see him again, never feel his arms around them, never hear his voice. The news affected me deeply. I began crying for the boy whose father would not be there to help his son grow up. I could not imagine being without a father whom I admired and respected, despite my low opinion of his work compared with that of the traffic policeman. It was my first lesson, I suppose, on the value and fragility of life. Spurred by the tragedy next door and my parents’ hushed conversations, I took an active interest in the news from Europe, listening to each broadcast. The headlines were always about the war, and as time passed they grew more promising. When peace was declared, I heard of a large celebration taking place at the railroad station downtown. Even more confident than before about exploring the city on my own, I set off to attend it without informing my parents. The crowd at the celebration was immense. Waves of joy and relief swept over everyone. The war had ended! Our men and women were coming home! There would be, as a popular song of the day promised, bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover! I suppose bands played for the crowd and there might have been a parade. But above the masses of people and their joyful mood hovered the realization that many had neighbours and

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relatives who would not be returning. And among those coming home, some would lack limbs or bear less visible scars of war, returning only to face unimagined hardships throughout the remainder of their lives. All of this was underlined by speeches from prominent personalities who rejoiced over the victory, but who implored everyone to remember that the cost of victory was measured in loss, suffering, and horror. Hearing this I thought again of my friend’s father. There was much to celebrate, of course. But there was also much to understand and appreciate as well. The memory of that day and the impact of that lesson stayed with me over all the years since. Many will assess my childhood as “privileged.” I wouldn’t disagree with that opinion, but I might choose to characterize the source of the privilege in my own manner. I would begin by noting that my ancestral background, while once dominant among Canadians outside Quebec, may sound peculiar in the early years of the twenty-first century. In a word, my background is decidedly WASP – White Anglo-Saxon Protestant. At a time and among a society made richer and more stimulating thanks to the influx of immigrants since the Second World War, it’s easy to forget or dismiss the country’s British heritage. There is much to be decried in British colonial history and a good deal to be respected. Whatever the balance between the two, my heritage shaped me and influenced much of what I achieved in my life. It cannot and should not be denied. My paternal grandfather died several years before I was born, so his wife filled the grandparents’ role all on her own. “Granny” Wilson looked after my parents’ three children whenever she visited us. We were as boisterous, I suppose, as any kids our age, and we tried her patience often. When necessary, she would respond to our hijinks with a firm but fair hand, accepting the reality that both angels and devils reside in kids of a certain stage. Once, when she was giving us our evening baths, I carelessly knocked her eyeglasses from her face. This was at a time when “glasses” referred not only

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to the device but also to the material from which they were made, and the lenses shattered as soon as they struck the tiled floor. Instead of scolding me, Granny Wilson gathered up the broken pieces and disposed of them, accepting the damage as part of the experience of helping to raise little rascals. I could recall the scene perfectly all these years later. It was one of those small lessons in life that made an impact on me far beyond its importance at the time. It taught me, among other things, to remain calm and accept small calamities with grace. I have thanked Granny Wilson often over the years for that example. Granny had her own somewhat sinful rituals. One involved sampling a glass of sherry each evening before dinner. Another was the gratification of smoking a cigarette (she favoured du Mauriers), a pleasure she stretched, along with their cost, by smoking just half the cigarette at a time. After puffing her way through the first half she would extinguish it and set it aside to finish the rest later in the day. Having endured the dual privations of the Great Depression and the Second World War, Granny Wilson was not prepared to live a profligate life. I was less familiar with my maternal grandparents, the Davies. Grandmother Davies appeared to be as perfect a grandmother to me as Granny Wilson – gentle, patient, and loving towards her grandchildren. When I stayed with her as a young boy in her Toronto apartment for a short time, she assigned me the duty of answering the telephone by lifting the heavy black receiver and speaking clearly into the mouthpiece. She died soon after, as did my maternal grandfather. Of him I knew little as well, but in the years since I have managed to discover many aspects of his life that gave me insight into my own personality. Meurig Lloyd Davies took more than mere pride in being “100 per cent” Welsh stock. He revelled in it. His own grandfather, David Griffith, had held the prestigious office of Archdruid of Wales and been declared Clwydfardd, Bard of the Valley of the Clwyd, in a Welsh-language poetryreciting contest. Known as the National Eisteddfod, the annual event continues to this day in Wales and still draws a crowd. And, just to add

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another element of prestige to the maternal side of the family, I am told we are descendants of the King of the Third Royal Tribe of North Wales and Prince of Powys. This connection, by the way, failed to earn us invitations to any royal weddings or similar events. Born in Liverpool in 1865, Meurig Davies launched his career at a chemical firm whose owners were so impressed with his abilities that they sent him and a handful of other young managers across the Atlantic in 1899 to a subsidiary in Bay City, Michigan. There he was appointed managing director, secretary, and treasurer of the North American Chemical Company and became an American citizen. Meurig was obviously an impressive individual by several measures. In fact, he was so highly regarded in the Bay City community that both political parties, Democrats and Republicans alike, sought to support him as mayor and launch him on a political career. He was likely grateful, but he declined to stand for election, choosing to avoid the rough-and-tumble of political life. This was probably a wise decision on many fronts. Shortly after rejecting a political career in Michigan, he was appointed vice-president of the Standard Chemical Company in Toronto. Crossing the border into Canada no doubt changed many things, but not his character. He impressed the folks in the Dominion, as the country was known then, every bit as much as those in the US, and his abilities quickly propelled him into the president’s chair of Standard Chemical. Meurig was undoubtedly as much of a charmer as he was a manager. It appears that many people in and out of the company responded to his Celtic sense of humour and oratory skills. Enough of them appreciated these qualities that he was once again urged to enter politics, this time Dominion-style, and once again he refused, although throughout his life he actively supported Conservative Party candidates. Instead of politics he chose other means of public service, lending his skills to business and charitable organizations including the Canadian National Institute for the Blind, and serving as warden of St. Paul’s church on Bloor Street. All in all, he appears to have been a highly respected, optimistic, articulate, and

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generous man. If I have gone to some lengths to describe him, it’s because he stands as a model for me, and we all have need of models. The Davies’ second daughter, my mother Constance Lloyd Davies, acquired many of Meurig’s characteristics, especially his inner strength. She spent the summers of her teenage years at Camp Northway in Algonquin Park. We may think of the park today as a pleasurable escape from city life, but in the early twentieth century it was a rugged and demanding environment for young women. I suspect her experiences there were responsible for much of the strength and vivacity my mother displayed through her life. Connie – almost no one called her Constance – attended the University of Toronto, and soon after her graduation in 1929 at age twenty-two she married Rudolph Muspratt. Rudy was quite a catch. His father served as both Lord Mayor of Liverpool and head of Imperial Chemical Industries, the parent company of the firm Connie’s father was operating. Imperial Chemical Industries, or ICI, was at the time the largest manufacturer in the UK and a global commercial giant, manufacturing products ranging from motorcycles and paints to, in later years, components of Britain’s nuclear weapons program. The wedding, as you might expect, was elaborate, celebrated in Liverpool’s majestic though still uncompleted gothic revival cathedral, and the married couple settled in Manchester. It sounds like a storybook romance, a happily-ever-after fable. Tragically, it was not. About a year and a half into the marriage Rudy died from surgery for a burst appendix, just a few weeks before Connie gave birth to twin boys. Broken-hearted, she returned to Toronto with the babies, only to lose both to pneumonia soon after her arrival in Canada. How do you deal with such sudden and immense tragedy? My mother drew on her courage, optimism, and faith to carry on. Eventually she met my father, Harry Wilson. They were wed in St. Paul’s Bloor Street in 1933, at the depth of the Great Depression. My sister Wendy was born in June 1934, I arrived in November three years later, and my sister Tricia followed in July 1940.

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Our parents enjoyed a long and happy marriage. Along the way, they passed their values on to us – not by decreeing what we should or shouldn’t do with our lives, but by celebrating the joy and satisfaction those values provided them. In place of criticizing things that we children did or did not do, they offered encouragement and expressed pleasure at our achievements. Despite the tragic beginnings of my mother’s adult life, she fostered a positive and optimistic outlook, an attribute I could not avoid admiring. Dad was the disciplinarian, letting us know when we did something wrong and applying appropriate punishment. This, by the way, is a voice of experience. Like any young boy, and perhaps more than most, I felt the discipline of my father in various ways via various methods. I won’t say this made the punishment easy to take, but it was easy to understand because Dad had his own high standards of integrity and honesty, and we were effectively informed of this whenever we failed to match those standards. Yet he was very human in his manner. He never swore nor told off-colour jokes in our presence. Not, that is, until Mom died, when hints of naughtiness revealed itself to us. So perhaps the influence was mostly hers. Or maybe it was because we were no longer children. Mom and Dad found humour in many places and from many events. One of my father’s favourite photographs was taken during a holiday in London when both my parents were well into their sixties. It shows them strolling through Piccadilly together, my mother on Dad’s arm, while a prostitute propositions him from the other side. My father always smiled broadly at the photo. I’m not entirely sure how my mother felt about it. We children all had chores to do, of course. My primary jobs in winter were to clear snow from the sidewalk and driveway and shovel coal into the Iron Fireman machine. The Iron Fireman transferred coal through a hollow tube from a metal bin into the furnace heating our house. I was responsible for loading the bin from the pile of coal filling a corner of the basement, where it had been dumped out of burlap sacks by a deliveryman. These were different days indeed.

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Hefting shovelfuls of coal was a dirty job and hard work, and I hated it. Forgetting to fill the bin, however, risked the family waking on a winter’s night to a cold house, plus the danger of deadly coal gas seeping back into the house instead of rising up through the chimney. Both were reasons enough for me to take that particular task seriously, along with the fact that failing to do so meant a severe cutback in my allowance. There were other ways of adding to my financial status, such as it was. We seemed to have more heavy snowfalls during my childhood years than now. This was long before the introduction of snow blowers and other labour-saving means of surviving Canadian winters, and many people who lacked an industrious teenager in their household depended on neighbourhood entrepreneurs like me to arrive on their doorstep, shovel in hand, after every snowfall. Or even while the snow was still falling. To me, snowfalls were windfalls, of a sort. I went door-to-door, offering my services and eventually building a loyal clientele. Along with compliments for my work I earned handsome tips at Christmas. I’m not sure if this approach to life and money grew exclusively from Dad’s dedication to his career in the financial industry, but I suspect it influenced things somewhat. In the years following the Second World War, the banking system in Canada was far different from today’s. Instead of the current state, with six massive chartered banks dominating the picture, the country’s financial landscape included several banks, plus numerous trust companies that provided basic financial services in competition with them. The trust companies, thanks to the rules of the time, acted as executors, trustees, and administrators of wills, services that banks were prohibited from providing. Another feature distinguishing trust companies from chartered banks was their ownership and management style. While it was illegal for any single shareholder to own more than 10 per cent of a chartered bank, trusts tended to be closely held by small groups of owners, many as private corporations. This created a contrasting style with the banks.

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The careers of trust company employees were often determined as much by one’s personality and family connections as by his or her (but almost always his …) banking expertise. Individual trust companies may not have been as massive in assets as the banks, but they were popular and influential. At one point, more than a hundred different trust companies operated almost a thousand branches across the country when Canada’s population and asset base were far smaller than today’s. Among the most dominant of the companies through the 1940s and 1950s was National Trust, which my father joined after graduating from Upper Canada College. He may have had promise as a trainee but, like almost every other young man in that position, his first duties included filling the inkwells and changing the ink blotters on the desks of senior officers. Over time his abilities became apparent to higher-ups, and by his thirties Dad was company treasurer, retiring at age sixty-three as president, general manager, and a director of the firm. My father had many important qualities, but among the most notable was his skill at assessing people. While visiting him at his office soon after he was named president, Dad introduced me to a man who impressed me with his wisdom. I listened intently to his observations and comments, delivered with confidence and clarity. When the man left, my father informed me that he was easily the smartest person at National Trust. Surprised, I asked, “Then why isn’t he sitting in your chair?” “Because,” Dad responded, “he may be brilliant, but he is not a good manager or judge of people. Remember that, Michael. You need more than intelligence and knowledge of the business you’re in. You need to understand people as well.” The lesson stayed with me throughout my career and life. Being an expert in your field does not qualify you for high positions and grave responsibilities if you lack interpersonal skills. Understanding how to perform a task with exceptional ability isn’t enough. You also need, to an equal extent, the talent to appraise people and help them realize their potential.

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This certainly describes my father, and I suspect it applied to me as well. Among all the skills I acquired and honed through life, the ability to understand and appreciate the concerns of those around me was at least as important as reading a balance sheet and measuring investment risk. Too often we over-evaluate the depth of ability that specialists bring to specific tasks. Specialization on its own can blind you to reality and opportunity. That’s why, as someone once pointed out, top officers in the military are called “generals.” My father’s progress at National Trust involved relocating his family with each promotion. I changed cities and schools frequently, moving from Hamilton to Montreal and later to Toronto, where I finished high school at Upper Canada College. Changing schools and neighbourhoods meant changing friends, which was a challenge for a shy kid like me. The challenge was complicated because I had completed grades two and three in one year, so in subsequent years I was usually the youngest boy in the class. Older boys stuck together as a group and, boys being boys, they tended to intimidate anyone younger and supposedly less sophisticated than themselves, even if the difference between our ages was a mere year. In response I turned to sports, which I loved despite never being a top athlete. Sport teams were set by age, so I felt more at home competing with and against boys who were the same age as me. Sports also brought out my competitive spirit, something that spilled over to my academic studies. I remember a game created by one of my grade school teachers. She would write a series of arithmetic questions all along the base of the blackboard, then ask two students to solve them in order. One student began at the left end of the line of questions while the other began at the right. On the teacher’s “Go!” we would tackle each problem in turn, working our way towards the middle. Whoever reached it first was declared the winner. I loved arithmetic, I loved competition, I dearly loved that game, and I was often the victor.

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While living in Montreal we rented part of a farmhouse in Shawbridge, a village in the Laurentians, where we skied down gentle hills most winter weekends. Skiing brought out a new competitive edge in me, and I was permitted to go to Mont-Tremblant to compete in racing when I was just nine years old. The sport was very different back then, of course. It wasn’t as wildly popular as it is today, and ski equipment was rudimentary to say the least. It’s amazing that everyone who stepped on the thin boards didn’t suffer from a recurring chain of broken legs and twisted ankles. Safety bindings were non-existent. In fact, safety was hardly a consideration at all. The equipment was devised exclusively to secure your boot in an immoveable position, which meant the only things expected to give way in a fall were bones and ligaments. I managed to win a few downhill races during this period without being injured, which I attribute to luck at least as much as I do to skill. Later, I made the University of Toronto ski team and came close to winning a few races in Ontario, finishing among the top five. While at U of T I also volunteered for the ski patrol. My primary duty was to bring injured skiers downhill on a toboggan. The benefits that came with the responsibility included the right to sleep in the first-aid room overnight, which meant saving on lodge fees. When John Seagram, a buddy of mine, found himself without a place to stay after a day of skiing, I suggested he wait until the house manager, a tough no-nonsense woman, left for the night when he could bunk in with us ski patrol guys. The house manager caught onto our plan and turfed John out into the snow. Unable to find a room in any of the hotels or motels, he managed to get himself taken into the local jail where he spent the night sleeping in a cell. The irony, as you might have guessed from his name, was John’s family connection. He was an honest-to-goodness Seagram, the same prominent family whose name appears on some of the world’s most popular liquors. I suspect the family could have purchased an entire hotel for John that night. But as John put it later, the cell was warm, the bed was soft, and when the sun came up in the morning he was free to go.

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We often explored the cross-country skiing trails around Shawbridge. This was much safer than downhill skiing and everyone in the family could enjoy it. I much preferred the competitiveness of downhill skiing, but I have to admit that my overall ability improved noticeably thanks to all those hours spent on the cross-country trails around Shawbridge. One of the trails was named for Herman “Jackrabbit” Johannsen, a Norwegian-Canadian who lived in the Laurentians and travelled widely on skis into his late seventies. I saw him frequently on the trails around Shawbridge, skiing with long strides across the fields, a large knapsack on his back. Thanks to his emphasis on physical fitness, Jackrabbit lived to be 111 years old and performed headstands at the annual dinner of McGill’s Red Bird Ski Club every year until he was ninety. Those weekends spent at Shawbridge served as my introduction to the sport of skiing while enjoying the closeness of my family. One year, however, proved different from the others, and it wasn’t until later in my life that I learned why. It was the winter of 1947, and instead of visiting Shawbridge only on weekends for skiing, we lived there full-time. I attended a two-room, eight-grade, one-teacher schoolhouse, which was quite a change from the urban schools in Hamilton and Montreal to which I was accustomed. That’s where I discovered how children in communities with limited resources and facilities were taught. At first I doubted the quality of the education we were receiving. I shouldn’t have. Some of the students, I know, went on to attend McGill University where they did quite well, thank you – a tribute to the excellence of the teacher and her abilities, which included exceptional patience while tutoring students with such a wide range of needs. As for skiing, it became my winter alternative to golf, a pastime to be shared in later years with children and grandchildren on weekends at the farm and at Osler Bluff Ski Club. My mind is crowded with fond memories of those events, memories I call up from time to time that always produce a smile and generate warmth within me. My memories of heli-skiing in British Columbia are equally vivid but of a much contrasting nature. My earliest heli-skiing adventures began in

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1974, and in the early 2000s I joined a group of doctors for annual excursions. The group was decidedly international in makeup, representing almost a dozen countries, each of us valuing the week-long escapes that were equally invigorating to our minds and challenging to our bodies. Most of the others were noticeably younger than me, so it was imperative that I begin planning for March heli-skiing with physical workouts the previous autumn. This tended to surprise some of my younger colleagues when I managed to keep up with them or even take the lead, racing down the mountainsides in fresh powder snow. Spending a week together in a remote location and challenging each other daily in an intense sport created strong bonds of friendship. I value both the friends I made and the experiences I recall through all those spectacular weeks. But back to Shawbridge – why did we spend a year there in 1947 instead of just weekends during ski season? Years later I learned that my mother had suffered a “nervous breakdown” and those months in Shawbridge provided a relaxing environment to help cope with her condition. I assumed it worked, to some degree at least. I didn’t know it at the time, but my mother’s “breakdown” was my first exposure to mental illness. It prepared me, I suspect, for what I was to encounter sometime later. Other life lessons arrived unbidden during this period, including losing two schoolmates to cancer. One, David Bass, had been brought to Canada by his British mother following the death of her husband in battle during the war. David’s mother wanted to give her son a new start on life in a land filled with more opportunity and potential than war-ravaged Britain. She worked hard to see that her son received a good education – and he did – but her dream was never realized. Cancer took David shortly after he graduated high school, before his new start on life could truly begin. Another classmate, John Hanna, appeared to have enormous prospects. Handsome, gregarious, athletic, and smart, John entered university as a man certain to succeed, yet he died from the same disease, again not long after graduating.

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The impact of their passing was powerful and persuasive. It went beyond early recognition that our mortality is not a rumour but a cold hard reality. I could not ignore the unfairness, the random injustice of their deaths as young men. How do you respond to an event you can neither control nor anticipate? Expressing my sorrow to John’s and David’s families was insufficient. A more practical response, it seemed to me, would be to strike a balance of sorts by making a personal commitment to assist others facing similar challenges, and perhaps help decrease the likelihood of such deaths among young people in the future. So I became a volunteer for the Canadian Cancer Society and grew committed to performing similar work in related fields. This marked my first involvement in a sector of society and service that, as I was to learn, grew enormously important and influential through the remainder of my life. My competitive approach to academics remained with me when I wrote my entrance exams for Harvard Business School. It also brought an unexpected lesson. Working my way through the test, I noticed the person sitting across the table zooming through the questions at a far faster pace than my own. He appeared exceptionally gifted, on his way to scoring a higher mark than I could hope to achieve. Determined to at least keep pace with him, I knuckled down and accelerated my own work speed, but he still managed to finish well ahead of me. Afterwards, I congratulated him at completing the exam so quickly, suggesting that he would surely earn high marks. “Are you kidding?” he replied. “I hardly understood a thing. I was just flipping pages to finish it and get out of there as soon as I could!” And here’s the punchline to the story: Spurred by his rapid pace and responding to my competitive nature, I did much better on the exam than expected. In fact, I finished in the ninety-seventh percentile, and I’m convinced I wouldn’t have done as well without the sense of competition the guy across from me inspired. Take whatever lesson you can glean from that experience.

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As much as I enjoyed arithmetic and mathematics, I took equal amounts of joy from reading. I worked my way through the Hardy Boys books – the Harry Potter of my day – before becoming intrigued with the biographies of political and business leaders. At first, most were borrowed from my parents’ book collection. Some had been passed down to them from my grandfather, who often made handwritten marginal comments on the pages in response to the author’s observations, something I practised myself. Of all the biographies I absorbed during those years, three proved especially fascinating. One was the life of the prominent merchant banker and financier J.P. Morgan. No surprise there, considering my father’s career choice. Another was the biography of Winston Churchill. Considering I was in many ways a child of the war years, there was no escaping the impact of Churchill’s courage, determination, and inspiring speeches on a boy whose memories of the war remained fresh and vibrant. But the man who stood as the most impressive role model in my teenage years was Andrew Carnegie. The Scottish-American industrialist was the quintessential self-made man of his time, earning immense wealth from steelmaking, railroads, energy, and finance. The most notable aspect of his life is not how much money he amassed from his efforts; it’s what he did with all that wealth. Instead of hoarding it, Carnegie used it to fund an immense number of libraries not only in the US and Canada but also across much of the English-speaking world – more than 3,000 in total. Imagine the impact this made on literate individuals to whom all this wisdom became freely available and the influence they were able to make on their communities, their careers, and society as a whole. If literacy is the foundation of freedom and achievement, everyone who casts a vote and considers himself or herself educated owes a debt to Carnegie. He also, by the way, gave money to former employees who retired without pensions in the understanding that, having contributed to his success, they did not deserve to suffer in poverty during their later years.

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“The great aim of every man,” Carnegie wrote, “should be to do something beyond the sphere of his own duties.” In a note to himself, he expanded upon this thought: It is the mind that makes the body rich. There is no class so pitiably wretched as that which possesses money and nothing else. Money can only be the useful drudge of things immeasurably higher than itself. Exalted beyond this, as it sometimes is, it remains the Caliban still, and still plays the beast.

I was never interested in being poor. Who could be? It was the competitor in me that provided guidance for whatever I might accomplish. I assumed that the reward for dedication and hard work would be measured in both monetary means and personal satisfaction. But there was more. There had to be more. The wise words of Carnegie; the tragedy of school friends succumbing to cancer at an early age; the challenge of mental illness that confronted my mother, as strong as she had proven to be; and my father’s emphasis on the importance of looking outside our own narrow expertise, our own specialized training, our own selfish goals – all of these things fostered in me a determination to devote part of my life to things beyond myself. Something within me said this was important, that it was worth my attention, my concern, and my energy. I grew to honour and respect that idea through the balance of my life.

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CHAPTER TWO

Lessons in Life, Home and Abroad

it’s probably a cliché for Canadians to praise the beauty and magnificence of their country but, as a wise man once observed, a cliché is a cliché because it is true. Through all the years I spent travelling the world, I continued to marvel at the beauty of Canada and at my good fortune not only to be born here but also permitted to participate in its growth and governance. The seeds of my joy as a Canadian were planted in 1948, when my parents took us on a holiday to Prince Edward Island. The province was more remote, quiet, and peaceful back then, a unique corner of the country with its own special features and character. I remember as a boy cavorting in the surf in front of a lovely little hotel named Shaw’s, and I was delighted to discover more than half a century later that it remained in business, its owners proud of its status as Canada’s oldest family-operated inn. I loved PEI so much that Margie and I took our children there twice on holiday. Those who make their homes on islands, I understand, retain an outlook on life that mainlanders have difficulty appreciating. This is surely the case with PEI. When as a federal cabinet minister I supported funding for the Confederation Bridge linking PEI with New Brunswick, I was surprised at the controversy it generated not on the mainland but on the island. Surely, I thought, a paved and elevated route would be preferable to a ferry service that operated at the whim of tides and storms. Not necessarily, I discovered – not if it threatened Islander lifestyle, and it did. I still

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believe building the bridge was a good decision from an economic viewpoint. I just hope it makes minimum impact on the province’s character. In high school I travelled further afield. Upper Canada College offered student summer trips to Alberta and the Canadian Rockies, and I signed on for two of them. These were hardly luxury excursions back in the 1950s. We rode from Toronto to Calgary aboard railway “colonial cars,” the same mode of transportation used to convey newcomers west during the mass immigration period of a half-century earlier. I had always admired the courage of Ukrainians, Hungarians, Mennonites, and others who left their European homes to carve out new lives for themselves in the West. After four days aboard colonial cars with open bunks, thin mattresses, and kitchens the size of broom closets, my respect for their fortitude rose dramatically. But what a reward when we arrived! From Calgary we headed straight for Banff and a three-day pack horse trip through the foothills of the Rockies. We rode trails in the shadow of those magnificent mountains, fished the streams and cooked our catch, tethered our horses, and slept under a canopy of stars. The Rockies became a spiritual home to me, and memories of the peaks surrounding Banff always warmed my soul. I learned the mountains’ names, I recognized their silhouettes, and I returned many times to ski, to earn money from summer jobs, and eventually to share their glory with our children. The region is not without its woes, however. On my initial visit north of Banff all those years ago I marvelled at the expanse of the Columbia Icefield stretching more than five kilometres from the Athabasca Glacier down to the edge of the highway leading south from Jasper. Over the years I saw the icefield recede back from the highway, almost halfway to the glacier. Instead of shining snowy and white, a massive jewel in the sun, the icefield is now marred by an ugly grey moraine of debris, disturbing evidence of global warming and its impact on the environment. I spent two glorious summers at Jasper Park Lodge while a student, working in one of the most beautiful regions of Canada. The job came

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with benefits that included the opportunity to meet other students from across Canada. We spent much of our leisure time on the shore of Lac Beauvert at beach parties with campfires, singing, and a fair amount of beer. Like the others, I enjoyed my first escape from parental authority. I also enjoyed the prospect of meeting girls, especially after having spent so many years at an all-boys school. Back home I had gone to boy-girl parties and even taken ballroom dancing lessons – considered the thing to do in social circles during those years – but my shyness and the influence of Upper Canada College, where socializing was separate from other activities, inhibited me. Those summers at Jasper changed things dramatically, and I acquired my first serious girlfriend within view of Mount Edith Cavell. That spectacular mountain, named after a British nurse who was executed as a spy by the Germans during the First World War, is quite a distance from Jasper, but the sight remains dramatic against the blue western sky. The view from the fourth hole of the golf course at Jasper is especially stunning, which is my cue to mention another love I nurtured. Appointed a greenkeeper at the Jasper course, my job involved choosing tee locations and pin placements, plus repairing the greens after bears tore them up. And we had many bears in the area. It took a while to understand why the bears were so destructive to our beloved and pampered grass. At first we thought the flags irritated the animals, so we removed them. No luck. The bears didn’t care about the flags. They were after grubs they knew were hidden beneath the surface of the soil. In fact, they considered grubs a special delicacy. Bug repellent sprayed around the holes didn’t work, so my first assignment when we began work at (Gasp!) 5:00 a.m. was to repair the damage created by the bears in their quest for food. Those days spent on the Jasper golf course amid so much splendour were life changing to me, whether I was playing a round with friends or fulfilling my duties to keep it as pristine as possible. I inherited my love of golf from my father. He was a superb player with a handicap that occasionally dipped as low as six. The high point of Dad’s game might have been the day he shot an even-par 71 at the Toronto Golf

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Club. It was an outstanding achievement, but his timing could have been better. He managed this feat on the very day my sister Tricia was born, and she often chastised him for playing golf instead of being at the hospital to support our mother. One of the most memorable days Dad and I shared was when we played the legendary St. Andrews course in Scotland. I was working in London at the time and, as it turned out, the British Open was about to take place there. On the day he and I played St. Andrews rumours were spreading that some of the best pros in the world would be on hand for a practice round or two before the tournament started. Both Dad and I were at the top of our games at the time, and our tee shots from the first hole in front of some onlookers were impressive – so impressive that a few of them followed us down the fairway. Dad had chosen to wear a trademark Byron Nelson straw fedora that day, no doubt contributing to the onlookers’ belief that they were about to witness some memorable golf played by celebrated pros. Our exceptional play through the first few holes, when we were both hitting close to par, actually convinced the small crowd that they were in the presence of golf greatness. My father’s hat, they assumed, gave away the more famous of the twosome, and I distinctly heard someone ask, “Who’s the young American playing with Byron Nelson?” We sustained the ruse for the first six or seven holes before the wheels fell off our game. After Dad and I carded a few bogeys and double bogeys our gallery drifted away, taking our celebrity status with them. My love for golf remained strong throughout and beyond my working career. It became something of a passion for me, one born during those early experiences in Jasper. Through my life and career I played many great courses in locations around the world. I even found time to play while in government. When first elected, I played fewer than half a dozen times a year, which meant my game became rusty and I didn’t enjoy it much. When I became a cabinet member and endured the stress that came with the position, I needed the distraction and relaxation of golf more than ever, and I set out to play golf at least twenty-five times a year. This actually

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became easier than it sounds, because my position within government brought many invitations to make speeches in various locations across the country and into the US. Weather permitting, should I accept the invitation to speak, I would waive any proposed honorarium in exchange for a game of golf on the best course in that city. Travelling abroad brought special opportunities. One year I played my targeted twenty-five games on nineteen different courses in nine different countries. If you’re a keen golfer, permit me to whet your appetite with the names of courses that I challenged during this period – or, more accurately, that challenged me: Augusta National, Pebble Beach, St. Andrews, Ballybunion, Muirfield, Cypress Point, Pine Valley, and Portmarnoch. I even played a round near the Demilitarized Zone in South Korea beneath the watchful eye of helicopter gunships hovering overhead through all eighteen holes. Some games were played with legendary golfers, including Jack Nicklaus, Arnold Palmer, and Gary Player. All lived up to their reputation as golfers and as gentlemen. While playing with Palmer, I mentioned that my mother was a great golf fan and in fact had followed him during his first major tournament win, the 1955 Canadian Open in Toronto. Obviously pleased, he asked me to thank her for her support and casually asked her name. A few days later I received a “Dear Connie” autographed photo of him to pass on to my mother, a gesture that justified his popularity on and off the golf course. Given the influence of my father’s career and my flair for mathematics, my choice to place commerce and finance at the core of my university studies was practically preordained. An even easier decision was choosing the University of Toronto, part of the seamless progression that had led me to Upper Canada College. I also enrolled at Trinity College, because it was most familiar to me and it’s where most of my friends decided to attend. These may sound like “non-choices” to make in a day when so many young people pore over universities at home and abroad, weighing their

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merits and programs against each other as though handicapping horses in the Queen’s Plate. Things have changed. The luxury to travel abroad for an education was rare in the 1950s. Besides, U of T was and still is an outstanding university, so there was little incentive to study elsewhere. I am proud not only to be an alumnus, but also to have served the school in many ways, including several years as its chancellor. The decision to attend U of T was both obvious and easy, but I made one critical decision that may appear odd in retrospect: I chose to live not at home like most local students, but in a fraternity house on campus. My parents supported my choice, for which I have always been grateful – not because it appeared an indulgence, but because it enabled my membership in the Kappa Alpha Society, in many ways the most positive aspect of my time at university. The KAPs had unique traditions. They included Monday night sessions when the fraternity secretary presented a short, thoughtful piece on some chosen topic of interest. His presentation would launch a discussion among everyone, including freshmen eager to make an impression on their older frat brothers. Not surprisingly, often the only impression they made was to reveal their near-complete ignorance of the subject being discussed. I suspect the greatest benefit we gained from these sessions wasn’t knowledge; it was the capacity to express ourselves, often in the face of skepticism and amid laughter, ridicule, and scorn. This may have represented my first preparation for Question Period in the House of Commons. The sessions also drew attention to exceptional qualities among some of the fraternity brothers. One such brother was Roderick Brinckman, destined to become Sir Roderick. Raised in a highly cultured environment, Rod was the son of Sir Roderick Napoleon Brinckman, a British aristocrat chosen by Whitehall to cross the ocean and serve as aide to the governor general of Canada. Rod himself had an urbane air but he was not at all arrogant, which I considered a difficult balance to achieve. After marrying the sister of a good friend of mine he returned to the UK to become a publisher and antiquarian bookseller.

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Like Rod Brinckman, John Jennings also served as frat secretary. He and I had first met as young boys at Onondaga Camp, and our friendship grew over the years. In fact, John was best man at my wedding and I at his. Not as intellectual in his demeanour as Brinckman, John easily made up for it with a cutting sense of humour and clever turns of phrase. Many of his presentations caused us all to explode in laughter, and John extended this gift when he was selected editor of the Salterrae, a weekly paper circulated among Trinity students. Along with news of the previous week and upcoming events, each edition of the Salterrae included a scattering of clever double entendres from John’s fertile mind. Most were totally harmless, but a few stirred salacious images among some straight-arrow readers. When one of his comments stepped a toe or two over the line, it prompted a dressing-down from the provost. John’s somewhat off-colour humour may or may not have deserved such a reprimand, but it was clear to everyone in the student body that John’s risqué bits generated wide circulation for the paper. Incidentally, had the provost feared that John’s moral standards were less than essential to ensure a socially acceptable and productive career, he would have been sorely mistaken. John achieved great success in family law, leading to his appointment as Justice of the High Court of Ontario. My first year at Trinity meant my time was my own to be spent among an expanding circle of friends, and I began living the life of the quintessential college frat boy. The role came with a large raccoon coat to be worn at varsity football games, complete with deep pockets to stash bottles of beer for refreshment through the contests. The coat was a survivor of my dad’s own youth, so I suspect it was already experienced in the task. With or without the coat, my first few months of college life became filled with parties featuring much beer and laughter among many new friends. Big surprise. Me, the serious student having morphed into the quintessential college frat boy, found himself in prototypical trouble when Christmas exam results appeared. I had been less than diligent in my studies (it

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was my contention that no college freshman of the period was capable of displaying maximum intelligence or rational planning while wearing a raccoon coat), and my marks confirmed it. Then a strange thing happened. Before I fully realized the implications of my poor academic performance, two senior frat brothers took me aside to offer some much-needed advice. During the serious tête-à-tête, John Morden and Rod Anderson, fourth-year leaders in the fraternity, warned that unless I changed my ways – “buckle down” was the common expression of the day – I risked failing my year and perhaps leaving U of T. Fraternities have been a source of criticism over the years due to hazing and alcohol consumption. Many concerns are justified, in my opinion. But I have always remained grateful that John and Rod assisted their younger frat brother in avoiding a personal disaster. They were very convincing, by the way. I responded by exerting more discipline in my life, passing my first year not with the marks I was capable of achieving but with an awareness that student life was not, could not be, a non-stop party. That is not to say that my partying ended entirely. We were, after all, young and ambitious, confident in our ability to fulfil our dreams. But a­nyone who measured our career potential based solely on our party activities would have been seriously mistaken, as later events confirmed. John Morden, who helped pull me back to reality where my studies were concerned, became Associate Chief Justice of Ontario. Other frat brothers made their mark with equal impact, including Jack Kenney, appointed president of the Ontario Jockey Club; Doug Grant, who founded Sceptre Investments, a successful asset management firm; and several others. I widened my circle of lifelong friends beyond KAP while playing football for Trinity. The college’s small enrolment prevented us from becoming a serious contender for the university championship, but some of our players were close to Varsity Blues calibre. Thanks to them our 1957 team won the Mulock Cup, awarded to the U of T intramural championship team. The Mulock, by the way, remains the oldest athletic trophy in Canada to be competed for without interruption. I wish Trinity’s football teams could claim

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a winning record even slightly similar to the cup’s history. Our win in 1957 marked the first time in twenty-five years that Trinity won the cup, and it would take another twenty-five years before Trinity won the Mulock again. Summer jobs following my second and third years at Trinity broadened my education and widened my connections. In a summer stint at Wood Gundy my desk sat next to the sales department, where I absorbed the views and wisdom of people like Bill Wilder and Ted Medland, both of whom became chief executives of the firm. They also became good friends who, I suspect, marvelled at the memory of the young kid who eavesdropped on their conversations and applied their insights when he became minister of finance. I spent the following summer at Canada Life along with eight other undergraduates, all of us hired with the management’s hope that we would be attracted to join the firm after graduation. Gord Fleming, one of the top investment officers at Canada Life, assigned me to tackle research projects that revealed the detailed work involved in investment analysis, a skill I valued highly all through my career. My profs at Trinity and their courses in corporate finance equally influenced me. Two of them, Bill Hood and Ed Neufeld, carved out their own illustrious careers beyond the university. Bill became a senior adviser at the International Monetary Fund in Washington, and Ed rose to serve as chief economist for the Royal Bank of Canada. Whenever I met them while I served as finance minister, I would warn them that if they ever publicly disagreed with my policies, I would dump the blame on them. Several friends at Trinity spent a summer or two in Europe and returned raving about the experience. Touring Europe while still young appealed to me enormously, but I wanted to do more than just travel. Why not find employment in some exotic setting, gaining both job and cultural experience? It made sense to me. Choosing the destination was easy, considering my interest in financial matters. London was the oldest and, at the time, second most important financial centre in the world. And if I should tire of the city – not likely, considering Samuel Johnson’s observation1 – I was on the doorstep of Europe.

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I didn’t expect to walk directly into a position with a London financial firm, and I confessed as much to my father when he asked what I expected to do there. “I’ll take any job to carry me over until I find something more productive,” I replied. “Maybe operating an elevator at Harrods.” This did not sit well with Dad, who believed I should be more productive from my first day there, so he introduced me to the famed Sir Edward Peacock. Well into his eighties at the time, Sir Edward had been born in Canada. After graduating from Upper Canada College (UCC), he began a teaching career there before abandoning it to join RBC Dominion Securities as a bond salesman. On his first day there he was promptly sent out with a briefcase full of bonds to sell. In a brilliant move, he called on the parents of students he had taught at UCC, made his pitch to them, and returned to the office with his briefcase empty of bonds but crammed full of cheques. Dominion Securities eventually dispatched Sir Edward to London, where he opened their office and began making a name for himself. His charm and talents propelled him along a path leading first to a directorship with the Bank of England, later to the position of partner at Barings Bank, and eventually to his appointment as receiver-general of the Duchy of Cornwall, managing finances on behalf of the royal family. He was knighted by George V in 1934 and, during the Second World War, was posted in Washington to serve as liaison between the US government and the Bank of England.2 This was a man with connections! Agreeing to take me under his wing, Sir Edward arranged a position for me with Baring Brothers and, after six months, with Morgan Grenfell, both among the most prestigious merchant banks in London. In a city where banking was almost as revered as the royal family, Baring Brothers was an honoured institution. Founded in 1762, it was the second-oldest bank of its kind in the world, and since 1806 had occupied 8 Bishopsgate, a rabbit-warren facility formed by the steady acquisition of adjacent buildings over time.3 The bank had been launched initially to serve the Baring family’s wool trade, eventually diversifying into financial

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services on a global scale. Five branches of the family earned peerages, which I suspect is a record and represents one measure of the firm’s influence. Some money at Barings was kept on daily deposit for the short-term market, negotiated by an intermediary called a discount house. Brokers with the discount house walked from bank to bank daily, quoting rates to managers who would either borrow or lend funds depending on their short-term needs. Deals were negotiated and sealed on the spot, when millions of pounds were exchanged at a rate honoured by both sides. This worked only because everyone’s word was his or her bond, a concept that sounds quaint in some quarters today. The brokers had to be more than scrupulously honest; they also had to be immensely shrewd to ensure that the spread between the borrowing/lending sides was wide enough to cover the bank’s losses when the market went against them, and they tracked their transactions with notes tucked inside the liners of their silk top hats. Barings provided a chance for me to gather enormous insight into the workings of the London financial sector. Understanding the roles of the players – discount houses, stockbrokers, jobbers, money market and foreign exchange dealers, and merchant banks – extended my academic education by light years in a short time. When I arrived, I discovered that many of Barings’ operations remained archaic. None was more so than the duties of a clerk named Geoffrey Wise, whose sole function all day long was to write cheques – every cheque issued through every day of the week – in longhand. Geoffrey’s immaculate copperplate writing style was so fetching that I often wondered if a recipient of one of his cheques might consider it too fetching to cash, and might consider framing it instead. I doubt this became a concern during the short period at Barings when I was assigned to sit on a high stool next to Geoffrey, replicating his cheque-writing duties and attempting to mimic his penmanship skills. When I failed to match his artistry, I was shifted – with great relief – to cash management, foreign exchange, and trade finance.

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From Barings, I went to Morgan Grenfell. Launched in 1838, it later became the London arm of New York–based J.P. Morgan. The bank benefited from its association with the American giant, and I sensed that it functioned more as a meritocracy than tradition-bound Barings. The workings of the class system in Britain were still evident back then, perhaps more so in banking than anywhere else. Graduates of Oxford and Cambridge who came from “good” families had a clear view of the summit they expected to reach over their lifetimes. Those from less venerated schools, or with less-refined accents, contended with a glass ceiling defined not only by gender but by class origin too. The chasm between the two was immense, as illustrated by a story, perhaps apocryphal but no less instructive, of a clerk at Morgan Grenfell who sought a raise in pay. When asked by his superior to justify the request for more money, the clerk replied that he was unable to manage his household finances at his current pay level. “You mean,” his boss said, in amazement, “that you live on your salary!?” I was warmly welcomed at both firms, despite being a “colonial,” and was saddened when they vanished from the scene. Deutsche Bank swallowed Morgan Grenfell in 1990, and Barings declared bankruptcy in 1995 thanks to immense trading losses by a rogue trader in Singapore. The Barings collapse particularly saddened me. Peter Baring and I had become friends while I was at the bank. Years later, while working together at Harris & Partners in Toronto, we shared a ski cabin. Having the bank and its rich history vanish on his watch was devastating to Peter, and I felt badly when the news broke. The year and a half in London benefited me in many ways, revealing new facets of finance while permitting me to spend time with memorable characters – including Sir Edward, the man who had opened doors for me in London. Not long after I started at Barings, Sir Edward informed me that he planned to host a round of golf for us at Swinley Forest near Ascot, west of London. The golf club was totally exclusive – guests were unwelcomed and unappreciated – and the course itself had long been rated among the

Lessons in Life, Home and Abroad  | 31

best in the world. Playing Swinley sounded exciting, and I awaited his invitation through summer and fall. Hearing nothing from Sir Edward as the end of the year approached, and given his advanced age, I assumed he had made a casual gesture that had been forgotten soon after. But in early December his assistant called to announce that Sir Edward would like me to join him for golf at Swinley Forest. On New Year’s Day. At nine o’clock in the morning! Neither the day nor the time was very appealing, but what could a young man in his first full-time job say to his benefactor and former senior partner/director emeritus of one of the world’s most prestigious banking firms? I accepted. Playing a round at Swinley Forest did not dissuade me from celebrating at a raucous New Year’s Eve party the night before. I awoke the following morning to a typical winter’s day in England – cold air and drizzling rain. Surely, I thought, elderly Sir Edward will not want us to trek the 6,000 yards of the course in such weather, and I awaited his telephone call cancelling our game. It never arrived. With reluctance I boarded the train to his village, where Sir Edward’s driver met me at the station. Arriving at his club I was greeted by Sir Edward, all six-foot-three of him. “You’ll need this today, Michael,” he said, tossing a rain suit at me, and we set off. There were no electric golf carts to be had, so we walked the entire course, me the twenty-two-yearold recent college graduate, eighty-nine-year-old Sir Edward, and our caddie Jimmy. Sir Edward and I agreed on the strokes I would give him, teed the first hole, and started our game. As we walked away after finishing the fifth hole, Sir Edward turned to Jimmy and asked how many strokes he had taken on it. “You were six, Sir Edward,” Jimmy replied. Sir Edward turned to me and asked, “Michael, what were you?” I told him I was four. “You gave me a stroke there, but I am net five,” he said. “That makes you two up for the game.”

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On the way to the next tee, Sir Edward had second thoughts. “Hold it, Jimmy,” he said, stopping and turning to the caddie. “I was a drive, a three-wood, another three-wood, and then I put my five-iron on the green and sank it out for a five. Right, Jimmy?” Jimmy was struck by the recollection. “Yes, Sir Edward,” he said. “By golly, that’s right!” “So I am five, net four,” he said to me. “We tied that hole. So you are only one up.” I could only nod in agreement and marvel at the man’s competitive instinct, still strong at his age. He was unprepared to give anyone anything for any reason. We had an enjoyable game despite the drizzle, but we played just seventeen holes. Sir Edward’s home was adjacent to the seventeenth green, and he ended all of his games there. After having given me a lesson on playing competitive golf, Sir Edward provided insights over lunch, all gathered from his fifty-year career as a senior financial figure in London. His main message? Study the matter at hand, analyse it carefully, draw your conclusions, and hold to your convictions in the face of those who strongly disagree with you. He illustrated his point by relating the story of a difficult situation encountered while advising the royal family during the early 1930s. Barings had grown uncomfortable with developments in Germany and chose not to participate in the country’s redevelopment following the First World War. From his position with the bank, Sir Edward had done his homework diligently, looking into the rise of Hitler and assessing the implications for the future of Germany and indeed all of Europe. The coming years looked foreboding to him. The British royal family, he suggested, should divest all of its German holdings in response to the rise of Nazism and all it represented. Having maintained their long-standing connections with Germany, they were reluctant to follow his advice. Such resistance from Buckingham Palace might persuade most advice-givers to respect all that the royals represented and abandon their efforts. Sir Edward was not “most people,” and

Lessons in Life, Home and Abroad  | 33

he invested months of steady and, I’m sure, ardent persuasion to convince the royals to liquidate their assets in Germany. Eventually he succeeded, saving them considerable money and avoiding an embarrassing link with Hitler’s thugs when war broke out. He also cemented his own reputation as an astute and strong-willed adviser whose counsel could not be ignored. My chance to tap Sir Edward’s wisdom wasn’t my only source of insight. Thanks to a friend’s advice, I managed to find accommodation at London House, close to the London School of Economics (LSE). Many Commonwealth students attended LSE and I found it a great place to hang out, though I was never a student there. Eavesdropping on conversations at the bar was an education in itself. Topics ranged from politics in the UK and its independent-minded colonies to current concerts, shows, and personal matters. Many discussions included women from nearby William Goodenough House, whose residents were widely referred to as Willie G girls and whose insights and observations were at least as well-founded as those of their male counterparts. The combination of stimulating exchanges at the bar and the opportunity to meet Willie G co-eds encouraged me to remain at London House my entire year and a half. Adding to the appeal was the chance to visit members of my extended family in the UK, including Georgette and Pat Smith. Georgette was a niece of Rudy Muspratt, my mother’s first husband who had died so tragically young. Georgette and Pat lived in a charming – and tiny – fifteenth century house whose ceiling was so low I could stand to my full height only by positioning myself between the roof beams. All the cooking was done in a walk-in fireplace. I was honoured when they named me godfather of their son Rupert. I spent time with other relatives too, including Mary and Griff Davies who lived in Birkenhead, across the Mersey from Liverpool. Christmas with them on an island off the north coast of Wales proved unforgettable, especially when we attended services at the small church nestled against a hillside in the first snows of winter.

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I absorbed lessons galore in the UK, especially one inadvertently taught to me by Mary. I had viewed alcoholism as a sign of weakness, a refusal by otherwise intelligent people to simply refrain from consuming liquor. Mary, an alcoholic, had enjoyed success eluding it over recent years, but the craving remained. During my visit we were invited to a Saturday night dinner hosted by friends who insisted Mary have a small drink of wine during the meal. Just a wee drink, as they put it, and Mary agreed, albeit with some reluctance. The wine ignited an uncontrollable thirst. While Griff and I were at church the following morning, Mary drank so heavily she was in no condition to see me or anyone else when we returned. That’s when I recognized that alcoholism is not evidence of weak character after all; it is a biological craving that overwhelms those who suffer from it. I encountered distant family members in the UK who shattered thoughts I might have had about our family clinging to the straight, narrow, and correct. My father’s distant cousin Aunt Con lived in Pitlochrie, Scotland, and had married a boxer in the Royal Navy who managed to win the middleweight championship of the service despite having a peg leg! Aunt Con insisted on escorting me to the seaside gorge where he used to stand on his wooden limb while fishing. Back at her home, helping prepare dinner in her oversized kitchen, she asked me to remove a glass milk bottle filled with a clear yellow fluid from the refrigerator. “Pour me one of those and ha’e one for yourself,” Aunt Con ordered, so I did, and with the first sip I discovered it was a potent martini mix. After sampling a few glasses for herself, Aunt Con had pots and pans flying across the kitchen into her oversized sink, the clatter punctuating stories of outlandish goings-on within the family. A night and a character worth remembering. Other adventures were more sobering. On a visit to Germany in November 1959 I met a young Israeli in Heidelberg. His parents had fled Germany in the 1930s to escape Hitler’s regime, and he was curious to learn about the country that had perpetrated the Holocaust. We set off

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for Berlin, a year or two before the Berlin Wall was erected, venturing into communist East Berlin and returning through the Brandenburg Gate. The contrast between the two Berlins – the West busy and vibrant, the East shabby and near-deserted – was not unexpected, but the impact on us proved enormous. It’s hard to know if the primary basis for the difference was the free-enterprise approach of the West versus communism in the East, or the massive economic support being provided to West Berlin by the United States. I grew impressed by my Israeli companion’s response to Germany while he moved among its people. Instead of seething outrage at the nation and people who had committed such unimaginable atrocities, he demonstrated open curiosity while trying to understand how those around us could have acted so callously. His perspective and response left me with a deeper understanding of the impact of Nazism on Jewish people. There were other travels as well, including two months spent exploring Europe with Nick Ross, an old schoolmate who was attending Cambridge. This was no Grand Tour. We slept many nights in campgrounds or at the side of the road, although we also managed to afford meals at a few restaurants that scored rave reviews in the Michelin Guide, and rounded off the journey by attending the 1960 Summer Olympics in Rome. With my stint in London ended, I set off for New York City, where I worked at Morgan Guaranty for six months. (Actually, it was one day short of six months, enabling me to avoid being drafted into the US military.) This was another introductory training experience at a division of the J.P. Morgan dynasty. On my first assignment at Morgan, a corporate banker taught me how to dig up useful information when dealing with major corporate clients. This was a couple of generations before the advent of Google, and it forced me to be creative in my sources. I moved from there to the investment research department, where I performed similar work assisting both corporate bank officers and investment portfolio managers.

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Of all the lessons I absorbed at Morgan Guaranty, few were more instructive than a conversation with my boss, Dick Johnson. Dick handled investment recommendations on the steel industry, and he sensed that the industry was headed down a rocky road, making him highly pessimistic about its prospects. “If I had any guts,” he confessed to me, “I would tell our investment portfolio managers to sell all their steel stocks and save money for our clients. But if I did that, I’d make the corporate guys mad as hell and get myself fired.” Dick chose not to pass his advice along – who could blame him? – and when his insight proved accurate, Morgan Guaranty clients indeed lost money as a result. A lot of money. This proved my first practical example on how a bank’s corporate interests can conflict with the interests of clients who entrust the bank to manage their money effectively. Since then, rules have been installed to separate the two functions, a sign that world banking has changed for the better. Other things I experienced at this time in my life have changed since then too – some for the better, others for the worse. Student visits to Europe have become like an extended commute. You can grab an Egg McMuffin at an airport in Canada, hop a morning flight to London or Paris, and chew your way through a Big Mac for dinner before getting a good night’s sleep. This mobility has made an impact on life that would be inconceivable during my student years. In the late 1950s, travelling from Toronto to anywhere in Europe would have generated a severe case of culture shock for first-timers. That’s because Toronto wasn’t the vibrant city it is today, enlivened by a multitude of languages, religions, and cuisines available on practically every street corner. It was, frankly, a city where many residents considered their town an annex of Britain. Most churches were Protestant, most of the language spoken was English, most of the bread was white, and there were just two spices: salt and pepper (pepper was the exotic one). This wasn’t just a reflection of Anglo-Saxon influence on the country. It was an indication of a frankly dreary culture.

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In London I attended concerts, the theatre, art galleries and, to round things out, traditional London pubs. All opened my eyes and mind to new ideas and new ways of viewing the world. I grew to understand the lingering impact of the Second World War on Europe, especially in London and Berlin. I listened to those who had lived through the terror of bombardment, and the horrors of death and destruction in both cities. I absorbed all of it while watching the gears of the financial industry turn and grind in a manner that no classroom could possibly replicate. New York was equally instructive, but in a different manner. The city had not directly suffered from the devastation of war, for one. Rapidly growing towards its position as the world’s leading financial centre, New York almost vibrated with confidence and energy, and grasping the difference between the two centres added another aspect to my education. Back in Toronto I was keen to make my own mark on Canada’s financial world. My first opportunity to fully practise what I had learned was at Harris & Partners, where I felt at home the moment I walked through the door. Harris & Partners was associated with both Barings and Morgan Grenfell. The two banks had launched the firm after the end of the Second World War as a backstop in case hostilities in Europe broke out once again. Given the rise of the Soviet Union and its dominance of Eastern Europe at the time, this remained a real possibility. A foothold in North America in the form of a first-class British “merchant bank” would offer assurance that their UK assets would enjoy some protection. Both firms went in search of an existing company they could, in effect, snuggle within in order to bypass all the time and money consuming stages of starting a separate company and working from a blank sheet. William C. Harris’s company fit the bill. The London firms made a quick and simple offer to Harris: They would match the founder’s investment in the company, strengthen it significantly via their presence and asset base, and leave Harris himself to run things, asking only for representation on the board in return.

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It was a difficult offer for Harris to refuse, and he didn’t. Overnight the involvement of Barings and Morgan Grenfell made Harris the premier institutional investment company in Canada, with top-quality shareholders and an irreproachable reputation. My London experience with both British firms played a role in my securing a position at Harris, first as a commercial paper salesman, then as a bond trader, and eventually as an investment banker. I was fortunate with my timing. The Porter Commission, set up to improve “the structure and methods of operations of the Canadian financial system,” had recently announced its recommendations to modernize the country’s banking system. The steps were game changing in their impact, beginning with approval for chartered banks to become conventional mortgage lenders, a role they had been prohibited from filling in the past. The 6 per cent ceiling on bank loans was abolished, the practice of banks colluding with each other to set interest rates was forbidden, and, in a move with implications I could not possibly foresee at the time, the governor of the Bank of Canada was expected to resign if overruled by the finance minister. All in all, the commission’s report enabled Canadian investment firms to compete effectively in American and, ultimately, global markets. With the report’s recommendations, launching your career in finance and investment suddenly looked more promising, and I might have been content to remain at Harris on the same path I had begun to tread back in London. But I wasn’t. I grew interested in government financial and monetary policy. Harris & Partners still had much to teach me about the industry’s point of view, but I opted to broaden my knowledge. This brought me to a classic fork in the road, and I initially took the one leading to Harvard Business School. I say “initially” because, although I did well on the entrance exam, the other road opened up before I could commit to Harvard. Instead of attending Harvard, I could fill a position at the federal Department of Finance on a two-year exchange basis arranged through my friend Bill Harris Jr.

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I considered the options – Harvard or Ottawa? Harvard would give me a great business education and introduce me to potential future business leaders from the US and Canada. The networking opportunities would be enormous and there was, and still is, an enormous cachet to linking MBA Harvard with your name. But what of Ottawa and the Department of Finance? Everyone at Harvard was immersed in business but almost no one in the federal Department of Finance, I discovered, had experience in financial markets. The department, which relied entirely on the Bank of Canada for financial market advice, was determined to develop its own expertise in that area to generate checks and balances. It was also a small operation compared with its current size. Maybe there was little glamour attached to the Ottawa position, but I would be a big frog in a small pond there, rather than a tadpole – to complete the analogy – among the crowd of future heavyweights at Harvard. One other factor to be considered: I would pay hefty tuition and accommodation fees to attend Harvard, but I would earn a salary in Ottawa. The net effect was overwhelming. I chose the route to Ottawa. Before I could set out for the nation’s capital, however, something occurred to alter both my career and my life from that point forward. An old friend of mine named Judy Ross had been sharing an apartment with a former Branksome Hall schoolmate, and Judy suggested that I meet her. Normally I would have gone along with the idea in an instant, but hey, I was about to leave for Ottawa where, I had been informed, the female-to-male ratio was about three-to-one. Why would I want to be tied down by a Toronto girlfriend when so many prospects were waiting for me practically in the shadow of the Peace Tower? Before I could explain my decision in a genial manner, complete with lines like Thanks for thinking of me and I’m sure you’ll find someone to take my place, Judy arranged a small dinner party. Her roommate’s name, she informed me, was Margie Smellie, and she was active with the Victorian Order of Nurses (VON).

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“I want you to meet Michael Wilson,” Judy told Margie when inviting her. As luck would have it, Margie knew a young man with the same name as mine. Apparently he had not made a positive impression on her because she replied, “I know Michael Wilson and I don’t care if I ever see him again!” Somehow Judy convinced her that while our names were the same, our personalities were quite different. Margie showed up for the meal with no intention of hanging around, remaining just long enough for me to decide I wanted to meet her again. Knowing that Michael Wilson Two was (I assumed) quite different from Michael Wilson One, she agreed to see me again. We went on a few dates before I departed for Ottawa, and soon the favourable (to me) female/male ratio in that city was no longer an issue. But staying in touch with Margie was a challenge back then. Email was non-existent and telephone calls were very expensive. Once in Ottawa I began visiting my parents often, which cheered everyone – Mom, Dad, Margie, and me. I needed transportation to make the weekend journeys, which led to my purchasing a little 1962 silver Porsche 1600 at a bargain price from a distress sale. Aiming the Porsche out of Ottawa on the way to see Margie was a trip worth looking forward to. I loved driving that car, and soon Margie did as well. She loved it so much that after some time I left it with her in Toronto, enabling her to make her rounds on behalf of the VON in sporty style instead of relying on buses and streetcars for transportation. Margie was from Prescott, Ontario, where her parents Peggy and Tom lived in a lovely country house set among an apple orchard. Tom was a physician, an extraordinarily fine-looking gentleman who, many local residents claimed, had delivered perhaps half the babies in the Prescott area. With a warm bedside manner, Tom loved his patients and they loved him in return, grateful for his interest in their lives, his medical skills, and his empathy for their condition and situation. Most of his practice occurred in the years before the introduction of government-sponsored health care and, like many doctors of his time, Tom

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charged patients only what they could afford. This led to a startling discovery many years later. After Tom died, it was legally necessary to maintain his medical records for a number of years. They sat untouched until the required period had passed, at which time the family decided to burn them. I dutifully gathered files and papers into a large pile, spread gasoline on them, and set them alight. As the papers separated among the flames, I was amazed to see one- and two-dollar bills emerge, flying here and there with the force of the fire, and I realized that each represented a payment in full that Tom accepted from his poorer patients. Why not spend or bank them? Perhaps Tom was keeping them in case the patients fell on hard times later. Or perhaps he felt guilty about spending it given his patients’ economic plight. Whatever the reason, the sight created a memorable picture in my mind and marked a measure of the man. Margie and I were married on 17 October 1964 in a beautiful ceremony at St. Paul’s United Church in Prescott with the church packed with friends and relatives. Following the ceremony Margie’s parents hosted a reception at their home. My friend and best man John Jennings delivered a clever speech that, following tradition, poked fun at me and members of the wedding party. John decided to go further, however, and aimed a few zingers at some of the guests, not all of whom accepted his humour with grace. The reception wound its way through the evening until the Porsche had its finest moment, when it whisked Margie and I off into the sunset on our way to a honeymoon in Antigua and Barbados. I know of no conscious decision we make that is more important and more critical to our success and happiness than choosing our mate for life. This may sound obvious, but sometimes the obvious needs addressing, if only to clarify its impact. Margie4 was our rock at home. Anyone impressed by my perceived success and curious about the source of power gained from my career had best meet Margie and become familiar with her inner strength and abilities.

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All the qualities we want in our mates – love, affection, loyalty, and support – were present in her to the maximum. Plus enormous determination and strength. She chose, on her own, to maintain a low public profile, maintaining a home for our family while I spent time in the glare of media attention, sometimes to my chagrin. In many ways my ability to pursue my own interests, which meant often taking “the road less travelled,” was made possible only by Margie’s support and the knowledge that, after spending a day immersed in chaos and challenge, I could return home to order and warmth. Does this put Margie in a role subordinate to mine? Not in the least. Margie participated in every career decision I made and every aspect of our family life. Contemporary feminists may scorn her role, suggesting it resonated of the 1950s when wives acknowledged their husbands as “head of the household.” This is nonsense. In every sense, she and I were equals and, in fact, if you asked our children and closest friends about this aspect of our marriage, they would likely note that Margie’s hand often was more influential than my own. Which is just how both of us liked it. Margie considered family her first priority, and she was anxious to get things started, announcing that she wanted three children before she turned thirty. We were almost twenty-seven when married, so we had our work cut out for us – or at least Margie did. They arrived in quick succession – Cameron in 1966, Geoff in 1967, and Lara in 1968. We were an active crew. Margie believed in sports, especially for the children. She also believed in taking a practical approach to their activities, and some proved ingenious. When Cameron and Geoff wanted to play hockey, she agreed but insisted they first learn to skate well, and the boys spent a full winter season taking power-skating lessons before either held a hockey stick in their hands. It worked. When they began playing the game their prowess on skates was beyond almost all of their teammates, and they got more enjoyment out of the game. Geoff still plays

Lessons in Life, Home and Abroad  | 43

hockey well into his fifties. Lara’s preferred athletics were swimming and running, and she reached a fairly advanced level in the Junior Nationals category. Margie and I preferred holiday trips that involved more than walking on a beach. Skiing was a favourite vacation activity. Early in our marriage we were able to afford our first European skiing holiday, and we set off for St. Anton, Austria, where we skied challenging slopes during the day and danced at night. This proved a little too much. Margie tore her Achilles tendon, an injury that would put most people onto a recliner for the rest of their getaway. But not Margie. I can still picture her picking her way down the hills of St. Anton on one ski. Soon after Austria we were introduced to heli-skiing in Utah, and later in interior British Columbia. Zipping through the trees on soft, light powder snow was a new thrill, and I was hooked. The Bugaboos became a favourite destination for us, which led to a terrifying moment for Margie. On one trip her German guide, standing next to her, suddenly shouted “Achtung!” and skied away. Having worked in Germany she knew the meaning of the word, underscored by the guide’s frantic delivery, and quickly skied off, narrowly missing an avalanche barrelling down the slope and through the area where they had been standing. Most of our other trips were less adventurous, although a canoeing holiday with John and Nonnie Jennings in Algonquin Park stays etched in my memory. The water was very low that summer, and many of the rivers that appeared manageable on our maps were almost dry, requiring frequent portaging. One night we located a very attractive island for camping. Landing there and preparing our equipment, we wondered why other campers hadn’t claimed the perfect site. The answer came during a quiet moment when the air was filled with a noise that sounded like several dozen electric shavers buzzing in the trees above us. They weren’t shavers; they were wasps – a large black cloud of them, and they didn’t appreciate our presence.

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It was just another adventure for us to survive, make the most of, and share over the years. The most memorable times of our lives are not when things go exactly as planned, comforting as that would be. They occur when we are forced to deal with surprises by improvising and sometimes with passing distress. We enjoyed a number of such trips through our marriage, most of them filled with laughter. Not while they occurred, perhaps, but later in their retelling.

CHAPTER THREE

Dollars, Discretion, and Life on the Farm

i expected to have my eyes opened during my work experience with the finance department in Ottawa. I wasn’t prepared to have them opened so widely by things I discovered there. Within a few days of my arrival, I was summoned to the office of Wynne Plumptre, the assistant deputy minister. Was I about to be lectured on some aspect of my work, or informed of a new policy in the department? No. The assistant deputy minister was seeking my advice on how to refinance $150 million of Government of Canada bonds about to mature. I offered a few alternative approaches to the problem, drawing on my experience at Barings and Harris. But I was amazed. As I spoke, I kept thinking, “If he is asking me, a twenty-six-year-old bond trader, for advice, things around here must be in pretty bad shape!” Later, another boss asked me to provide him with some basic knowledge of the financial industry. He wasn’t planning to craft a national strategy; he wanted advice on handling his personal finances. I played the standard financial adviser role. When I asked how he invested his funds, he shrugged and replied that he kept everything in a standard savings account at his bank. A few more questions revealed he was even unfamiliar with Canada Savings Bonds, the most basic of investment instruments. Both were startling to me. Was this the best Canada could do in assigning personnel to handle our national finances? There was a bright side, however: I no longer feared that I was in over my head in the finance department.

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To be fair, some of the challenges faced by the department were technical. A colleague, Bruce Lister, addressed the need for a national accounting of the Canadian economy and created a model for tracking it. Economists both in the department and at the Bank of Canada were impressed enough to proceed with its implementation, but in the mid-1960s we lacked computing power to assemble the data accurately and efficiently. Today, any laptop or desktop computer equipped with a basic accounting program could handle the job in a snap. Of course, in those days, desktop computers were little more than a glint in the eye of Bill Gates and other computer revolutionists, most of them still looking forward to high school. While we wrestled with this challenge, notable events were happening beyond the windows of the Department of Finance. One concerned a flag – Canada’s flag that now flies proudly all over the world. The Liberals, under Lester Pearson’s leadership, had proposed Canada replace its Red Ensign with a design that did not include the traditional Union Jack. The idea was to reflect Canada’s growing multicultural influences, not to mention the fact that few if any Quebecois identified with British history and values. Other challenges waited to be overcome as well. Pearson’s Liberals ousted John Diefenbaker’s Progressive Conservatives in 1963 but they sat as a minority, failing to win a majority in the next election two years later. Still, Pearson maintained his party’s position that Canada needed a new flag to represent the country accurately. Whatever its merits, Diefenbaker and much of his Progressive Conservative Party opposed the new flag vehemently. The debate raged throughout the summer until things resolved with the decision of francophone PCs to support a design proposed by a committee. As a Conservative I was embarrassed by the extended and often fierce battle my party mounted against what sounded to me like a sensible proposal. The PCs stuck to their position knowing that a portion of the electorate retained a strong loyalty to the Union Jack, and they bowed to this base despite the merits of approving a new flag sans the Union Jack.

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Watching the flag debate unfold amid much fist waving and insults, I soon understood the role of emotions in the face of logic and reality.1 Those two years in Ottawa rewarded me with an appreciation for the challenges and opportunities on the government side of things. It was a much different world than the one I had inhabited in the finance and investment environment, promising unique and exciting experiences. Things were happening in Ottawa, and the flag debate was only a precursor of a nation about to stretch itself nationally and internationally. I became something of a political junkie, tracking developments and the colourful characters directing things. Politics failed to hook me entirely, however, and when Bill Harris Jr. asked if I’d be interested in returning to Harris & Partners back in Toronto, I made the move with Margie’s blessing. Part of the appeal resulted from Bill’s new position as president of the firm. Bill promised a new role for me too. I would assume responsibility for business development and was tasked with widening the company’s client base. This was new ground for me. To that point, I’d spent my financial career working on the trading desk in Toronto and doing what I could in the federal finance department in Ottawa. In both cases I was dealing with existing files and situations. This was different. Business development involved reaching out to pull in new clients, something beyond my experience. New business in the retail financial industry is acquired two ways: by tapping your network of friends and family, or by making cold calls, persuading people you don’t know to trust their assets with your firm. I didn’t have much of a network to draw upon, and I lacked the experience and imagination to develop an effective method of cold calling, so my success at business development was minimal. I was still floundering around, trying to get a handle on my new job, when the chance arrived to play a role on two major projects. Both enabled me to apply my strengths while generating new skills. Both rescued me from the agony of cold calling. And both made positive impacts on my career.

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One was a request to help prepare a prospectus for a $30-million convertible preferred issue on behalf of Hudson’s Bay Oil and Gas. Our firm was well acquainted with the company, so we were a natural fit. The other opportunity arrived almost simultaneously from Canadian Pacific Railway, who engaged Harris to join Wood Gundy in leading a $100-million spin-off of Canadian Pacific Investments (CPI). The new arrangement would position all of CP’s non-rail holdings – oil and natural gas, mining, hotels, and telecommunications – under the umbrella of CPI, making its creation a milestone transaction in Canada. CP was one of Canada’s largest companies, and our firm’s participation in the deal raised a few eyebrows on Bay Street in light of our modest size. It also brought a good deal of prestige with it. The relatively small size of the firm meant all of us would be handling multiple aspects of the deal, which, of course, reflected my father’s homily about the value of being a generalist. I added to my experience during this period by becoming more involved with bond financing, giving me a broad exposure to top clients of the firm and the chance to develop lifelong friendships with them. Things were going well at Harris by 1973. We had grown the business and elevated the firm’s image within the industry. Many of us, however, felt we needed more. Lacking a meaningful national retail investment network, we were rarely asked to lead any major financing projects. Nor were our chances likely to improve. While we had achieved a leadership position in the institutional business, only firms with national integrated operations occupied the top echelons. That’s where we wanted Harris to be. In response, most of the younger members of the company began advocating for a wide retail network for the company. Creating one from scratch was hardly practical. The solution lay in merging with a leading integrated firm that could bring a viable retail network to the table and dovetail nicely with our own structure and capacities. It didn’t take long to identify the ideal candidate. Dominion Securities, referred to in the industry simply as “DS,” was one of the so-called Big

Dollars, Discretion, and Life on the Farm  | 49

Three investment firms in the country. Founded in 1901, it had developed a large network of branches with locations in every major Canadian city plus New York, Boston, Philadelphia, and London, trading on the Toronto Stock Exchange with access to the NYSE and numerous other exchanges. We began first by convincing our colleagues of the wisdom of the move, followed by inquiries with DS itself.2 The merger soon began coming together. We won the day, but victory came at a price. Long-term colleagues of William Harris who were reaching retirement age recognized our determination and chose to step down a few years earlier than planned. And some younger members who failed to share our vision left to pursue careers in other firms. The rest of us began negotiating our merger with Dominion Securities, which became hands down the major event of my business life. On the surface, it was difficult to imagine a better fit between the two companies. As one of the Big Three investment firms in the country, Dominion meshed perfectly with the institutional emphasis at Harris, and its retail chain was easily the best in the industry. On their side, the top people at Dominion recognized the benefits of allying with a prestigious institutional firm that could open doors to new business sectors. Soon both sides began moving towards the goal of finalizing details. Things appeared to mesh perfectly on paper. They proved somewhat different in the boardroom. Doug Ward, the Dominion chairman in his early seventies, sat across from Bill Harris Jr., the new CEO of Harris who was still in his thirties. The age difference magnified their contrasting personalities. Whenever negotiations reached a deadlock, conversations between the two men would veer towards the acrimonious, prompting Tony Fell and I, representing Dominion and Harris respectively, to call for a break before things became personal. Along with our colleagues we would come up with a compromise acceptable to both sides, call Doug and Bill back into the session, and resume moving forward.

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Our efforts paid off. We managed to resolve all issues and complete the merger by our target date of 1 October 1973. Tony Fell went on to lead Dominion Securities through a future series of mergers, eventually evolving into RBC Capital Markets, the most powerful investment firm in the country and among the ten largest in the world. The firm that materialized from our efforts was unique in many ways, including the age of its executives. Six members of the executive committee were from Dominion and five from Harris. At age thirty-five, I was one of four executive vice-presidents on the committee. Tony Fell was thirty-four, and two others were thirty-six. Only two of the remaining committee members were over forty, suggesting that we were an audacious group to assume control of one of the largest financial firms in the country at such a young age. I made a special contribution by introducing my brother-in-law Robin Younger to Bill Harris. Robin was about to complete his chartered accountancy in Montreal, and he and Tricia had been thinking about returning to Toronto. Aware that our chief financial officer was approaching retirement, I introduced Robin to Bill Harris, suspecting that the chemistry between the two men would be good. It was better than good, and Robin went on not only to lead financial affairs at Harris and Dominion Securities for almost twenty years, but also to play an instrumental role in the expansion of Dominion Securities into RBC Capital Markets. It’s a good thing we possessed the enthusiasm and confidence of relative youth, because almost before the ink dried on the contracts, we encountered a crisis of sorts. Our first month as a merged operation generated a decent profit. Then things went steeply downhill. Feeling the effects of the Yom Kippur War, markets turned sour and red ink began to flow. By February 1974, with four consecutive months of losses on the books, we decreed a 15 per cent salary cut for all directors. This step was made especially painful for those from the Harris side of the company because we had already agreed to a 10 per cent reduction that would equalize our salaries with those on the Dominion side.

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By May, with no let-up in losses, we mandated a 10 per cent cut to the entire staff. “This has been a really good deal for us on the Harris side,” I said wryly to Tony Fell when the cuts were announced. “We took a ten per cent cut going into the deal, another fifteen per cent cut in February, and now an extra ten per cent off our income. I can hardly wait to see what happens next!” Fortunately, things began turning around for us. A year or two after we wrapped up the merger with Dominion Securities, we all learned a lesson about discretion … and perhaps something else as well. Discretion is something that shouldn’t need debating among people in the financial industry. Leaking sensitive material, either intentionally or inadvertently, can lead to serious problems ranging all the way up to criminal charges of insider trading. Yet it happened in a manner that was shocking and illuminating to me. In 1976, Tony Fell and I were in discussions with principals from the brokerage house Pitfield MacKay Ross about merger possibilities. Things were at the preliminary stage, so we emphasized strict guidelines that restricted knowledge of the move to a very small group of people within the two firms. In the midst of things, I received a visit from Bob Fung, a successful institutional salesman. He came to see me at the end of the business day and carefully closed the door tightly behind him before sitting down and describing, in precise detail, the state of the discussions between the people at Pitfield and us. He named the principals, outlined the deal basis, identified the timing, and much more. I sat trying to conceal my shock and dismay at his words. It was as though he had flipped through our entire file of confidential notes and was now reciting back almost every subject contained within. When Bob finished, he stared at me in silence while I tried to downplay the veracity of what I had just heard. Finally he asked, “Well, is it true or isn’t it?”

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I wasn’t sure how to respond. Bob was a trustworthy guy, but how could he know so much detail about such a confidential matter? I had no choice. I agreed that what he had told me was true, and I asked him to treat it in total confidence. Thankfully, he agreed. My next words were to ask where and how he had picked up the information. Bob spread his arms and said, “Look at me. What do you see?” I knew what he meant. “You are Chinese,” I said. “Yes, I am.” With a big smile, he said, “I do your shirts for a dollar twenty-five each.” Then he told me his story. Bob had been riding the subway to work that morning, reading a newspaper printed in Chinese, when two people came aboard, sat on either side of him, and began discussing details of our negotiations with Pitfield. The men were principal players we had been negotiating with for several days, and they conversed across Bob as though he weren’t there, assuming, I suppose, that he didn’t understand English. Or maybe they believed that non-Anglo-Saxon people didn’t take an interest in the financial world. Either way, they had no problem openly discussing a subject that both knew needed to be treated in a thoroughly confidential manner. Would they have spoken so freely about the same things in a crowded elevator, or almost anywhere else in the presence of strangers who did not appear to be Chinese or some other visible minority? Not a chance. I thanked Bob for passing the story along to me, and I accepted his promise not to repeat the incident to anyone else. From that point forward, I reminded myself never to assume that everyone would respect the importance of secrecy in confidential matters. I also acquired a fresh awareness of racial stereotyping. Despite that particular blip, the merger with Pitfield MacKay Ross succeeded. In fact, it did more than that. It underlined the importance of two factors I wish were prevalent in business everywhere, and we enforced both from the beginning.

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One was an inflexible approach to integrity. Whatever we did would reflect the highest level of ethics or we would not do it at all. There would be no excuses, no omissions. This, I suspect, may sound like an empty statement signifying nothing, a kind of ethical boilerplate. Let’s face it: No company would admit to overlooking honesty and condoning improper behaviour. Promising to follow codes of proper conduct, however, has no value if the deeds don’t match the words. Insisting on total integrity in every aspect of our operation, we applied the principle externally in our relationship with clients and internally at all employee levels. The latter move was implemented to avert the tribalism that can arise when two firms blend their resources. No one was ever identified as “Dominion people” or “Harris people” or “Pitfield people” when assigning responsibilities and positions, which became a means of ensuring that the right people were doing the right things for the right reasons. The other factor was our goal of achieving top-level performance from every employee. To put it bluntly, if you didn’t measure up with us, we suggested you find employment somewhere else. We maintained this policy through all of our deals, which accounted in large part for Dominion’s rise to a pre-eminent position in our industry. My responsibilities following the merger with Dominion were primarily in government finance and international business. I also served key corporate clients including General Motors Acceptance, Ford Motor Credit, Hudson’s Bay Company, and Hudson’s Bay Oil and Gas. Demand for Canadian dollar-dominated bonds in Europe, driven by the rising value of the Canadian dollar, plunged me into the Euro-Canadian market on behalf of Ford and GM’s financing needs. This did well for us through the 1970s until René Lévesque and the victory of his Quebec separatist party scared investors away. By then we had established our expertise on the global stage and sought to expand our international presence, especially in the Middle East. Thanks to skyrocketing oil prices, the OPEC countries had become important sources of investment funds.

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Expanding onto the global stage took a good deal of international travel on my part, which prompted me to become familiar with a host of various concerns. Westerners travelling to countries such as Saudi Arabia were warned about respecting the country’s enforcement of strict Islamic laws, including the total prohibition against drinking alcohol by anyone for any reason. While the warnings were valid, the realities often failed to match expectations. During one trip to London, I met a friend who was in the city to purchase carpets and artworks for his new home in Riyadh. A California-educated lawyer who had made a lot of money in the early 1970s, he invited me to visit his home during an upcoming trip to Saudi Arabia, and I accepted. My friend’s residence in Riyadh was as palatial as I anticipated given his wealth, and he enjoyed showing it off to me. At one point during the tour we paused in front of a beautifully panelled wall hung with works of art. I stood admiring the pieces until the wall began sliding aside to reveal a wellstocked bar hidden behind it. Alcohol may have been banned throughout the Saudi kingdom but not inside his Riyadh mansion. “We’ll return here later,” he said, as the wall began closing, “when my very close friends join us for dinner.” I enjoyed an excellent dinner with his friends – all of whom were men, by the way – followed by a western-style celebration at the bar that lasted until two in the morning. When I departed to catch my plane the entire well-lubricated group waved goodbye and wished me well on my travels. The absence of women at the party might have been in keeping with Saudi directives, but our wide sampling of the bar’s offerings was decidedly not. On another visit, a Saudi acquaintance invited me to dinner with some friends and their wives. I looked forward to an interesting evening, prepared to find the women dressed in long robes and headscarves or niqabs. Instead, I found still more defiance of Saudi customs. The three very attractive women accompanying their husbands were wearing the latest western fashions, and the conversation over dinner was as worldly as I might have expected in any global capital.

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Back in Canada, I experienced another encounter with reality, this one related to Canadian politics. The province of Saskatchewan represented our sole provincial government account at the time and was part of my service portfolio. We worked hard on their business, and in 1975 then premier Allan Blakeney asked me to join him in an important meeting where he revealed the province’s plan to nationalize the potash industry. What, the premier wanted from me, were our views on the likely reaction of the financial markets to this decision? This launched me into a series of the pro and con reactions he could expect from Bay Street, where his actions would be considered an unwelcome intrusion into the private sector. With that as background, I expressed my own bias against the idea, running through the various drawbacks and downsides that came to mind. Blakeney listened with some patience until I finished. Then he got down to business. While he appreciated my observations and suggestions, he wanted to make one thing clear, and he did it directly and decisively. “I’m not asking your opinion on whether we should proceed,” he said. “We are going ahead. The decision is final. I’m only interested in your view on the market’s reaction and how we might address it. Nothing more.” Blakeney was going to bulldoze the idea through, and my concerns would not change things. All he wanted from me were suggestions on how to protect the standing of the idea in capital markets. His response was something I found useful when I entered political life some time later. When you are convinced that your plan is in the best interests of your constituents you take the time to evaluate the consequences, but you find ways of getting it done anyway. I valued the lesson, despite the fact that Blakeney’s actions were the polar opposite of my party’s philosophy. In Brian Mulroney’s government we were sellers of companies, not purchasers. Still, the experience proved profitable in grasping other points of view emanating from the other side of the table.

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As much as I loved my business life, I managed to find equal joy and fulfilment from my family, much of it at the farm. My parents purchased the property in 1966 when grandchildren began arriving. They wanted a place for all of us to gather, adults and children alike, where we could let our hair down and simply enjoy each other’s company. Casualness was to be the norm there. The mood had been set by the previous owner, a farmer named Nort Fraser who rebuilt the original house, lost to fire during the Depression. He had no pretensions and neither did the house, which lacked running water and indoor plumbing. As for Nort himself, my clearest memory of him was etched into my memory the first day we drove up to the property while Nort and his wife were still living there. The lane led past the outhouse, which lacked a lower hinge to keep the door closed. We thus had a clear view of Nort as we arrived, seated with his pants around his ankles and calling out, “Be with ya in a minute, folks!” I suppose the old house boasted running water of a sort. An ingenious device known as a ram pump brought water up from a spring located about thirty feet below ground. Operating without electricity or outside power of any kind, the pump supplied all the water for the Frasers and their twenty-five head of cattle kept in a nearby barn. No electricity bill, no emissions, no maintenance – today’s environmentalists would love it. The farm, with Mom and Dad in a new house on the property and half the land parcelled out to my sisters and me, achieved everything my parents had hoped. After they divided up the property, Margie and I built our own house overlooking the Pine River Valley. With its view of spectacular summer sunsets, it became Margie’s favourite home away from home. Mind you, we weren’t exactly the Kennedys building a family compound at Hyannis Port. Margie and I managed to gather enough cash to hire a prefab company for the exterior construction, plus professionals to install the electrical circuits and plumbing. The interior itself was finished by Margie and me. Eight months pregnant with Lara, Margie tackled a range of chores, including installing the insulation, staple gun in hand.

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One of my tasks was to install a tongue-in-groove oak floor, securing it with nails into the tongue side of the board. This sounds simple, but oak is a very strong wood, and striking the nail even slightly off-centre sent the hammer in an unpredictable direction. On one of these occasions, when my thumb received the hammer blow meant for the nail, my response was to shout a loud and strong “S***!” We had given Cameron a toy carpentry set, and he followed me around with it, pretending to be hammering nails on his own. As the echo of my expletive faded I turned to Cameron and said, “Daddy just used a naughty word. You should never use that word, so I don’t want you to repeat what I just said.” Fat chance. Little children learn by imitation, and a few minutes later when Cameron struck his own tiny thumb with his own tiny hammer the rooms filled with his cries of “S***! S***! S***!” Margie was not impressed with the example I was setting for our son. Nor was she impressed one day when, heavily pregnant with Lara, she climbed a ladder onto a ten-foot scaffold to install insulation extending up to the room’s sixteen-foot ceiling. She would often be at this for hours, and I got in the habit of taking the ladder away for my own use throughout the day and returning it to help her down when she was finished. On this day I needed to go up the hill to Wendy and Doug’s to borrow some tool or other item. I left, telling Margie I would return in just a few minutes. That was my intention. But Doug and I became involved in a conversation about something or other, which led to him offering me a beer, which led to us sitting back and chatting about a range of topics until I suddenly remembered Margie stranded atop the scaffold. I hurried back to find a very unhappy – that’s a euphemism, I believe – and pregnant Margie who desperately needed to, as the Brits say, “spend a penny,” but she was marooned several feet above the floor and some distance from the bathroom. As I recall, I finished installing the insulation myself, which was the least I could do.

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Going to the farm meant more than a few days in the country. It meant sharing our lives with family members in a place where we could soak up solitude when we needed it. Margie’s flower gardens there were magnificent and her vegetable gardens fed us well until the rabbits took them over. But nothing could spoil the perfect summer days we spent there. From June to September, Margie wanted to be nowhere else in the world. ­Winters, too, were spent there on skis, racing our children and grandchildren across the snow-covered fields. We still have the fields and we still have the memories of so many good times at the farm. Other elements of our life have fallen away. We celebrated my father’s eightieth birthday with a family party. My father’s hair had turned a glorious white by then. Full and healthy, it reflected his life at that age. The highlight of the party was a large birthday cake coated with thick chocolate icing, glittering with an armada of blazing candles. We set it before him, and after making a wish he sat back, drew in an enormous breath, aimed a full gust of air at the candles … and watched his two false teeth fly out of his mouth and imbed themselves in the cake. This generated a mad round of laughter, and no one laughed harder than Dad. He demonstrated his spirit and humour in other ways as well. On a vacation in Bora Bora with my sisters Wendy and Tricia and their husbands he spent a good deal of time strolling the boardwalk overlooking the topless beach. He assured them that the extended walks he took were good for his health, adding “The view is quite nice around here …” He also found the time and opportunity to acquaint himself with women of his age who, like him, lived alone, and he delighted in telling the story of one charming widow whom he entertained for dinner one evening. Afterwards he saw her back to her cottage, where they stood chatting for a few moments before she opened the door and said, “Come on in, dear.” Dad smiled. “Oh, I’m too old for that stuff,” he said shyly, whereupon the woman frowned and said, “Don’t be silly – I was calling the cat!”

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My father lived to be ninety-four years old. He left a mark on the world and an indelible impression on me, one comprised of integrity, loyalty, and all the qualities needed to be a gentleman. By my fortieth year I had to acknowledge that I had followed my father’s advice on the value of being a generalist. In addition to a wealth of knowledge on the Canadian economy, I had gained experience with the workings of capital markets and grasped an understanding of key sectors such as energy, mining, and banking. I had seen enough of Canada to grow familiar with our dominant differences and our common concerns and seen enough of the rest of the world to know that the challenges we faced as a country were miniscule compared to the benefits we enjoyed. Still none of this was sufficient on its own to persuade me to pursue a political career. It was my godmother, in fact, who had planted the seeds of that decision years earlier.

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CHAPTER FOUR

The Power of a Challenging Question

blame it on aunt vera. Vera was my American godmother, a staunch Republican from Minneapolis who visited her Canadian cousins from time to time. On her 1952 trip to see us she brought some political paraphernalia for me. Among them were oversized “I LIKE IKE! ” buttons, which she explained were promoting General Dwight Eisenhower for US President in that year’s election. Her excitement over Eisenhower’s chances intrigued me. Eisenhower, Vera declared, had been a great wartime hero who was certain to generate trust and confidence among the American people during his years in the White House. I was impressed with her enthusiasm. I was even more impressed with the buttons. After adding a strip of adhesive tape in front of Eisenhower’s nickname, I added an inked M, changing the buttons to “I LIKE MIKE! ” and wearing one to school the next day. On its own, Aunt Vera’s gift wasn’t responsible for me catching the political bug, but it brought politics alive to me. I recognized that people like Vera didn’t just read about politics in the newspaper or discuss it over coffee. They became part of the process by knocking on doors, attending rallies, and wearing buttons like the ones she brought me. Ten years later I was canvassing for the Tories, supporting Donald Fleming against Mitchell Sharp in the 1962 federal election. Another sixteen years after that and I announced that I would be running for the PC

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nomination in the next federal election to the surprise of almost everyone who knew me. The move, they agreed, appeared totally out of character. Politicians needed to be brash and dogmatic, loud glad-handers who loved the limelight. I had none of those qualities, which inspired most people who knew me to predict that I was unlikely to win. What, they wondered, was behind it all? The root of the idea was almost as surprising as my decision to seek office, and it grew out of the friendship I developed with Donald Macdonald while I was with the federal finance department. We were an odd couple, politically; a newly elected Liberal, he was destined for a cabinet position in Pierre Trudeau’s government a few years later. My roots were deeply Conservative, but this failed to prevent Macdonald and his wife Ruth from inviting me to parties at their home, where both delighted in introducing me to young Liberals with their own political ambitions. Their political leanings failed to influence me much, nor did mine change theirs. What I really took away was an awareness of the contrast between life in business and life in politics. I knew a good deal about the former; the Macdonalds taught me about the latter. I sat in when they and their cohorts devoted time and energy to pondering and applying public policy, and I recognized the difference between their approach to achieving goals and my own. In business, the goal was to work within the milieu of public policy to attain financial success. In politics, the emphasis was to shape and manipulate that milieu for the wider good. The distinction between the two was dramatic. The concept of shaping public policy for the common good instead of simply working within it to make a profit attracted me. Making money was not alien to me in the least, but I was struck by the contrast between the two pursuits, and it changed my perception of many things I encountered from that point forward. Whenever I read a newspaper or heard a radio report on a key public issue, I considered the government policy behind it. What was its true intent? Where did it succeed, and where did it fail? How could it be improved?

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This interest in policy was natural while I was working in the finance department, whose activities touched most other federal departments. Back in Toronto, recalling those sessions hosted by the Macdonalds, I began following federal policy issues. The idea of shaping policy in the corporate sector and financial markets attracted me. I knew the issues, I recognized the problems, and I had some idea of how they could be addressed more effectively. Of course, the place to shape and formulate policy wasn’t on Bay Street. It was back in Ottawa. Perhaps, I began to reflect, that’s where I should be. A lengthy list of obstacles stood between me and a seat in Parliament. The most challenging was my public speaking ability, notable for its absence. I had picked up a few pointers while serving as campaign chairman for the Canadian Cancer Society where I addressed groups of volunteers. But passing along a motivational message to eager and receptive volunteers was one thing. Standing among skeptical electors to deliver five minutes of extemporaneous commentary on policy ideas while promoting my appropriate virtues was another matter entirely. Concepts and opinions shared in relative privacy with people of like mind would be tossed at strangers whose reactions were as likely to be violent opposition as gentle approval. This was not an attractive prospect. So what nudged me out the door and on my way to Ottawa? Not what, but who. It took two people – an old friend from Harris & Partners in Toronto, and a stranger in Hong Kong. The friend was Frank Vasilkioti, who had run as a PC candidate in two consecutive Ontario provincial elections, finishing a close second each time. Following his recent campaign in 1977, I invited Frank to lunch, planning to commiserate with him and measure the impact the two losses had made on him. Halfway through our lunch Frank surprised me by asking when I would make my move into the political arena. I hadn’t anticipated his question, so I deflected it by saying I had too many things on the go to give the idea much thought.

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“That’s the wrong answer, Mike,” he said. “If you’re doing your job properly you’ll always be busy, and you’ll always have lots of things on the go. The question is this: Are there enough things happening that you disagree with and that make you want to do something about them?” Frank always had a way of getting to the point. I don’t recall my precise answer, but I clearly remember things happening in Ottawa at the time that troubled me. They included the Liberal government’s fiscal policy, which was building federal deficit levels ever higher; and the activities of the Foreign Investment Review Agency, which I believed was intruding too much into the private sector. Overriding both was my opinion of Pierre Trudeau, who had occupied the Prime Minister’s position for a decade. I was no fan of either Trudeau or his policies, and I was feeling more and more strongly that it was time for a change. Frank’s challenge rang in my ears a few weeks later when I left for a three-week business trip on behalf of Dominion Securities. I was taking the trip to convince individuals and corporations to invest in Canada. My goal was to paint a broad picture of the country’s potential as an investment site. Should interest be expressed in the idea, we would dispatch a specialist to make a follow-up presentation addressing their special needs and relevance. Of all the presentations I was scheduled to make, I knew none would be more important than the one in Hong Kong. The British colony, soon to come under the rule of mainland China, was a hotbed of commercial activity with substantial amounts of money looking for a home elsewhere in the world. I prepared myself for the Hong Kong session and, after the usual formalities, launched into my presentation to the invited group. Things were going well until midway through my message when the host interrupted me. “Mister Wilson,” he said, “we are here in Hong Kong, which is not even a country. We have only seven million people and we live continually under threat from our northern neighbour, China. They provide us with all our food and all our water. We do not have a very good education

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system, and there really is no political structure since we effectively are governed from the United Kingdom. Later we expect to be governed by China. But we get by.” He paused long enough to let these points sink in. “Our manufacturing is quite competitive. We work hard and we are a peaceful people who want to succeed. Then we look at Canada.” Another pause. “You live next door to the United States, the greatest country in the world. They are no threat to you. You have natural resources like oil and natural gas, along with quantities of minerals, food, and water that far exceed your needs, so you are great exporters. You govern yourselves effectively. Your political system is sound and stable. Your education and health care systems are good.” One more pause while he sharpened his aim. Then: “So why are you not doing better than you are?” He meant our economic performance, of course. He got specific. Our productivity as a nation was unimpressive. Our unemployment levels were too high. And our national debt was building too quickly. He was correct on all counts. I had no good answer for him, and his question haunted me for the duration of my trip. But over the rest of my journey and on my return to Canada I began searching for an answer. The best one that came to mind – the only one that held promise – was to launch myself into federal politics, doing what I could to change the opinion of the man from Hong Kong. Moving from business to politics was like giving up hockey for water polo – you’re still a team player expected to score goals, but everything happens in a totally different environment. The first step I took towards a political career was to approach friends already immersed in politics and get their opinion of my intentions. I began with Frank Vasilkioti, who at least took comfort in hearing that I had listened closely to his comments. Then I moved on to seek the opinions of

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two PC heavyweights, Hal Jackman and Darcy McKeough. Hal, a longtime fundraiser for the party, asked me a number of pointed questions before suggesting that I think long and hard about my decision. I had been hoping for a little more encouragement, but I hid my disappointment. Then, as we left his office to walk down Bay Street, he stopped to buy a copy of the Toronto Star and said to the paperboy, “I’d like you to meet the next Member of Parliament for Etobicoke Centre.” Darcy McKeough, who had served in Bill Davis’s Ontario cabinet for a number of years, was even more hesitant. Like Hal, he tossed tough questions at me, and I lobbed my answers back at him. I must have worn him down because he finally gave in. “Well, I guess it’s in your blood, Mike,” he said without noticeable enthusiasm. “You’re going to do it no matter what I say to you, so good luck.” Hal Jackman proposed that I run in the new federal riding of Etobicoke Centre, just as he had informed the paperboy. Both the Don Valley West and Rosedale ridings were closer to my home and familiar to me, but they were spoken for by John Bosley and David Crombie, both strong municipal politicians. No one had any claim or recognition in Etobicoke Centre. I began by contacting residents in the riding. None proved more important than Julie Lyons. I was so impressed with her knowledge and positive attitude that I asked her to help me win the nomination by serving as my manager. Anyone with an inkling of political knowledge understands that the role of political campaign manager is demanding, time-consuming, and ultimately thankless. If an election is successful, the candidate receives credit for the victory; if the election is lost, eyes turn towards the campaign manager in search of flaws and missteps he or she made. Knowing these facts all too well, Julie was being asked for help from a Bay Street boy who had never been part of any nomination race. Not only that, but I wasn’t even familiar with the riding. The electors didn’t know me, and I didn’t know them. About the only time I passed through Etobicoke Centre was on my way to the airport. Could I reasonably expect her to invest months of her time and energy on a political dud?

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I patiently listened to her detailed description of the nomination process, then with equal patience answered many of the same questions posed to me earlier by Hal and Darcy. Something must have worked. When she agreed to manage my nomination campaign, I felt like I had made the cut at the Masters! My decision to enter politics involved another decision equally difficult to make. If I indeed wanted to be a full-time politician, I didn’t want to be a part-time investment banker while seeking the nomination. So, I took a leave of absence from Dominion Securities, plunging myself into an entirely different world from the one that had occupied me since university. No politician of any party or any riding dares make the decision I made without counting on the full support of his or her family. As she had in every other endeavour throughout our marriage, Margie jumped aboard my campaign with both feet, a move I suspect she might have regretted from time to time. Driving me from our mid-Toronto home to Etobicoke for numerous rallies and meetings, she would listen as I rehearsed my speech aloud in the car, stumbling over phrases, rearranging my syntax, and constantly testing my answers to anticipated questions. The procedure was painful to me, so I can only guess at the agony Margie suffered without complaint. At the event itself, Margie would shift into high gear by employing her infectious smile and easy way of conversing, winning skeptics over to our side. Both Mom and Dad supported my decision. They showed it by appearing at many public events, where they enjoyed meeting and speaking with people. Unfortunately, they always chose to sit in the front row where, at some point during many of my speeches, I would see my father periodically slump over his knees, his hands at his head, as if groaning, “When will this ever end?!” Despite my initial weakness at public speaking, I discovered how much I enjoyed chatting with people at the meetings. I had immersed myself in a totally different world from the one I inhabited as an investment banker, bumping up against people of all ages and from all backgrounds. When

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a stranger approached me, I had no idea if I was about to be praised or persecuted for my views and I found myself always on my toes, prepared to respond to their comments in the most gracious way possible. Early in the process a friend told me I was fortunate to be running in Etobicoke. According to him, I was in a riding with a relatively small number of first-generation Canadians, who tended to support Liberals. But when I checked the 1976 census, I discovered new Canadians represented a minority in Etobicoke but just barely. At 48 per cent of the population, they were a force worth acknowledging. This might have presented a major barrier to success for me if their legendary support of Liberals was accurate. But it wasn’t. I met many first-generation Canadians in the riding who became strong supporters, not just during the nomination process but also through my political career. A large number had arrived in Canada from Soviet-controlled countries in Eastern Europe. The right to elect their own representatives through a democratic voting process was more than attractive to them; it was precious beyond measure. The presence of these newcomers brought home the reality of a changing Canada. We were rapidly evolving into a widely diverse and cosmopolitan nation, and we would draw strength from their influence. If I was pleased with the reception I received from residents of the riding, I was elated by my team of supporters. All were strong Progressive Conservatives who wanted to win for me, for the party and, dare I say, for Canada. Over the fourteen years I spent in Parliament representing the people of Etobicoke, the effort my team of volunteers invested in me was never to be underestimated and always treasured. One memorable example occurred early in the nomination process. I was chatting with Rita Hare, one of the early volunteers, who asked how I was enjoying the new experience. I had grown up living a few blocks on either side of Yonge Street, and my sense of the suburbs was that they were “out there somewhere,” so I replied with great enthusiasm but minimum forethought, “I love it here in Scarborough!”

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Rita managed to conceal her shock. “Michael,” she said gently, “your future lies here in Etobicoke, not in Scarborough.” Indeed it did. On a frigid March evening more than 3,000 people crowded into the Etobicoke Olympium to choose who would represent the PC Party for them in the upcoming election. They were faced with four candidates. Two were not expected to generate much support but the third, Bob Wells, represented a formidable challenge. With deep roots in the riding, Bob had built substantial backing before I even stepped forward, and many people doubted that I could overcome his lead. Thanks to the loyalty and commitment of the team led by Julie Lyons, however, we managed to win the nomination rather handily. After being declared the winner, as I stood on the stage with Margie and our three children, two thoughts crowded my mind. One was that we faced a tough chore to win the seat from a Liberal cabinet minister who had been awarded the nomination by his party. The other was an awareness that our lives were about to change in ways we could not possibly anticipate. Sometimes the impact of a simple decision can reach far beyond expectations. One example occurred shortly after the nomination meeting. Once the applause had died away, the team and supporters had headed home, and the banners and confetti had been cleared away, all of us faced months of hard work. I planned, of course, to maintain the core of the team that had brought me so far, but there were campaign positions I would need to fill, especially that of manager. Julie Lyons had been superb in the nomination process, but with the nomination in hand she preferred to step aside for the federal election and its enormous demands on her time and energy. So where would I look for a campaign manager? The actual decision was viewed in some quarters as an act of political genius, and I agree that it was. But it wasn’t mine. Members of the team with far more political savvy and experience tossed me a suggestion that sounded like it came out of left field: Why not ask Bob Wells to take on the job?

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Would this really work? I wondered. Bob had campaigned as hard as anyone to win the nomination, and I could imagine his disappointment when the results were tallied. But Bob could bring many valuable things to the election campaign, including his familiarity with the riding and his long association with the party. We couldn’t pass up the opportunity to at least ask him, and I did. I was elated when Bob agreed to take the job. With him at the helm, plus Doug Robson and Sandy Millar (who made the original proposal to invite Bob), as well as John McElwain, Ross Noonan, Cas Herold, and others, I could not have felt more confident about our chances for success. Among those whose support I treasured were my colleagues at Dominion Securities. I made a point of dropping by to thank them personally for their efforts, which led to an early example of how things were about to change in my life. Stepping off the elevator, I saw a man I had worked with for several years. We stopped to talk, he congratulated me on winning the nomination and we discussed the political situation and other topics until, after fifteen minutes of chatter, we bid each other goodbye. Through all of that time, I couldn’t recall his name. This was disturbing, and I wondered what the devil was happening to me. Surely one of the key qualities of being a successful politician is the ability to recall the names of associates and the details of their lives. Had I left part of my memory back on the floor of the Etobicoke Olympium? Was this one of the ways I had expected my life to change while standing on the stage with Margie and the children? Somewhere between curiosity and panic, I mentioned the incident to John MacBeth, whose political credentials were long and impressive. John had served as mayor of Etobicoke and later as a minister in the provincial government. Did he have an explanation for my memory lapse? He certainly did. Remembering names, John told me, was part of being a good politician. But that was the whole point. I was no longer an investment

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banker at Dominion Securities. I was now a candidate for federal election, about to be propelled onto the crowded and often frenzied stage of Parliament. “The important names to you are not downtown anymore,” John advised. “They’re in Etobicoke.” Subconsciously, John suggested, I had temporarily blocked off much of my life at Dominion Securities. Including the name of my familiar co-worker. John taught me another lesson about politics and translation. John was a tall, distinguished-looking man who, with the proper collar, could pass for an archbishop, and his provincial riding overlapped my federal constituency. This meant both of us needed to appeal to a substantial number of Italian-speaking residents. Most were familiar with English, but on the cusp of an upcoming provincial election, John decided to reach out to them in their native language. He and his team drafted a small brochure introducing John as the Honourable John MacBeth, Solicitor-General of the Province of Ontario, followed by a story of John’s background and his qualifications for public office. An Italian-speaking man on John’s executive committee offered to translate the text and have it printed. John extended his thanks, and when the pamphlets arrived from the printer, he took a handful to an event that would attract a crowd of Italian-speaking voters. Handing the material out to the people he encountered there, John noticed a strange reaction when they began to read the text. Each smiled at the message and nudged whoever was standing nearby, and their response was to laugh out loud. Sensing something was amiss, John handed the brochure to an Italian-speaking friend and asked for his comment. The friend’s reaction was identical to others in the room – reading the text he first smiled, then giggled, and finally broke into loud laughter. Calming down he turned to John, pointed to the introductory sentence in Italian, and explained, “It says here that you are the Chief Pimp of the Province of Ontario!” The term Solicitor-General, John discovered too late, could be translated in various ways.

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Yet another lesson to be absorbed by political neophytes: Never ever permit your material to be translated into a foreign language by anyone except a total professional. And always have it proofread. I was fired up to begin campaigning for the upcoming election, which was expected within a couple of months of my winning the candidacy. Things changed when a poll showed both the Liberals and Conservatives locked at about 40 per cent support, convincing Trudeau to defer the election until the fall. The postponement proved to be a blessing, enabling me to establish myself as a hard-working guy prepared to knock on doors, introduce myself to residents, and discuss issues with them, accompanied by members of my team who knew the neighbourhood. Trudeau’s delay in dropping the writ gave me time to spend on doorsteps, getting to know the voters. Entering politics made me, by definition, a public figure of sorts, and I had mixed emotions about that. But on one occasion it brought me a pretty good benefit. Our riding office in Etobicoke was located directly across from the Royal York subway station. Whenever I needed to travel downtown, I simply crossed the street and hopped on the train. One day while on the subway a man approached me with a sly grin on his face. “What happened?” he asked me. “Did the limo break down?” I smiled and replied that I didn’t have a limo. “I just like to take the subway,” I added, curious at his comment. This didn’t seem to satisfy him. “Come on,” he persisted, his tone suggesting that I was hiding something. “There’s gotta be some reason you’re here.” “No, really,” I said, “I take the subway because it’s faster and cheaper.” When he realized I had nothing to hide, the man confessed he was a reporter for the Toronto Sun before wandering off somewhere else on the train. The next day I was delighted to see myself featured on page three of the Sun, the most important page of the paper. “Wilson Takes Subway, It’s

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Faster and Cheaper” the headline shouted. Throughout my entire political career this was probably the best publicity I received in the Toronto media, and it didn’t cost me a cent. The election, everyone knew, would focus on financial and economic issues. After the Sun story appeared, other media began seeking my views on these subjects that conflicted with those of Trudeau and his party. Few “name” candidates were running in Metro Toronto, which gave me a higher profile in the press than I might have expected, and with time I became much better at responding to questions from reporters. This hardly made me a media star, but it raised my name recognition, which was badly needed since I would be running against Alastair Gillespie, a sitting cabinet minister who had held office for ten years. Gillespie had occupied a number of cabinet positions over the years and was serving as minister of energy, mines and resources when the election writ was dropped. This gave the irrepressible John Crosbie a line he couldn’t resist when introducing me to voters during the campaign. “Mike Wilson,” Crosbie announced to the crowd, “is the man who is going to beat the cabinet minister from the Trudeau government who, when he smiles, looks like he’s suffering from the stuff he is regulating – gas!”1 Meanwhile, after reassessing things, Trudeau announced that instead of a fall general election we would have fifteen by-elections in November. Conservatives did very well in those contests, setting the stage for the general election on 22 May 1979. I was prepared on that day to assume the post of president of the Ontario chapter of the Canadian Cancer Society, a role I turned down with some reluctance. This would not only be my first general election as a candidate; it would be Joe Clark’s first election as leader of the PC Party, and I was counting on him to stir up support for me in Etobicoke. When Joe agreed to speak at a rally in the riding a few days before the election, it represented the perfect way to cap off my campaign, and I planned to make the most of it. We promoted the event widely, asking everyone to be in their seats by six o’clock. When the day arrived the room was crowded, which was good.

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What wasn’t so good was the unusually hot weather, the building’s lack of air conditioning, and Joe’s tardiness in arriving. He didn’t show up at six or even seven o’clock. By eight o’clock, with my supporters looking impatient and uncomfortable, I expressed my frustration and concern to Ontario Premier Bill Davis, who would introduce Joe. Hearing my irritation, Bill, an old hand at political rallies, just smiled, puffed on his pipe, and advised me to relax. “This is showbiz,” he said. “Enjoy yourself. Go out and talk to the people. Joe will show up soon.” I did, and Joe did. The audience responded with enthusiasm to speeches by Joe, Bill, and me, and a few days later I won the election by a margin of 15,000 votes. I took pride in the fact that our riding had a voter turnout of 84 per cent, higher than the Canada-wide turnout of 76 per cent and substantially beyond the 60 per cent levels that have become common since then. I was on my way. The party did well nationally, but not well enough to gain a clear majority in the House. We won 136 seats, an improvement over the 95 seats won in the 1974 election under Robert Stanfield’s leadership. The loss by the Liberals was so shocking to Pierre Trudeau that it persuaded him to announce his retirement from the national scene. Joe Clark, rejecting the reality of being a minority government, announced he was going to govern as if he had a majority in Parliament. Not a bad political statement to make, had he left some wiggle room, but Joe was a principled man. He meant what he said. Living up to his promise, he governed as though he were leading a majority in the House, with an unfortunate outcome. I was honoured when Clark appointed me minister of state for international affairs, a rare appointment for a new MP. My senior deputy minister Bob de Cotret made things easier for me. He was more than capable in his position. Bob called the shots, giving me time to grow familiar with many aspects of government policy on trade issues and acquire wisdom that I put to good use when negotiating the Canada–United States Free Trade Agreement and NAFTA.

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I also managed to get my feet wet, if that’s the appropriate term, during Question Period. With some idea of the sort of barbed questions I expected to be aimed at me as a rookie cabinet minister from across the House, I prepared my answers in advance. The homework paid off; I handled the queries well enough to be congratulated by a Liberal MP who, I assumed, had not been aware of my knees shaking each time I stood to reply. Among the pomp and circumstance, not to mention pressure from the media and the general public, politics has its share of fun and surprises, some in equal measure. After the 1979 election, Margie and I decided to pull up roots and move to Ottawa. Family remained all-important to me, and the idea of commuting back and forth to Toronto for visits with Margie and the children held no appeal, even if the journey was a short hop compared to MPs from Whitehorse or Gander. The move was somewhat easier for Margie and me to handle than our children, all of whom were on the verge of becoming teenagers. They eventually enjoyed making new friends while we resumed visits with acquaintances from our time in Ottawa a few years earlier. We planned to buy a house but were unable to find anything that would be suitable for our family. In the midst of searching for something appropriate, we learned of an ideal house available for rent. This was perfect. Among other advantages, renting would provide the chance to get to know the city better before making a decision to buy. The house, as it turned out, became available as a by-product of the Liberals’ election loss. It belonged to Michael Pitfield, one of Pierre Trudeau’s closest advisers. Now that his boss was out of office and, in fact, out of politics altogether, Pitfield chose the opportunity to take a sabbatical at Harvard. When the Liberals came back to power just nine months later, Trudeau came back to politics and Pitfield came back to Ottawa. But by this time we had a better idea of the home we needed, found one that was more than suitable for us, and said goodbye to Pitfield’s dwelling.

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I may not have informed my Aunt Vera about our revised Ottawa address and telephone number. Or perhaps I had, and it slipped Vera’s mind. In any case, she remained a political junkie and followed Canadian politics via a Winnipeg TV channel available at her Minneapolis home. Some time after the 1980 election, she tuned in to the Canadian television station to watch her politically active nephew stand in the House during Question Period, challenging Pierre Trudeau and the Foreign Investment Review Agency. I must have done well, because later that day she dialled our Ottawa number to congratulate me. Hearing a male voice answer, Vera asked, “Is that you, Michael?” When the voice replied “Yes,” Vera began praising me for the effective manner I had employed to “hammer that SOB Trudeau,” urging me to “keep up the good work and put those f***ing Liberals in their place!” The rather formal voice on the other end of the line asked Vera if she was sure she had the right number. “Well, that is you, Michael, isn’t it?” Vera demanded. The male voice agreed that it was, which launched Vera into a second flurry of invectives, all directed at the sins and miscalculations of the Liberals. She had been, of course, aiming her verbal howitzer not at her favoured nephew but at the eminent Michael Pitfield, close confidant of Pierre Elliott Trudeau, newly returned to Ottawa from Massachusetts and settling back into his recently reclaimed home. Pitfield was something of a serious soul, and in the midst of Vera’s second rant he declared rather formally, “I believe you have the wrong Michael,” before hanging up. Sometime later, having discovered our new telephone number, Vera called to ask about my strange reaction to her earlier call. When I explained that the “Michael” who had been the target of her anti-Trudeau outburst was actually one of the Prime Minister’s closest advisers, she exploded with laughter.

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Over the Trudeau era Ottawa had become a very Liberal town, and this caused a few bumps in the road where Margie and our children were concerned. One day Lara arrived home from school on the verge of tears to ask, “Daddy, why do all my friends not like you?” I explained that the long period of Liberal dominance had created a general bias towards that party, partially because the Liberals were responsible for so many jobs and activities in and around the city. I didn’t use the words “company town,” but the phrase described the place accurately. “There will be people who begin to admire my party as time passes,” I said, advising her not to take it personally. Besides, I reminded her, we had both Liberal and Conservative friends, and met each other regularly at social gatherings. Jean Chrétien and I got along very well, and I played (and usually won) several billiards games with Brian Tobin, who later filled several cabinet posts under Chrétien’s leadership. Flora MacDonald, who served in Joe Clark’s cabinet as Canada’s first female foreign minister, was another source of humour and political savvy during those early years. Growing up on Cape Breton Island, Flora had a wonderful grasp of grass-roots politics and collected a raft of raucous tales from her Maritime years. At one get-together she regaled a bunch of us with her experience as a first-time volunteer in a Nova Scotia provincial election. After Flora arrived at the party headquarters on Water Street, a rather run-down area of Halifax, the man at the front desk took one look at her oversized handbag and directed her to Hamish MacPherson at the back of the hall. Hamish greeted Flora with enthusiasm. “Come over here and open your bag,” he said, reaching into the bottom drawer of his desk. Withdrawing several mickeys of rum from the drawer, he stuffed them into Flora’s massive purse and announced that the two of them were heading out onto Water Street “to get a few votes for our team.” Gruff Hamish MacPherson and idealistic Flora MacDonald spent much of the afternoon trekking from door to door along Water Street, handing

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out small bottles of rum in exchange for assurances that the Conservatives could count on support from every pleased recipient. At one door, when no one appeared to answer his insistent hammering, Hamish called out, “I know you’re in there, Gordy MacIntosh. We came to get your vote for the Conservative Party.” A voice behind the door answered, “I told you, Hamish MacPherson, that I’m not going to vote for your party until you get someone in here to give me a back rub.” Without a pause Hamish said, “Well, I’ve got a VON nurse here with me and she’s going to come in and give you a back rub right now.” Hamish instructed Flora to perform the requested duty, which added another vote for the Nova Scotia Tories that year. Mickeys of rum played a role in another of Flora’s tales, this one in Prince Edward Island. She and another woman were assigned to pick up a substantial cargo of rum for use in an upcoming Charlottetown election. “But you mustn’t draw attention to yourselves,” they were instructed, which launched something of a brainstorming session between the two women. How could they cart off such a cargo without revealing their association with the Conservative Party? They had an idea. The following day two nuns arrived at the Charlottetown dockyards in a hearse. Pulling up at the cargo bay they loaded the hearse with cartons containing the small bottles of rum, spread a blanket over the shipment, and drove reverently out of the dockyard, the two sisters of charity trying with little success to stop giggling over their ruse. Flora had come a long way from those days in Maritime politics by the time I met her, as had politics itself. Those first few weeks in Parliament were heady, educational, and inspiring. They were also short-lived, as every student of Canadian political history knows.

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In retrospect, the Clark government was doomed from the outset for a number of reasons. One was momentum, or its lack thereof. After the May election the House didn’t sit until fall. The pause enabled the Opposition and press to paint Joe Clark as an indecisive leader, which was unfair. We also lost the eager anticipation of those Canadians waiting to experience a change after sixteen years of Liberal control. Their anticipation faded over the months between the election and the first sitting of the House, so by  the time the House resumed with Joe Clark as PM we were old news, even though there had been no news for us to generate. To add to the problem, John Crosbie introduced a budget that included a proposal to raise the tax on gasoline by 15 cents a gallon. As a reasonable means of addressing the deficit it was principled, practical, and pragmatic. What it wasn’t was popular. When Joe Clark, sticking to the principles he had shown earlier, refused to agree to conditions set by Social Credit MPs in return for their support of the budget, his government fell to a motion of no confidence made by NDP leader Bob Rae. The event became part of the folklore of Canadian politics, triggering the re-emergence of Pierre Trudeau from political purgatory. The resulting election of February 1980 put us back in Opposition. I managed to retain my seat but I couldn’t take solace from the victory, even after Joe Clark appointed me industry critic. With all the hard work it had taken to win two elections in less than twelve months, after we had been given little chance of winning the first one, my team and I were facing at least four years of Liberal rule. I felt especially vexed because my short stint as a rookie cabinet minister had boosted both my confidence and ambition. I wanted to perform at that level in a government empowered to get things done – ideally, to change Canada to the extent that no one would criticize the country as easily and accurately as the investment executive in Hong Kong, whose words continued to ring in my ears: So why are you not doing better than you are?

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CHAPTER FIVE

Who Will Lead the Way?

with the trudeau liberals back in power, we expected to encounter controversy and fireworks in the House. We were not disappointed. Especially after the Liberals introduced their National Energy Program (NEP). With the exception of Quebec separatism, few moves have threatened to split Canada more than the introduction of the NEP in October 1980. Supposedly designed to protect the country from extreme swings of oil prices on the world petroleum market, the program appeared more like the federal government’s effort to seize earnings that were rightfully Alberta’s. The provinces clearly owned the resources within their borders and were entitled to lease them to private operators in return for negotiated royalty payments. Nothing in the long-standing legislation gave Ottawa the right to claim any of the lease payments for its own, which didn’t stop the Liberals from launching the program. Trudeau and his cabinet seriously underestimated the response. Especially in Western Canada. After years of confronting the risk of Quebec separation, the country was now forced to deal with a similar threat from Alberta. Most of the West’s defiance was more emotional than practical, expressed in bumper stickers declaring, “Let the Eastern Bastards Freeze in the Dark!” The Liberal move prompted intense debates in Parliament, and I participated in many of them. Over time the Liberals backed down significantly

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on the NEP, leaving just enough of the program in place to keep feeding the anger they had sown in Alberta. Nearly forty years later, residue from the impact of the NEP and the general debacle it provoked remains, measured perhaps most dramatically by the near obliteration of the federal Liberals in Alberta and their inability to recover since then. The NEP was by no means the only Liberal issue I opposed during this period in Opposition. I invested a good deal of energy drawing attention to adverse aspects of the Foreign Investment Review Agency (FIRA) and demanding that the federal government shed its ownership of companies that deserved to be in private hands. The most prominent of these crown corporations included satellite communications company Telesat; aircraft manufacturers Canadair and De Havilland; the national carrier Air Canada; and Petro-Canada, which continued to acquire the Canadian operations of its competitors and essentially nationalized much of the country’s petroleum production capacity and marketing activities. Since none of the Crown corporations was doing well, they all represented a drain on the country’s financial resources at a time when we were running a serious deficit. To make things even more irritating, many Liberal actions – especially expanding the base and power of Petro-Canada via acquisitions of competing foreign-owned companies – were taken with neither public mandate nor legislative authority to do so. Whatever your economics philosophy, reality confirms that any government-owned company is highly unlikely to succeed when competing against privately owned firms, despite the opulent promises and good intentions of the Liberals. As industry critic I became the point man in drawing attention to the folly and unfairness of the Liberal policy that promoted this approach. Most of my jousts in Parliament set me toe-to-toe with my ministerial counterpart Herb Grey. A veteran cabinet minister, Grey occupied the far left of the political spectrum. He was a very diligent guy who personally reviewed every foreign investment proposal falling under FIRA rules. This was more than just time-consuming on Grey’s part; it was overly intrusive.

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Grey’s efforts inserted the government between private firms whose negotiating agreements invariably included a clause declaring that time is of the essence. But how could it be of the essence when the firms had to wait for Grey’s decision? This was more than a philosophical assessment by us as Conservatives. It had practical implications as well. During my time at Dominion Securities I heard many comments suggesting that FIRA lowered the country’s overall economic performance, not because of investment proposals being rejected but because the hassle of FIRA’s review process and the general bureaucracy made foreign investors think twice about moving their money to Canada. Those investments could open markets, deliver know-how, and introduce technology to the country, and we were missing out on much of them. I hammered at the point while serving as industry critic in Joe Clark’s Opposition. I hit it with even more force later while serving as finance and economic development critic under Brian Mulroney. By then, the federal deficit had reached an alarming level, yet the Liberals appeared to treat it as little more than a minor inconvenience. With a looming election promising a chance to move us into power, Mulroney handed me a mandate to develop an economic policy platform. Building on the issues of lost investment opportunities I created a TTI&T program – Technology, Trade, Investment, and Training. The four components represented the pillars of our economic policy, directed towards developing our economy while positioning it for the future. Everyone praises the clarity of hindsight, and I’m no exception – especially when it concerns the years I spent in Opposition under first Joe Clark’s and later Brian Mulroney’s leadership of the party. I spent much of that time duelling with the Liberals, feeling frustrated that we couldn’t begin taking charge of the agenda instead of responding to moves initiated on the other side of the House. Our role as Opposition was like penance being paid until our opportunity arose to move the country in the right direction. Meanwhile, much time would be spent spinning our wheels, or so it seemed.

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Today I realize that those years in Opposition were not wasted at all. Thanks to the generosity of Clark and Mulroney in appointing me to senior positions, I had both the chance to acquaint myself with serious financial and economic issues, and the time to develop in-depth responses to the country’s needs. It resembled in many ways an apprenticeship, a period to absorb knowledge and hone skills. When we finally won power in 1984 under Brian Mulroney, I was prepared to deal with challenges in a far more capable manner than I would have had I still been a rookie to Parliament. First, of course, we had to leap two hurdles to get there: another leadership convention, and a federal election. Each proved rich in drama and surprise. Long before the 1979 election that brought the Clark-led Conservatives to power as a minority government, the right wing of the party had been teetering towards revolt. It had never fully accepted Joe Clark as leader, considering him too much of a Red Tory to be fully trusted. Moreover, his surprise emergence from the divided 1976 leadership convention was considered an anomaly rather than a victory, a conclusion that appeared to be verified with the fall of our government within just nine months. The word among rightists in the party declared that not only was Clark too far left, but his leadership was weak. Many of Clark’s antagonists departed after the 1980 election that brought the Liberals back to power, either because they lost their seats or they chose not to fight another campaign under Clark’s leadership. This reduced the level of discontent for Clark somewhat, although a few remaining caucus members still hedged their bets about him. But things were looking up. As excitement over the political resurrection of Trudeau faded over the first two years of his return, support for the federal Conservatives began to grow. A 1982 Gallup poll gave Clark a 19 per cent lead over Trudeau as the country’s choice for Prime Minister. This should have given both Joe and PC Party members enormous confidence in his abilities as leader, but it didn’t.

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At a 1983 PC convention a third of the delegates supported a leadership review. On a positive note, this meant two thirds of the PC representatives at the convention remained satisfied with Clark’s leadership performance. This might have been sufficient for other leaders, but not for Clark, who called for a convention to settle the issue.1 His wife, Maureen McTeer, later revealed that Joe believed he needed at least 75 per cent support. I openly supported Clark at the convention. Despite this, a reporter asked me if I had any intention of running for leadership of the party. Having not given the idea much thought, I instinctively replied that I was keeping “an open mind” on the subject. Why not? Should something go wrong – and it did – having an open mind would prove an asset to anyone. It was a bit of a throwaway response by me, but it circulated quickly – so quickly that at a very crowded post-mortem meeting with Clark’s supporters former journalist Tim Raife, famous for provoking Pierre Trudeau’s “Just watch me!” comment during the 1970 FLQ crisis, pointed at me and shouted, “You’re the enemy!” and demanded that I leave the room immediately. Raife was serving as Clark’s communications adviser, and he considered my “open mind” comment traitorous. I was annoyed not just that Raife would equate having an open mind with disloyalty, but that he chose to single me out in such a manner. For a brief moment I considered challenging him, but rather than launch a fight in front of the large crowd I left the room. Joe Clark, who knew of my support for him, and to whom I had offered my gratitude for the confidence he had shown in me, did not refute Raife’s charge. Which raises the query: What would I have done if Joe had stepped forward to confirm my support for him, negate Raife’s accusation, and ask me to stay? The question is moot, since he did not. Soon after, having expressed disappointment at the level of support he received, Clark announced a leadership convention to either affirm his position within the party or appoint someone to replace him.

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On their own, Raife’s denunciation and Clark’s silence might not have encouraged me to enter the leadership fray. But after the leadership convention was declared the memory of their hostile response made it possible. And even plausible. Conversations with political friends encouraged me to at least consider adding my name to the candidate list. But would it be a futile move? Brian Mulroney and John Crosbie had been working behind the scenes for some time in preparation for the opportunity, Mulroney building support among the anti-Clark factions and Crosbie making plans to step into Clark’s shoes upon his anticipated resignation. Tough opposition on their own, they also had organizations in place prepared to step forward when called upon. Along with Clark, four other minor candidates were in the race, totalling eight in all if I chose to run. Ah, but would I? Yes, I would, and I did. I’m a pretty realistic guy. On one hand, I had little expectation of defeating the high-profile Mulroney and Crosbie. On the other hand, Joe Clark’s surprising victory at the 1976 leadership convention stood as proof that a long shot can come up the middle between two favourites, splitting the competition. A contentious and volatile convention would enhance the success of such a strategy, and the roots of such an event had already been planted. Some PC caucus members actually created an ABC faction – Anybody but Clark – with campaign buttons to follow. Yet the acknowledged front-runner at the outset remained Clark himself. In that kind of atmosphere almost anything can happen. My odds for success may not be great, I thought, but they could very easily get better. Besides, what was the downside if I failed to win the leadership? At the very least, running for the leadership would increase my standing within the party and polish my credentials when participating in discussions on industry, energy, and finance policies. This could not be overlooked. If Conservatives were to achieve victory in the election expected for the following year, I would be better positioned to claim a senior cabinet position

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in the new government by competing for the leadership than by sitting it out. It was January. The leadership convention, to be held in Ottawa, was scheduled for June. I planned to be there, vying against Joe Clark, Brian Mulroney, John Crosbie, and the others. I needed many things to make an impact at the leadership convention. The first thing I needed was a team. Anyone who considers entering political life hears various warnings to dissuade him or her from pursuing the idea. Most are valid. Loss of privacy, harsh criticism by people with barely a scattering of understanding of the issues, personal attacks on you and your family, constant scrutiny of everything you say and do, plus a host of other downsides are reasons enough to avoid a life in politics. It comes with other unique challenges, too, including not only the need to build a team of talented, committed individuals but also to nurture the spirit that binds and motivates them. No one achieves political standing without the energy and support of a team whose members honestly believe in the candidate. Team building is part of business life, but the nature of teams in business is far different from those in politics. I assembled and participated in many successful teams during my business career and took some satisfaction from that. None, however, matched the satisfaction earned from working closely with people gathered to share my visions and help me reach my political goal, and I am grateful for the privilege and experience of knowing them. More than at any other time in my career I would depend on a team of exceptionally able people to help me achieve success. And more than their special talents, I needed to count on their steady belief in me and in our collective chances. I was, after all, a long shot. Neither I nor any of my supporters could coast to the convention on waves of optimism and good reviews alone. It was going to take all those corny things we associate with achieving success in the face of long odds – hard work, dedication, talent, and a bit of luck.

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This was obvious to those of us who gathered in the late winter of 1983 for planning sessions at the Etobicoke home of Doug Robson, a loyal source of political advice to me. Many faces at those meetings were familiar. Brothers-in-law Robin Younger and Doug Lawson were pitching in once again, Robin heading up fundraising and Doug applying his advertising expertise to manage communications and create brochures. Carl Beigie, former president of the C.D. Howe Institute, pulled together a book of policies to serve as my platform. Others, such as Sandy Millar, who had functioned as my key organizer among the Eastern European community, added their own special expertise. Even my dentist, Berne Reesor, dropped his practice for two weeks to serve as my lead advance person for the convention. Other members brought more than skill and dedication to their role, such as Montreal businessman Peter White, who became a good friend and attended most of our meetings, despite working for Brian Mulroney. There was good reason for his participation in the process. Ontario clearly represented the strongest region for us, followed by areas of the West and the Atlantic provinces. Quebec held little promise for two reasons: Mulroney and, to a lesser extent, Clark had strong support in the province; and my French was barely passable and unlikely to become fluent overnight. Dealing with this reality made it wise to employ Peter as our unofficial liaison with Mulroney. The platform evolved from my position on economic issues. These included the same concerns that had attracted me to politics from the start: a free market orientation; support for the private sector in business; an open economy; and a commitment to tackle the federal deficit. Within these sectors were specific steps such as replacing FIRA, dismantling the National Energy Program, and privatizing key Crown corporations. My credibility with all of these issues was solid, and I could expect widespread support from most delegates. My biggest weakness? No grass-roots traction compared with frontrunners Mulroney, Clark, and Crosbie.

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The solution was for me to set out on a national tour where delegates could get to know me. I made several coast-to-coast trips, pressing flesh and trading opinions, making impressions and seeking support. At some point during these treks I realized that, whatever might occur at the convention, I was acquiring an informed political snapshot of the entire country. Sitting in the House or attending committee sessions in Parliament never was and never could be as enlightening as meeting people in Nanaimo, Thunder Bay, Yarmouth, or any of the thousands of other communities whose voices needed to be heard. On a broad scale, those trips represented time and money well spent. It all came down to a few days in June at the Ottawa Civic Centre. The convention was a bit of a whirlwind for me and the team, with steady shuffling from meeting to meeting, firming up commitments from delegates whose support I counted on and making last-minute connections with members of the “Maybe” group. All my homework on policy and promotion wouldn’t work without a helping of hoopla. Somewhere along the line I became aware of a popular band from Burlington known as The Spoons. I liked their clean-cut appearance and their exuberant music appealed even to me, a representative of an older generation. We chose them to set the musical stage for my speech. Public speaking was no longer agonizing to me, but I was still no Winston Churchill. As the applause for The Spoons faded I stepped onto the podium and began my address, explaining the reasons delegates should choose me as their leader. I rhymed off my experience, my credentials, and key elements of my platform, all certain to carry us to victory. Then, feeling something more was needed, something unanticipated that would connect me with delegates beyond their practical concerns of policy and experience, I paused briefly, threw my hands in the air, and shouted “And also because of my charisma! ” The hall rocked with cheers and laughter. The results of the first ballot were rather predictable, but there was at least some surprise at how well I placed. As expected, Clark, Mulroney, and

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Crosbie lined up in that order. Joe Clark’s 1,091 votes put him more than 200 votes ahead of Mulroney, which appeared to be a comfortable lead. I was fourth with 144 votes, in front of both former Toronto mayor David Crombie and Edmonton Oilers owner Peter Pocklington. Dialoguing and horse-trading began within seconds of the first ballot results. The lowest contender – Neil Fraser, a former civil servant whose sole appeal had been to call for rejection of the metric system in Canada – had to withdraw, but what of the rest of us? If we withdrew as well, who would receive our support? I had decided earlier that if my first ballot performance trailed the leaders by a significant margin – and it did – I would drop out of the race. I had not, however, announced whom I would endorse, leaving me free to make my decision at that time. As I had throughout the campaign, I relied on the members of my team for their wisdom and opinions. After discussing the situation with them and other candidates, I decided to throw my support behind Brian Mulroney. This caused a bit of a kerfuffle. Some of Clark’s supporters had expressed bitterness at my decision to run for the leadership against Joe Clark from the beginning. Hadn’t he made me a junior minister as a rookie MP? Didn’t I owe my support to him? No, I countered. I owed my support to the party, not to any individual, and in my opinion Mulroney was best equipped to lead the party to victory. He had the bearing, presence, and political know-how, plus more strength in Quebec than anyone else on the ballot. Crosbie was a capable politician and a colourful character, but I didn’t see him as our leader. Contacting the Crombie and Pocklington teams, I learned that Crombie would be remaining for the second ballot. Pocklington told me he would be throwing his support to Mulroney. “So am I,” I replied. “Let’s go over to Brian together.” Which led to an unintended moment of drama. When Peter Pocklington and I met on the floor, shook hands, and began walking purposefully together, a noticeable ripple ran through the crowd. Where were we heading, and what would it mean? Even a symbolic

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gesture from us could carry enough weight to tilt the results in an unanticipated direction. Who would we support? Several thousand pairs of eyes fixed on us and speculation ran rampant when it appeared we were about to lend our support to Crosbie – until I realized we had mistakenly walked past the aisle leading to Mulroney’s box. Later, I learned that Brian and his wife Mila had watched us in dismay, recalling the 1976 convention when delegates had rejected Mulroney as an outsider and unqualified to lead the party. Oh no! they thought, as Pocklington and I passed their location, seemingly on our way to John Crosbie, Here we go again! Realizing our mistake, I grabbed Peter’s arm and pulled him back to the aisle leading to the Mulroneys, who were naturally ecstatic to see us approaching them. Things weren’t over. Crombie dropped out after the second ballot, as did Crosbie when the third ballot left him in last place. In deference to Clark, who had appointed him finance minister four years earlier, Crosbie chose not to endorse either man. Through all three ballots Clark had held the lead, but with Crosbie’s supporters favouring Mulroney by about two to one, Mulroney leapfrogged ahead and beat Clark 1,584 to 1,325. As winner, Mulroney could not ignore the high respect many delegates retained for Joe Clark, a fact Mulroney would have to consider when forming his cabinet. When the excitement faded I encountered more people than expected at my headquarters, and spent the rest of the evening shaking so many hands that the skin on my right hand became raw and bloody. I went to bed exhausted that night but surprisingly content. I had done as well as expected, and my participation had made a difference. More than that, I had learned much about Canada, about the people who resided in many of its corners, and about the future direction of our party. I also made many new friends and, I believed, impressed a few others with my policy positions. Time, of course, has a way of warping our view somewhat. Looking back from today’s perspective, my run for the leadership appears a little outrageous. While I acquired some political experience, I could boast

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virtually no national recognition. My political instincts remained weak, and my French even weaker. Most critically, I lacked fire in my soul, the kind that can kindle support far beyond a candidate’s immediate faction. Still, I harboured no regrets over the time and expense I invested in the contest, nor did I ever. I counted it as one of the most rewarding experiences in my career. Brian Mulroney met each candidate plus selected members of the caucus the next day in his suite at the Château Laurier. Calling the meeting was a classic Mulroney move and evidence of his political wisdom. Some no doubt found it curious. Most caucus members had backed Clark, so what did Mulroney owe them? It didn’t matter. Mulroney had to reach out to Clark supporters, and instead of revelling in his victory he acted immediately, sending a clear signal of inclusiveness. That, plus substantial doses of Mulroney’s Irish charm, washed away any residual bitterness among caucus members who had not supported him, and the gesture generated a powerful sense of unity we would need in the upcoming election. Mulroney had asked for support and harmony from the caucus, and he got it in spades. Mulroney soon revealed that John Crosbie would serve as his finance critic, but Mulroney wanted me to assume responsibility for economic development planning. My first key assignment would be to develop a set of economic policies to be used in the upcoming federal election. Within a few short years I had made two moves uncharacteristically bold for me. The first had been to run as a federal candidate in the 1979 federal election against a highly experienced MP, who happened to be a senior member of Trudeau’s cabinet, and beat him. The second move – seeking the leadership of the federal PC Party – was in many ways even bolder. Both set the stage for major achievements in my career, which otherwise would have unfolded in a far different fashion. Had I chosen to delay running for federal office until 1984, I suspect I would have won with little difficulty, given the overwhelming victory we

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chalked up as a party, but I would have entered Parliament with neither experience nor a public profile. Given the overwhelming majority of that first Mulroney win,2 the odds of being awarded any cabinet position as a raw rookie and the chances of becoming finance minister would have been equally unlikely. And had I passed up the chance to seek the party leadership, I would have made no impact on Mulroney’s victory or on his opinion of me. Now I was handed the task of developing Canada’s economic policy barely a year before an upcoming federal election that would garner us immense power and influence. I would be drawing from a large reservoir of knowledge and experience on the topic, with a year to research, craft, and polish the material. I worked very hard at making the proposal sensible, understandable, and politically acceptable. The result of my efforts, I believe, contributed to the landslide victory we scored in the 1984 election. This may be a bit of an overreach on my part, because the most dramatic and influential event of that election wasn’t economic development. It was patronage. Shortly before leaving office, Pierre Trudeau had listed the names of more than 200 Liberals to be appointed to patronage positions, an astonishingly high number. Making more than seventy of the appointments himself, he instructed his replacement, John Turner, to take care of the rest, a tactic designed to soften the potential outrage the move would generate. Splitting the list roughly in half, the theory went, would reduce the negative impact on voters when the next federal election arrived. Well, maybe. But the vast number of names on the patronage list, plus the poor quality of many appointees, infuriated Canadians of every stripe. The blow to the Liberals was heightened further by two errors made by Turner: The patronage actions contradicted Turner’s promise to introduce “a new way” of conducting politics in Canada, and he dropped the writ a year earlier than necessary, plunging into an election while the patronage pot continued to boil. I knew this because I kept hearing voters’ anger over the issue at many of the doors I knocked on through the summer of 1984. This was during

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the “phony war” stage of the election, when no clear movement or policy issue sat at the forefront – only deep and widespread indignation over patronage, a fact I emphasized when Mulroney asked what I was hearing during my canvassing. “We need to capitalize on this,” I suggested. I suspect other Conservative candidates were making the same point, because Mulroney enthusiastically agreed. In the first English-language televised debate of the 1984 election, Mulroney raised the patronage issue. He and Turner sparred over it while NDP leader Ed Broadbent watched in silence. Trying to defend himself, Turner claimed that he had no choice, which gave Mulroney an opening to score one of the great knockout blows in Canadian political history. Pointing his finger at an obviously uncomfortable Turner, Mulroney said, “You had an option, sir. You could have said, ‘I am not going to do it.’ You could have said ‘This is wrong for Canada and I am not going to ask Canadians to pay the price.’” The following day every newspaper in the country kicked off their version of election coverage by quoting Mulroney’s line: You had an option, sir! The impact of Mulroney’s words was overwhelming and Turner never recovered. For the balance of the campaign, he carried himself like a defeated athlete headed for the showers. Many Canadians believe the election was decided in that brief exchange between the two men, and they may be correct. Mulroney articulated perfectly the feelings of the majority of voters at the time, and I suspect that any doubts they had regarding who was best-qualified to fill the Prime Minister’s Office vanished in a flash. This was all the more stunning because until that moment,3 John Turner represented the golden boy of Canadian politics, a Hollywood-handsome award-winning scholar and athlete with a clear understanding of the issues and a convincing way of expressing himself.4 Turner had stepped away from politics nine years earlier, and his announcement early in 1984 that he planned to succeed Pierre Trudeau as Liberal leader sounded like a game-changer to me. Turner, I believed, would be a formidable foe, a

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charismatic blend of beauty and brains that would be difficult to defeat. I expressed my concern to Mulroney who, in another demonstration of his political acumen, replied, “The peak of Turner’s popularity will be the night before he announces [his return]!” And he was correct. Mulroney recognized that the build-up to Turner’s return to the political arena generated such high expectations that Turner would never be able to live up to them. In addition, those nine years out of politics had rusted Turner’s political instincts and clouded his view of the political scene. On top of that, Trudeau had left Turner a smorgasbord of problems ranging from the West’s simmering anger over the National Energy Program and a rapidly growing deficit to constitutional issues concerning Quebec, the economy, and foreign investment policies. Turner’s weak response to Mulroney’s patronage accusation set him back on his heels, and he remained on the defensive through the balance of the campaign. The result was almost preordained. We won the largest majority in federal election history to that point, leaving the Liberals with just forty seats. Most injurious to them was the loss of their traditional majority in Quebec and persistent tremors over the unfairness of the National Energy Program that locked them out of much of the West. Could things get any better? Yes, they could, from my point of view, and within a few days of the election Mulroney made it all happen when he appointed me finance minister, depositing me in the centre of the decision-making process. I could hardly wait to get started.

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CHAPTER SIX

A Platform on Four Pillars

time magazine said it all when it ran a photo of brian mulroney on

the cover of its 17 September 1984 US edition with the caption “Canada Changes Course.” Mulroney and his forty-member cabinet, the largest in Canadian history, were sworn in on the same day. For the first time in twenty-two years the Progressive Conservative Party would hold the reins of government in the country. As the minister of finance, I was faced with the task of refining and implementing the economic policies that had formed a major plank in our platform and, I believed, were largely responsible for our success. It was a sobering moment. Like every other member of the cabinet, I was eager to take up the challenge of governing, but I was also aware of a reversal of roles for us. Our job in Opposition had been to apply a “reality check” against the government of the day. The job obligated us to question the wisdom and validity of every action proposed or taken without the responsibility to propose alternatives. While serving in Mulroney’s shadow cabinet I had pushed the envelope a little by developing new economic policies instead of merely criticizing those of the Liberals. Now it would be our job to convert that same broad strategic platform into a cohesive framework, implementing it under constant scrutiny and challenges from Liberal and NDP members. This was not a major concern, given our dominant majority. Our primary goal would be to demonstrate that the policies we used to win the election were

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the right ones, and the only way of achieving this would be to produce appropriate results. We were eager to do just that. We wanted to get past the gloating and get down to work. And we did. The two Parliaments over which Mulroney presided as Prime Minister were among the most dynamic in Canadian history, with landmark agreements whose impacts continue to be felt.  In my case, I had no time to gloat or even sit back and feel good about things. Two days after being sworn in I was busy hosting a meeting of Commonwealth finance ministers, an event that had been scheduled several months earlier. Along with the hospitality assignment, I would be chairing a gathering of major Commonwealth finance ministers seeking a consensus on a policy proposal that remained outstanding from the previous meeting. I planned to present it to the general session the next day before breaking for dinner together. I was a rookie on the job, but this didn’t matter. It would be my responsibility to steer the discussion among the other attending finance ministers, despite being somewhat unfamiliar with them and the details of the proposal. I managed to stickhandle my way through all but one of the elements, which meant satisfying the expectations of all the attending ministers, with a significant exception. No matter how many times the discussion went around and around the table, nor how often I played the twin roles of chair and conciliator, I could not persuade Finance Minister Pranab Mukherjee of India to support the consensus. He simply wouldn’t budge. This led to a very long day for everyone. We finally broke for the official welcoming reception, where many of us enjoyed a glass of wine or two before returning to the meeting. During the break I could tell by the rolling of eyes and sighs of exasperation from other ministers that they were growing irritated by Mukherjee’s obstinate attitude. That, plus everyone’s growing hunger, threatened to eliminate any chance of a swift resolution. So as host I made a strategic decision.

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“I suggest,” I said to the attendees, “that we break for dinner. While we’re dining, our officials can propose two or three fresh alternatives for us to consider when we regroup following the meal.” This had an immediate effect on the finance ministers. They groaned, some aloud, others inwardly. Officials had been toiling over this file since the previous Commonwealth finance ministers’ meeting. Returning to the file after dinner would mean losing whatever momentum we had built and raised the likelihood of working late into the night in order to have our report ready for the plenary session the next morning. So everyone got down to work. Almost magically, Mukherjee’s objections were overcome, the room warmed with smiles of relief, hands were shook, and we headed upstairs for a pleasant dinner. Dumping the problem in the hands of officials and risking that things would return to the starting line was not palatable. In fact, the idea was so repulsive that everyone found a way to compromise and move forward. This was not the only time I used that tactic.  Soon after the Commonwealth finance ministers’ meeting I was on my way to the semi-annual meetings of the International Monetary Fund and World Bank Group, where I served as a governor of both institutions. There I made some general comments about the policy direction we planned to take in Canada. In the midst of my marvelling at all that had occurred within four days of being sworn into the job, Mulroney called me to see if I was free for lunch the following day. I hid my mild annoyance and confirmed that I was before asking what this was about. “We’re having lunch at the White House with President Reagan,” the Prime Minister replied. Reagan and Mulroney had met earlier in the Oval Office, and the luncheon proved to be light on specifics but heavy on amusing stories and political anecdotes. The President was a great storyteller, and he used his acting talents to enhance the tales he spun. He applied the same approach elsewhere, most notably at a G7 event some time later.

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The chemistry between the two leaders was as warm as news reports described, helped along by generous doses of Mulroney charm. Mulroney had been anxious to develop a warm personal relationship with Reagan and his staff from the beginning, and this laid the groundwork for important bilateral connections between the US and Canada during his term. The rapport grew into a deep and abiding bond between the two men, confirmed when Mulroney received the honour of being asked to deliver a eulogy at Reagan’s funeral. September 1984 had been a momentous month for me, but it was not yet over. Later that month the Queen and Prince Philip arrived in Canada for a long-planned visit that included a stop in Toronto to celebrate the 150th anniversary of the city’s charter. As the senior federal cabinet minister representing Toronto, I was to accompany them at official functions and tours of various sites like the Royal Ontario Museum. My introduction to the royals would take place during a small reception aboard the Royal Yacht Britannia anchored in Toronto harbour. From there we were to proceed to a formal dinner at the Royal York Hotel. My “date” for the evening would be my niece Margaret Lawson, who was confined to a wheelchair after breaking her back in a serious bicycle accident a year earlier. Coming aboard the Britannia would be a challenge for Margaret, so it was agreed that I would venture onto the yacht alone and she would join us later at dinner. On board the Britannia, some guests and I were having a casual conversation with the ship’s officers in the lower saloon when suddenly the room went quiet and I turned to see Prince Philip descending the stairs from the upper level, reading a sheaf of telexes in his hands – this was long before the advent of email, BlackBerries, and such. Totally engrossed in his mail he walked past us without speaking, heading directly for the bar where he helped himself to a glass of scotch. The rest of us resumed talking until, a moment later, another curtain of silence fell over the room. I followed everyone’s eyes to look up the stairs and see Her Majesty standing there with a glass in her hand and a decidedly unamused expression on her face.

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Philip looked up at her and asked, “Where did you get the whisky?” “I had to pour it myself,” the Queen replied in a tone that made it clear she was unamused. She began descending the stairs. “No one else was there to do it.” This sounded familiar to me, a long-married man. Prince Philip’s failure to pour his wife a drink generated the same response that might be expected in many other homes. All was forgotten when the Queen arrived in the saloon, and we were presented to her before going ashore for dinner. I found myself seated to the Queen’s right at the dinner table, and I took some pleasure at being assigned such a prestigious spot. But not for long. Her Majesty completely ignored me as dinner began, focusing all her conversation on the guest on the other side of her. My mind began racing. Had I committed some faux pas? Was the Queen hard of hearing on her right side? What was going on? The answer arrived halfway through the meal when Queen Elizabeth turned to me and we engaged in conversation through the balance of dinner. Later I was informed that this was the usual protocol at royal dinners. To ensure equal attention, she divided her time at table with impressive precision, ensuring that each guest enjoyed her attention without any sense of favouritism. And what did we discuss? A vast range of topics reflecting global issues at the time, including the efforts of colonies to seek independence from the United Kingdom. Many students I had associated with during my stay at London House a quarter century earlier were directly associated with decolonization efforts, and I dredged up my memory of their comments and observations sufficiently to hold my own as we talked. She was also well aware of Canada’s recent change in government, enquiring about different policies we had in mind while avoiding any hint of her personal views. Like most people who encounter the Queen at similar events, I was enormously impressed with her grasp of the issues and the thoughtful comments she made over the course of the evening. Later, when I mentioned this to Gwen Wilmot, one of the ladies-in-waiting and a personal

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friend of Margie’s and mine, Gwen paid me a major compliment. The Queen, Gwen confided, had asked specifically who I was and what I had done before entering public life. And sometime later Gwen added that I was the only person on the trip who had made such an impression on Her Majesty. “She never asked about any other dinner companions,” Gwen said, which pleased me as much as you can imagine. After dinner we all returned to the Royal Yacht. This time my niece Margaret was able to join us, thanks to the assistance of several able-bodied men who hoisted her and her wheelchair up the gangplank and aboard the ship. When I presented Margaret to the royal couple, Prince Philip pointed at the wheelchair and asked, “What are you able to do in that thing?” “I can do a wheelie,” Margaret said with a smile. “Let’s see it,” the Prince challenged, and Margaret rolled away at great speed along the saloon of the Britannia, went up on two wheels, spun around, and sped back to a screeching halt directly in front of us. The Prince was impressed. “Not bad,” he said, and gave her a photograph of himself, which Margaret displayed on her bedside table. It remained there until she married the other man in her life, Jonathan Barker, at which time the picture was moved to a suitable position in the living room. Margaret may have made an impression on the Prince, but I’m not sure that I did. On a later encounter with the royals, Prince Philip approached a group of us, his hands behind his back in his familiar stance, and locked his eyes on mine. “What do you do?” he asked in his cool, direct manner. Choosing to bypass formality, I shrugged and replied, “I work for your wife.” Philip was not amused. He remained staring at me with the same expression for a beat or two, then turned on his heel and walked away. Sometime later I was approached by a protocol officer who informed me, in the tone a grade school teacher might use to correct a slow-witted student, “The proper response to a query such as the Prince posed is to say that you serve according to the pleasure of Her Majesty.”

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I promised to remember next time. I also had the pleasure of meeting the Queen Mother, although I suspect the pleasure was not shared. She loved horses and, like the rest of the royal family, attended the Queen’s Plate whenever a visit coincided with the race at Woodbine. On one occasion she was to present the traditional fifty-guinea prize to the owner of the winning horse. My fraternity brother Jack Kenney had been appointed president of Woodbine, and from time to time he invited me as a guest to events such as the Queen’s Plate. One of these invitations occurred when the Queen Mother would congratulate the winner, and I joined a small group to be presented to Her Majesty. As I approached the Queen Mother I noted she was a small woman – a full foot shorter than me – with very small hands. She smiled as we were introduced and held her hand out to mine. I took her hand and, responding as I always did in such circumstances, squeezed and shook it. Squeezed very hard in fact. So hard that I heard a distinctive cracking sound accompanied by a wince from the Queen Mother. Quickly withdrawing her hand, she and I engaged in a brief chat before I moved on to make way for the next guest. Later that evening I attended as a guest for dinner. When I approached the Queen Mother to introduce myself a second time she instinctively held out her hand before catching sight of my face. Instantly she pulled her hand away, smiled sweetly, and said, “Oh, we’ve met before!” We all like to be remembered, but I would have preferred not to be remembered as the man who made the bones of the Queen Mother snap loudly.  When the glamour and excitement of lunch with President Reagan and dinner with the royal family faded, it was time to get down to serious aspects of my new position. Chief among them was the preparation of our policy paper, Agenda for Economic Renewal, proposing a series of initiatives we planned to adopt over the coming four or five years. Civil service officials had begun preparing a draft document well before the 1984 election, and I was delighted to see that it was compatible with

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the policy directions we had developed in Opposition. In fact, it incorporated many of the initiatives we had proposed in our election platform. Would these ideas have been well received by the Liberals if they had managed to retain power in the election? I somehow doubted it. We had determined that the paper’s aim would be to address the causes of Canada’s economic problems, not merely list the symptoms. With this in mind, we would be in a position to make specific proposals as part of the overall approach to economic policy we planned to adopt in the coming years. All very well, but achieving our goals would require a cooperative approach involving governments, businesses, workers, union leaders, and other key groups. An immense challenge, to be sure. How to address it? We began with four goals that we expected would generate support among identified groups: put our fiscal house in order to deal with the federal government’s massive accumulation of debt; redefine the role of government; foster an environment for innovation, investment, and improved competitiveness; and act in a fair, open, and compassionate way when implementing these moves. Underlining these plans was a statement that we hoped would resonate across the country: A strong economy leads to a strong democracy and greater protection of our basic values. Within this theme we planned to deal with matters we could control, strengthening our position in the challenging global economy. Living within our means represented the core of our approach. While the country’s deficit for the 1985–6 fiscal year originally had been projected at 5.9 per cent of national income, it was shaping up to soar to 8.3 per cent. Meanwhile, inflation was stuck at 4 per cent annually. We oriented our solution towards creating freer markets for Canada with reduced government involvement, thus generating a more productive and efficient economy. It doesn’t take Economics 101 to grasp that the most efficient way out of debt is to reduce spending and increase revenue. I wanted to move quickly in that direction as a means of underlining the importance of

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exerting control over the deficit, confirming that Canadians had elected new leaders with new ideas. We incorporated a proposed series of spending cuts and revenue enhancements that included – wonder of wonders – a 15 per cent salary cut for the Prime Minister and a 10 per cent cut for the rest of the members of the cabinet. The dollar significance of this was miniscule in the grand scheme of things, but I hoped it would set the tone for our wider strategy. It didn’t. Both opposition parties hammered us over the proposed spending cuts, confirming that the best medicine often has a bitter taste. Their criticism ignored the wide range of policies designed to remove obstacles to the economy’s growth and create jobs for Canadians, and the Liberals and NDP maintained the intensity of their objections through my term as finance minister. Criticizing government policy is acceptable and even defensible in a parliamentary system like ours. I understood that. Ignoring a situation that threatened to undermine the economic stability of the country was neither. This was no exaggeration. Ten years of increasing deficits had generated a serious economic crisis. The deficit over the next fiscal year was projected at $37 billion, with expectations that it would keep growing over the next decade. It had already ballooned through the previous three years, when Canada had posted positive economic growth. Keep in mind that interest rates over this period in the early 1980s were spectacularly high. How high? The 1981 annual rate on Canada Savings Bonds was 18 per cent. The federal government’s total interest costs represented about 50 per cent of our fiscal deficit and were projected to reach about 70 per cent by 1990. In that picture, 70 cents out of every dollar paid to Ottawa would never be used to benefit Canadians. Instead, it would vanish into a black hole created by previous government policies. We made the Agenda Paper comprehensive in its scope – it had to be. Nothing less than transferring revenue away from holders of public debt into productive applications would solve the problem. In addition,

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we needed to generate revenue not entirely from taxation measures. To achieve that, we applied the TTI&T program to support private sector growth. Other segments dealt with regulatory reform, regional economic development, and energy. Within these primary sectors we developed actions and reforms designed to generate targeted positive results, including trade expansion, export support, intellectual property rights, financial sector structure, pension reform, privatization of Crown corporations, social programs, and more. Overriding all of these issues was the function of government and the attendant burden of bureaucracy. By some measure, the paper could be labelled revolutionary. We preferred to think of it as visionary – literally so, because it would provide all concerned with a clear picture of what lay ahead. I also considered it a blueprint to help keep us focused and disciplined, avoiding the inevitable distractions that were certain to come our way. Whatever label may be applied to it, the Agenda Paper proved pivotal to the economic and financial policy of the Mulroney government. A mass of immediate actions emerged from its guidelines, including the cancellation of key components in the NEP and FIRA; income tax reform; the introduction of the Goods and Services Tax; and the transfer into p ­ rivate hands of Air Canada, Telesat, Canadair, De Havilland, and eventually ­Canadian National Railway. These moves also established the roots of the initial ­Canada–United States Free Trade Agreement followed by NAFTA. In my fourteen years in government, no single policy document came close to achieving the wide-ranging impact of the Agenda Paper. I take what I hope is understandable pride in my contribution, but I need to give credit to the contributions of a remarkable Department of Finance team led by Mickey Cohen, Fred Gorbet, David Dodge, Gerry Shannon, and Stanley Hartt. Besides the anticipated salvos of condemnation lobbed our way from the Opposition, the Agenda Paper was otherwise well-received by those who understood its potential impact not only on the country’s economic performance, but on the future direction of government in Canada. The

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comprehensive measures of the program, along with detailed references to specific policies, generated confidence in it and in our ability to make it happen. This clearly was no pie-in-the-sky proposal but an itemized diagram of precise goals and how they would be achieved. When describing the program, I employed three dominant descriptions: market orientated; fiscally sound; and responsible. If we had had any doubts about the wisdom of this new policy, they would have been banished by the May 1985 meeting of the Paris-based Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD). I attended the session along with Joe Clark, whom Mulroney appointed secretary of state for external affairs. Joe and I sat absorbing the observations of Roger Douglas, New Zealand’s newly appointed minister of finance, and Paul Keating, treasurer in the Australian government, with some satisfaction. Both economies – especially Australia’s – were comparable to ours, and both men championed economic restructuring for their nations based on freer open markets with less regulation and limited government intervention. It appeared that all three of our nations were riding the same wave of change. Others saw things differently, sometimes with a sense of humour. When we announced an immediate $4 billion in reduced spending, an editorial cartoon published in the Ottawa Citizen showed a man and a young boy looking into a BMW showroom. Referring to the sign next to the expensive car, the man explains to the boy, “it means, ‘Before Mike Wilson.’” I had gained a measure of fame.  In the midst of crafting the Agenda Paper I had my first meeting with Bank of Canada Governor Gerald Bouey, who was responsible for setting monetary policy. Traditionally the governor consulted with the minister of finance, sometimes on a weekly basis, to discuss the economic outlook as well as any anticipated events that could have an impact on the Bank’s decisions. During my years as a bond trader, the motives swaying Bank of Canada decisions had been a mystery to me. News of a changed policy on open

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market activities, such as buying and selling government securities, would arrive in our offices with neither forewarning nor explanation, launching active debates about what the change meant and how it had been determined. No one seemed to know, and no explanations were ever offered. At one point someone described the Bank as a “black box,” and the handle stuck. The Bank of Canada’s operations were conducted, it appeared, in a dark cavern where nothing was revealed and insight was non-existent. Another metaphor suggested that Bank of Canada decrees were handed down from the clouds accompanied by thunder and lightning, but the Black Box image was favoured. So, among other motives, I anticipated my first meeting with Bouey as a means of discovering how the Bank’s widely affecting decisions were reached. Unlike my former compatriots toiling on trading floors and at analysts’ desks in financial centres around the country, I was about to get my first look behind the scenes at the Bank of Canada where, I assumed, data was crunched and levers were pulled. After the usual introductions and social chatter, I asked Bouey a few questions about the bank’s current policy and his expectations for the economy’s performance in the near future. In return I received only the typical “two-handed” economist’s response: “On the one hand … while on the other hand …” When he sensed my building frustration, he finally answered one of my questions by saying to me, “I don’t know, Minister. What do you think?” What did I think? I exploded in frustration. “Gerry,” I said, “I have been waiting for more than twenty years to get the inside information on what you guys are thinking about the financial markets. I finally get to ask you what happens in this Black Box and now you ask me what I think?!” I came to understand that the Bank knew little more about financial market facts than bond traders and analysts. The true measure of success or failure in the Bank’s position was not the volume of facts in the governor’s

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possession but the interpretation of the information available. Bouey had been indicating that the picture at the time was confusing to those inside the Bank, and it surely was. On that basis, observations from an outsider, meaning me, could be helpful. I left the meeting after filing away another lesson learned: No one in economics has all the answers, not even the man with keys to the Black Box.  Nothing confronts you with the harsh side of political reality like winning power in an election. This was not a new lesson to me, but it became both pointed and personal. Under great pressure to complete the Agenda Paper, my staff and I also had to prepare comments for the upcoming Speech from the Throne, which would precede the introduction of the paper by a couple of days. The speech would cover economic policy as well as social and foreign policy, so consistency between both documents was essential. The press, businesses, economists, and the Opposition would be all over the first statement of our proposed initiatives. Any misstep would likely be magnified in its impact, and we wanted to ensure that we didn’t get off on the wrong foot. Mulroney had taken a well-deserved week-long vacation in Florida just prior to the opening of Parliament, but we needed to confer with him – not by telephone but in person. Our group faced two choices: book seats on a commercial flight down to Florida on Thursday evening, stay overnight in a hotel, meet the Prime Minister for three or four hours the following day, and return home on a late commercial flight; or take the government Challenger jet to Florida on Thursday morning, working together aboard the plane, meet with the Prime Minister, then return to Ottawa the same day with another opportunity to work on the return trip while avoiding the need for overnight accommodations. It was a no-brainer. We couldn’t work or even discuss matters on a commercial flight, and airfare and hotel accommodations for our team of eight would total $7,000. So off we went on the Challenger.

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Two weeks later a headline in the Ottawa Journal shouted, “Wilson Takes Challenger to Florida for $35,000.” It sounded like I had flown solo and back on an otherwise empty aircraft instead of being accompanied by a staff. No effort had been made to explain the reasoning behind the decision or to reach our office for an explanation. Implying that I had spent that much of the taxpayers’ money just to lounge on a beach in Florida was outrageous. Calls to the paper and the journalist who wrote the article went unanswered, and I had to accept the fact that I would be occupying a fishbowl during my life in politics. A different kind of problem arose soon after I delivered my first budget, new shoes and all, in May 1985. The budget naturally reflected our goal of reducing the deficit and included scaling back the impact of entitlements on our costs. Two of the benefits reviewed were Old Age Security, available to all regardless of income, and the Guaranteed Income Supplement to assist low-income seniors. One suggestion was to moderate the indexation feature of both programs, which raised the funds distributed in accordance with the annual inflation index. We would do this via “partial de-indexation,” increasing the funds distributed not according to the full inflation index but only to the amount of inflation exceeding 3 per cent. The budget was not initially challenged until Liberal member Jean-Paul Malépart decried its impact on the Guaranteed Income Supplement over and over again during Question Period. His aggressive attacks made our “partial de-indexation” item the primary focus of criticism of the budget, overriding every other aspect. This remained primarily an in-house matter, restricted to Question ­Period comments and insults shouted back and forth across the floor until a petite senior named Solange Denis accosted Mulroney on the steps of Parliament. Shouting and raising her fist, she warned that it would be “Goodbye Charlie Brown!” if he didn’t change the de-indexing policy. Her three words pushed things over the top, leading every Ottawa news story for the next few days. More than the broad coverage it received, Ms. ­Denis’s words represented a personal hit against Mulroney, who was

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constantly worried about public opinion concerning him and his actions. Describing the events in his memoirs, he wrote, “We violated [the rules] of fairness … We acknowledged our error and we corrected it.”1 The correction was achieved by restricting Old Age Security payments to those earning less than $70,000 annually, phasing it out quickly for incomes above that amount. The Guaranteed Income Supplement would not be affected. Ms. Denis and the media, among others, were contented by the change. My reaction to the change was somewhat different. Mulroney and I had agreed that a change was needed. We just hadn’t confirmed between us when we would make it, what it would concern, and how it would be announced. He revealed the revision first in caucus and later to the media without advising me first. He assumed, I suppose, that our earlier discussions on the matter would be sufficient notice. It wasn’t. My concern grew not out of a fundamental difference in policy but out of the way the decision was delivered. I had entered public life to make a difference, and I expected that my making a difference would be more effective if I were finance minister rather than a backbencher. It would be my duty to present the amendment to the budget in Parliament, justifying the change and defending it in the face of expected harsh questioning. All well and good, except that the actual decision had been taken out of my hands, and yet I was still expected to sell it to the House and ultimately the country. This led to a heavy discussion with my political staff, some of whom suggested I resign over the matter, a course of action I rejected. I did, however, raise my concern with some vigour over lunch at 24 Sussex, the only conflict of its kind between Mulroney and me during our time together in government.  Discord of a different kind arose from my first budget, this time between Speaker John Bosley and me. In the stressful moments just prior to my delivering the budget, John offered me the use of his apartment in the Parliament Buildings, suggesting

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I relax there after making my presentation to the House. Afterwards, I would have to face the media, generating its own stress and anxiety. It was a kind gesture on his part, and I accepted with thanks. When he asked if he could provide any food or drink, I replied jokingly that a couple of chocolate bars would be appreciated to give me some energy. The next day John asked if the arrangements had been satisfactory. I said they were fine, but I teased him about forgetting the chocolate bars. Soon we were into Question Period. The subject, naturally, was the budget, and soon questions, taunts, demands, and insults began flying back and forth across the aisle. I was the principal target, of course, rising to my feet over and over again in response. After fielding several of the Opposition’s salvos, I began stretching my answers to great lengths as a means of robbing the other side of the time available to them, an old parliamentary tactic. John recognized it as such and, at one point, he played his role as Speaker and cut me off, telling us to move to the next question. As I sat down, probably looking a bit miffed, a House of Commons page delivered an envelope to my desk. Inside were two Crispy Crunch chocolate bars from John, and I looked up and mouthed “Thank you” to him. A journalist sitting directly above the Speaker read my lips incorrectly. He thought I was furious at being cut off by John and I had directed the words “F*** you!” at him. That’s precisely what a story in the Toronto Sun suggested the following day. As luck would have it, both my mother and John’s mother were playing bridge when the story appeared. Mrs. Bosley, of course, could not avoid bringing up the subject. “I was horrified,” she said to my mother with, I suspect, quiet outrage, “to read of the language used by your son, a cabinet minister, towards my son John, Speaker of the House, yesterday.” Mom was sufficiently embarrassed to call me later in the day, commenting on my outrageous language and noting that my use of it in the House of Commons made the whole affair distasteful. “What,” she demanded, “would your children think?”

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It took some time to calm her down and convince her that, while feelings and emotions in the House frequently ran high, in this case the only thing I had tossed John’s way was gratitude. I trust you see now why politicians tend to be wary of journalists.  Family matters were never far from my thoughts, even when engrossed in the most serious situations. Like G7 summit meetings, for example. On my way to the 1985 G7 summit in Bonn, our daughter Lara asked me to bring her back a Swatch from Germany. They were not yet available in Canada, and I thought the request would be easy to fill – that is, until I arrived in Bonn, where the streets were crowded with protestors. To simplify things, I asked our German advance person if he could direct me towards a store that sold the watches. The Germans are renowned for their efficiency, and this individual lived up to the reputation perfectly. Within a very short time I was being escorted out of the hotel and directed towards a convoy of five police vehicles. I was directed to the one in the middle and once settled we were off – five vehicles with drivers and security guards plus me – travelling at high speed towards a small town about a half-hour drive away. This seemed a bit excessive to me for a shopping trip, but it was made clear that things were out of my hands at that point. The townsfolk were either astonished or impressed by our arrival, complete with siren effects. Was this in response to a robbery report or were they facing a terrorist threat? Neither, they were informed. It was merely a response to a small request from a Canadian cabinet minister, who wanted a souvenir for his daughter. Inside the store I discovered the proprietor had responded to an official request to remain open for my after-hours arrival. I also discovered that my purchase for Lara would amount to all of $27. This hardly seemed adequate considering the uproar I had caused, so I also purchased Swatches for Cameron, Geoff, and Margie too. The storeowner seemed pleased with his windfall sale, the caravan swung around to return me to my lodgings, and the Wilsons became a Swatch family.

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I was impressed by my hosts’ response to my simple request, but the general populace didn’t share my feelings. Nor could I blame them. Summit meetings have inspired residents in the host country to voice complaints about the foreign intruders and frankly I tend to agree with their grievances. The disruption caused by these sessions is enormous. At the 1986 Tokyo summit I looked down from my hotel room onto a multilane expressway that had been closed entirely just to provide us with ­vehicle transportation for the 500 metres from the hotel to the meeting place. I could only imagine how Torontonians would react if the Gardiner ­Expressway were closed through the rush hour to provide similar convenience for a handful of foreign government officials. The year after Tokyo I was in Venice for the 1987 G7 summit and discovered the entire tourist area was isolated for security reasons. Venice, of course, is one of the world’s great tourist destinations, with more discoveries around every corner and across every bridge than anywhere else. The entire city naturally depends on tourism. At the conclusion of the summit, we were about to leave for the airport when a gondolier approached me and asked if I’d had anything to do with the event. “I had some involvement,” I said. “Why do you ask?” The gondolier’s face grew cloudy. In a heavy Italian accent, shaking his finger as he spoke, he said, “If Venice is ever thought about again as a place for your meetings, I want you to know that you are not welcome!” Who could blame him?

CHAPTER SEVEN

Tearing Down Tariff Walls

in 1985, while still finding my footing as minister of finance, I set off for Washington prepared to face an expected trial by fire. I was to meet with my US counterpart Donald Regan, secretary of the treasury in Ronald Reagan’s cabinet. I knew little of Regan except that he had a reputation for being fierce and outspoken, qualities earned, as I understood it, from his military career. Dropping out of Harvard Law School to join the US Marines in the early days of the Second World War, Regan rose to the rank of lieutenant colonel thanks to front-line service in Guadalcanal, Okinawa, and elsewhere. These were intense battles with major loss of life on both sides, and the experience moulded him into a hard-nosed guy famous for plain speaking to anyone. Even his boss. Once, while standing behind President Ronald Reagan during one of Reagan’s digressing presidential speeches, Don Regan was overheard muttering, “Speed it up!” Less revered members in government or the media, in the midst of a disagreement with Regan, risked being targeted by his rebuke “And the horse you rode in on!” the second half of an obscene insult acquired during all-night backroom poker sessions he attended during his younger days in Texas. But Regan could reveal a more polished side when he chose. Prior to joining the President’s cabinet in Washington he had headed Merrill Lynch out of New York, so he was capable of dealing with major financial and investment matters without making comments with his usual blunt

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directness. But politics, being something of a contact sport, seemed to bring out his aggressive side. Add this to my sense that Washington leaders were known for treating Canadians like distant rural cousins, and it’s easy to understand why I was a little apprehensive about my first formal meeting with Regan. To my surprise, things couldn’t have been more cordial from the beginning. At one point, while we were discussing a range of issues including the economic outlook, one of Regan’s assistants entered the room with critical information for the secretary. Before speaking, the assistant gave me a quick once-over, then glanced questioningly at Regan. “Go ahead,” Regan said, indicating me. “It’s okay. He’s a friend of ours.” The assistant nodded, relayed his message, he and Regan discussed the subject, and the assistant left. When the door closed Regan smiled and said, “Don’t be offended. He hadn’t realized you’re part of the new government in Canada. If your predecessor had been here, he wouldn’t have talked about things so openly. But my guy” – meaning Ronald Reagan – “trusts your guy” – meaning Brian Mulroney – “and likes him. So I can trust you and you can trust me. We can have an easy conversation about anything you want to talk about.” Like the rest of the world, I was well aware of the camaraderie that Mulroney and Reagan shared, but the secretary’s words drove home the value of fostering good relationships between the heads of friendly governments. Since our election victory over the Liberals, the atmosphere between­ Ottawa and Washington had warmed significantly. Ronald Reagan and Pierre Trudeau openly disliked each other, and their personal animosity often made dealings difficult between the two countries, regardless of subject or magnitude. It’s a point worth remembering. People outside of government tend to assume that affairs between nations are conducted at multiple levels and within various ministries. That’s true, but, as Regan indicated, the ability to exchange views and make decisions affecting nations is shaded by the personal relationship between their respective leaders. Reagan and

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Mulroney were as at ease with each other as fraternity brothers, sharing everything from their Irish heritage to their views on trade and defence policy. The “good vibrations” begun by Mulroney resonated beyond the Oval Office during Reagan and George H.W. Bush’s presidencies, extending deeply into the secretariats and ministries of both nations. I benefited from the warm friendship later when serving as ambassador to Washington, proving that good chemistry is as important in international relations as it is in a marriage.  My discussion with Secretary Regan was a preliminary foray into reducing tariffs between our two countries, a subject that had fluttered around the margins of US–Canada relations almost since Confederation. Not surprisingly, powerful arguments were made on both sides of the issue over the years, and emotions often overrode realism. In 1911, when the Liberals under Laurier attempted to negotiate a trade reciprocity agreement with the US, the move was vehemently opposed by Conservatives, who warned it would lead to the economic domination of Canada by the Americans and pave the way for the country’s absorption within the US. During that year’s election, zealous opposition to the concept was whipped up by the Tories’ election slogan, No Truck or Trade with the Yankees! It worked; the Conservatives easily swept Laurier and the Liberals from power. Things had changed. Seventy-five years later it was the Conservatives’ turn to advance the benefits of free trade with the US. The subject of free trade had been touched on in our Agenda for Economic Renewal, so there should have been nothing new or unexpected in our promotion of the idea. Drafting the Agenda, I had proposed not only improving our economic performance but redefining the role of the federal government in dealing with it. This involved striking at the heart of the problem instead of reacting to the symptoms, which had been the traditional response.

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Were we aiming too high? I didn’t believe so then, and I don’t now. In drafting the document, the Prime Minister and I looked beyond the economic benefits, as important as they would be, and examined the ripple effects of those benefits. Strong economies tend to support strong democracies, a basically undisputed notion among economists and, in my view, an ideal motive for protecting and enhancing Canada’s traditional values. So we gave ourselves a chore that went well beyond Brian Mulroney’s three-word election mantra Jobs, jobs, jobs! Mulroney explained the slogan’s success by noting, “It’s pithy and powerful – the people understood what I was talking about.” As our overwhelming success in the 1984 election confirmed, he was correct. But our Agenda dealt with a bigger stage, a more expansive vision, and a riskier strategy. It involved Canada’s greater participation in the rapidly changing global economy, which meant some of the jobs, jobs, jobs we promised could be threatened by foreign competition. The earlier 1982 Royal Commission on the Economic Union and Development Prospects for Canada defined the subject best. Pierre Trudeau had appointed former finance minister Donald Macdonald as chair of the commission. When the “Macdonald report,” as it became known, was presented to Mulroney in 1984, its three themes sounded as though they had been pulled directly out of the Conservative playbook. One theme addressed reforms to the welfare state model, with an emphasis on social equity and economic efficiency. Another recommended the formation of an elected Senate to better represent Canada’s diverse regions. As I write this thirty-five years later, that proposal remains as difficult to foresee as the likelihood of me breaking seventy on the golf course. The third leg in Macdonald’s edifice was the most promising and, to a degree, the most practical. Canada, the report counselled, should foster a flexible economy capable of adjusting to international and technological change. How? Via greater reliance on market mechanisms, and by taking “a leap of faith” to enter into negotiations with the United States on a free trade agreement. The Macdonald report was not made public until June 1985, but Mulroney felt comfortable about raising the topic at the

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“Shamrock Summit” with US President Reagan on St. Patrick’s Day, 1985, in Quebec City. Both men agreed to prepare for negotiations on a free trade agreement, and Mulroney was anxious to announce the plans in a joint release. This was where Reagan disagreed. He suggested Mulroney formally make the proposal on his own, positioning Ottawa to set the stage for Reagan to agree with the idea, a mark of the President’s well-honed political instincts. Reagan knew Canadians would look more favourably on the idea if Canada appeared to be taking the lead. Had Reagan made the announcement, it might have appeared that the US was pushing the policy on Canada, raising ire among the more rabid nationalists. With all his global responsibilities, Reagan demonstrated remarkable sensitivity to politics in Canada.  To no one’s surprise, much of the domestic response to our proposal was negative. It was also more emotional than practical. Many Canadians, especially on the left, assumed that any such agreement would involve ceding at least a portion of our sovereignty to the Americans. This was something of a straw man. To the limited extent that it applied, we would be giving up no more of our sovereignty to them than they would be giving up to us. The practical aspect, on the other hand, was undeniable. To that point in time, Canada’s economy had been mostly internally focused, severely limiting its growth prospects, but this didn’t seem to faze those Canadians who were content to bask in so-called unfettered sovereignty, even if it meant limited opportunities to expand our economy. The Hong Kong financier’s words – So why are you not doing better than you are? – still echoed in my mind. Surely it was time for Canada to shrug off our near-exclusive focus on the domestic aspects of our economy. As a trading nation, the logical way to do better economically was to expand our markets, and the world’s biggest market sat literally on our doorstep. Why wouldn’t we do whatever we could to ease access to it? Because, naysayers responded, it would also ease their access to our own. True, but the

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US market was ten times our own, so the odds of Canada benefiting were ten to one in our favour. That’s the way we saw it, and that’s how, after a long and sometimes torturous journey, we negotiated our way to a Free Trade Agreement (FTA) with the US, signed by Mulroney and Reagan the day after New Year’s, 1988. It’s worth noting, all these years later, the five objectives set for the agreement: 1 Eliminate barriers to trade in goods and services between Canada and the US. 2 Simplify conditions for fair competition between the two countries. 3 Liberalize restrictions on investment. 4 Establish procedures for the settlement of disputes between the two countries. 5 Lay the foundation for future expansion and enhancement of the agreement. Both countries shared common goals, but as negotiations proceeded it became clear that each side risked sacrificing a prize component of its economy to the other. We sought widespread entry into American manufacturing and government procurement contracts; they were interested in exploiting our energy and cultural industries. It’s an axiom of business negotiations that, to be fully successful, each side must feel that it profits from the process when an agreement is reached. This requires equal volumes of give-and-take on both sides. In my opinion, the FTA represented an ideal example of that premise. Canada did well when it came to accessing US industry, but we made no inroads on government procurements. Across the table, we managed to protect our cultural industries, our water resources, health care, and education from American acquisition. All were essential to our identity and prosperity. During the horse-trading that continued through the summer of 1987, opposition to the concept continued to rage on our side of the border. No

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surprise there. Liberal leader John Turner, seizing a chance to generate a populist response in his favour, swore he would “tear up” any agreement we negotiated. The NDP, under Ed Broadbent, grumbled as loudly as Turner, claiming that Canada risked becoming the fifty-first state of the US. Things on the other side of the border were calm and collected in comparison, probably because 60 per cent of Americans were not aware of the negotiations. If they had become the proverbial fly-on-the-wall during the discussions, they might assume the bargaining was no more unruly than a Sunday afternoon game of bridge between neighbours. Admittedly, we lubricated the process by avoiding contentious issues such as softwood lumber exports and our managed approach to Canada’s dairy and poultry industries. Even today these keep returning like scheduled boomerangs to raise the ire – not to mention, in the case of lumber, lofty tariffs – between us and the Americans. Beyond those two points, negotiations jointly directed by former deputy minister of finance Simon Reisman and Pat Carney, minister of international trade, progressed at a steady but frustratingly slow pace. We expected detours and slowdowns along the way, but one deep pothole almost sent the entire enterprise into the ditch. The notion had been repeatedly voiced by protectionist voices in the US administration, courting their domestic constituents, that any trade agreement with Canada must clearly favour the American side. These sources had little idea of the degree to which US government dispatches were covered in Canadian media, or of the swift ability of Her Majesty’s Loyal ­Opposition to feverishly express their disapproval. Pushback on the program from the Liberals and NDP had been anticipated, but the Americans kept tossing fuel on the Opposition fires. Every jingoistic comment and rigid demand muttered in the halls of Congress or in the West Wing of the White House produced outrage from the Liberals and NDP when news of it reached Ottawa. During much of 1987 the FTA dominated Question Period in the House of Commons, presented by the Opposition as high drama in which Canada was about to hand over its economy, resources, existence, and perhaps everyone’s first-born child to the rapacious Yankees.

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It’s axiomatic in politics that if you yell something loud enough and often enough, a sizeable group of people will assume it to be true, regardless of any logic to refute it. We found ourselves, through much of this period, investing enormous amounts of time and energy responding to attacks from the Opposition and various media commentators. Most of them, and certainly all of the more vociferous, grew out of offhand comments by some official, elected or appointed, south of the border. With no practical means of stifling the turmoil of Question Period, we decided to go to the source. When Jim Baker replaced Don Regan as secretary of the treasury, Mulroney applied his personal magnetism to win Baker’s trust and friendship. Reinforcing it via his solid relationship with Vice-President George H.W. Bush, Mulroney invited both men to visit Ottawa, where he showed them videotaped “highlights” of Question Period episodes dealing with our free trade negotiations. It was all there – the taunts, the fist shaking, the mocking laughter, the personal insults, and on and on. To us, it was just another day in the trenches. To the Americans, it appeared somewhere between bedlam and insurrection. “You mean you have to put up with this crap every day?” they asked. When we assured them that this was our everyday reality they returned to Washington, set new rules for comments on the negotiations, and dried up much of the fodder on which the Liberals and NDP had been feeding. This helped quiet things in Ottawa, but the pace of negotiations remained disturbingly slow. Weeks passed with nothing of substance happening. I mentioned our concern about the sluggishness to Baker at meetings in February and June 1987. Baker listened attentively before smiling and saying, “Mike, this place works according to deadlines. Our deadline is October 3 of this year, and I expect not much is going to happen between now and then. In the last few days of the process, you and I are going to be sitting across the table from each other, pulling things together as we work to meet the deadline.”

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And that’s just what happened, but at a crawl rather than a walk. The summer dragged into autumn with little progress made. By Thursday, 1 October our uncertainties about success had grown stronger. Despite Baker’s assurances, Mulroney began to fear that the entire process would collapse. If it did, we would have spent enormous amounts of time, energy, and political capital while receiving nothing in return. In Mulroney’s opinion, expressed to me and in his memoir,1 the US seemed to assume that we were prepared to accept any deal, however bad, just to claim success. Things had to change before we could expect the Americans to move on the important issues. Otherwise, as he explained to cabinet, we risked “being killed by indifference.” Mulroney asked me to accompany his chief of staff, Derek Burney, and Trade Minister Pat Carney to Washington for a final push. Burney was an excellent addition to the team, with loads of experience as a trade negotiator to go along with his years of service as a senior public servant. Pat Carney, in addition to her knowledge of our international trade policy, had great media instincts. As Jim Baker predicted, things began moving at a more rapid pace with us on hand and the deadline in sight. Working our way through the issues I could see our way clear to success – except for one dark and looming obstruction. Buried among all the countless ins and outs of Canada’s position, covering virtually every product and service the two countries exchanged, was an issue that dealt not with trade but with disagreements. We wanted – more than that, we needed – an independent dispute settlement mechanism. We had anticipated the importance from the beginning, and over the course of the negotiations the means to deal with disagreements became essential to Canada. Even with its relatively low profile in the media and on Capitol Hill, the free trade negotiations had stoked the fires of US protectionists in various quarters. We suspected that, once an agreement was initiated, every American industry’s concern over lost profits would be attributed in some

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manner to Canadian policies and actions. When that occurred, muscle would be applied to Congress and assorted federal branches seeking to impose measures against us and, inevitably, it would favour the US position. We would have no effective means of countering the arguments without an unbiased settlement apparatus in place. The Americans rejected this out of hand. They deemed our proposal for an independent tribunal a threat to their domestic legal domain since it would be beyond the control of both Congress and the Administration. That was correct, to a point. Of course, it would also function outside the control of the Parliament of Canada as well, but we considered this a reasonable price to pay for ensuring smooth resolutions to the kinds of squabbles we knew would arise. We had another reason, even closer to home, for insisting on the tribunal. In Canada, skepticism over the wisdom of the agreement was running as high as ever. As soon as word leaked that the Americans could impose any penalty they deemed appropriate on Canada without our ability to make our case in an unbiased forum, support would vanish. It was a makeor-break item for us, and we worked hard to make the Americans understand its importance. It didn’t work. Nothing, it appeared, would budge the US on this point. And nothing but a means of addressing this very real concern would entice us to sign. Negotiations ground to a halt. Both sides became immoveable masses sitting across the table from each other, watching the clock count down to the point where it appeared we would both walk away from a potentially historic event. Early in the evening of 3 October, with the deadline literally counting down minute by minute, our team got on the phone with Mulroney to inform him that the Americans remained intransigent. He agreed we could not sign any agreement that failed to provide an acceptable means of settling disputes and instructed me to tell Baker we planned to walk away from the table. Then he added, “When you do that, ask Baker how I might

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reach President Reagan, so I can break things off in a friendly manner.” It was classic Mulroney shrewdness – never risk damage to a relationship because of a disagreement. Jim Baker and I met in his office, where the clock on his credenza continued to count down to the time when we would throw our hands in the air and head for the airport. He accepted the news with little more than a shrug. “By the way,” I said, “the Prime Minister asked if it were possible to speak to the President now and personally explain things to him.” Baker smiled and said, “No, it’s not.” Seeing the puzzled expression on my face, he added, “The President is watching a movie. It’s best not to disturb him.” Well, that was that, I thought, and wondered what movie could be so enthralling that it couldn’t be interrupted to inform Mr. Reagan of the collapse of an international agreement he had been shepherding for some time. When Baker finally realized we were serious about walking away without a dispute resolution agreement in place, he suggested we “bring the troops back to the table one more time.” Stopping on the way to the meeting room I called Mulroney and brought him abreast of things, then joined the others. Mulroney, unbeknownst to me, had called Baker directly. The two men held a tense discussion with each other until Mulroney asked, “Jim, how are you going to explain to your public that you are able to reach an agreement on nuclear arms control with your biggest enemy, the Soviet Union, but you are unable to agree on a free trade deal with your best friend, Canada?” Mulroney made his point with immediate effect. Baker grasped the strategic importance of reaching a trade agreement with Canada. After hanging up, he called his team out of the room, overrode the entrenched position of the negotiations, developed a proposal, and returned with it a few minutes later. Dropping a sheet of paper on the table in front of me he barked, “There’s your goddamn dispute settlement resolution.”2

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At twenty minutes before midnight the papers were signed and both sides shook hands, congratulating each other on reaching an historically significant agreement. Before leaving the room, I walked to the window of the Treasury Building where we had been meeting, looked down at the journalists waiting in the rain, and gave them a thumbs-up. I’ll never know how an athlete feels about winning an Olympic gold medal, but I suspect if we each could share memories of our emotions, theirs of Olympic competition and mine of negotiating with the Americans, they would be similar. With everything in place, President Reagan fast-tracked the measure and it sailed through both the House and the Senate with little debate. One more powerful memory of the event: Whenever we reached a tentative agreement on a sticky issue during the FTA negotiations Baker, a Republican, would request a break in the discussion and leave the room for several minutes, returning to confirm that we could move on to the next topic. After one of those interludes, he explained to me that he had left to consult with Dan Rostenkowski and Sam Gibbons, the two most senior Democrats in Congress where trade matters were concerned. After discussing the matter and reaching agreement among themselves, Baker would rejoin the negotiations knowing he could count on their support when the deal came to Congress for a vote. Simply put, this was bipartisan politics at its best – putting the good of the nation ahead of partisan concerns. Fast forward to Toronto in late 2012, when Baker and I appeared together on a panel. Chatting during a break, we recalled those days of negotiations twenty-five years earlier. I asked, given the highly partisan disputes that had grown common between the Administration and Congress, if Baker could still discuss a deal with the Democratic opposition and reach a conclusion they could all support. “No,” he replied with regret. “That kind of thing just wouldn’t be possible today.” The environment to reach a bilateral agreement in Washington has grown even more caustic since then. I found this a sad commentary on the state of politics in the United States. It also illustrated how close we came to losing the opportunity to

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conclude the most important economic agreement in the history of our two countries. No, I am not suggesting that we negotiated a perfect deal. It’s clear, however, that the FTA influenced the performance of Canada’s economic and industrial development in a manner that resonates to this day. Our efforts to secure the Free Trade Agreement with the US transformed our closed, largely domestic economy into a comparable trade powerhouse. Hard on the heels of the agreement, industries across Canada began expanding and upgrading their programs and facilities. Many developed specialized products and services that had not been practical when their market had been effectively limited to Canada. With new opportunities in the US, larger sales volumes justified making investments to achieve greater productivity and efficiency, and they paid off in competitive pricing and sales growth. The effects were dramatic. Up to 1988, Canadian exports to the US consistently measured around 25 per cent of our GDP. By 1990 the portion had leaped to 40 per cent of our GDP, and hit almost 50 per cent in 2000.3 The agreement was equally influential on the attitude of Canada’s business leaders, who saw it as an opportunity to grow more international in scope. With new advantages arising from their expanded American business, they were encouraged to look even further afield in search of new markets. It wasn’t as though the idea hadn’t existed before. It was a side benefit of expanding to meet US market needs by enlarging production and improving efficiency. With the US as a foundation for growth, Canada’s improved productivity became employed to explore markets well beyond the borders of our two countries. The ripple effect spread, and soon we were riding a cycle of good news and rising economics. Favourable prices on imported US equipment helped improve productivity, leading to lower prices and higher sales volumes and profits within Canada, which in turn encouraged greater investment. Other things began happening. The Canadian and the US economies grew more integrated with longer and stronger supply chains between the

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countries. I estimated that intra-company transactions and tightly ­managed supply chain contracts as a result of the FTA eventually accounted for 70 per cent of non-resource trade between the United States and Canada. The resulting integration was a continuing source of strength for Canada, drawing both countries closer together. It also, of course, nudged open another door, this one leading towards the North American Free Trade Agreement.

CHAPTER EIGHT

NAFTA Tales

among the clearest memories of my political life are a few moments spent on a golf course with the legendary Jack Nicklaus. It was early September 1989, and I was playing in the Presidents’ Day golf tournament at Glen Abbey, just before that year’s Canadian Open. I had been fortunate enough to draw Nicklaus as my pro partner for the event. We chatted about nothing much during the first thirteen holes of the round. I concentrated on playing up to my ability while absorbing any lessons I could from a man who had just won his sixth Masters tournament, a record that still stands. On the fourteenth tee a photographer asked if we could wait a moment while he shot a picture of the two of us. “Go ahead and talk about something,” he suggested. “Like maybe how you’re going to play the hole.” Nicklaus spoke first, and instead of golf he wanted to speak, of all things, about a sales tax. “Why don’t you as the finance minister,” he said, “introduce a value-added tax like they have in the UK?” He went on to name several reasons such a tax made sense. “That,” I said when he finished, “is exactly what we’re proposing to do, for the same reasons you just gave. But the idea is drawing a lot of criticism from almost every corner.” Then I added, “Hey, how would you like to give me your personal endorsement on the idea and tell everyone it’s a great public policy initiative?”

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Nicklaus reacted in mock horror, knowing I was joking. “Oh, no, no, no,” he said. “I’m not getting into that business,” and he walked quickly away to tee up his ball. I looked down the fairway at a large group of spectators who, I assumed, believed that one of the greatest golfers in history had just given me a lesson in the game when, instead, he had given me some comfort in dealing with one of the most controversial changes we or any other Canadian federal government would make to the country’s economy. It had, I should add, been referred to in our Agenda Paper, which had touched on the need to readdress sources of federal income. Government costs for a wide variety of measures, many linked to entitled social benefits, were rising at a speed that outpaced our ability to fund them. More than fifty countries, primarily European, had dealt with a similar challenge by imposing a widely based sales tax. The concept of a sales tax (more accurately described as a consumption tax) is old, well proven, and generally detested. The Egyptians imposed taxes on cooking oil and other necessities as far back as 2000 BC. Some 1,500 years later, Greece applied a 1 per cent sales tax on a wide range of transactions, including the purchase of slaves, and in AD 9 the Roman emperor Augustus funded his military with the centesima rerum venalium, literally a “one-hundredth of the value of everything sold” tax.1 I mention this because the storm of protest that arose after our first tentative mention of a Goods and Services Tax (GST) might suggest we were in the process of creating some ultimate weapon of destruction when we were simply proposing something that had been around for almost four millennia. Our first mention of the proposal in 1984, made almost in passing, sparked a volcanic eruption from, among others, the Canadian Federation of Independent Business, the main small business lobby group in Canada. Its leader and founder, John Bulloch, called me soon after the release of the Agenda Paper to tell me that if we dared proceed with the idea of a Goods and Services Tax, he would declare war on the federal government.

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I understood the emotional reaction to the idea of a government finding new ways to stick its hands in the pockets and purses of Canadians. On a practical basis, there were two points that few people at the time realized. One was the idea that a sales tax is regressive, meaning it is imposed equally whatever the circumstances of those paying it. This ignores the fact that such a broadly based tax makes it easy to declare and identify ­exemptions that reflect the ability to pay it. For example, items such as rent, food, medicine, and clothing can be free of tax. These represent a far larger percentage of expenses for those at lower income levels than at higher income levels, and exemptions on such expenses are just one way of making the tax far less regressive. The sales tax we proposed had another drawback: It would be visible. No one enjoys paying taxes, which means that no one enjoys being reminded of it, and our sales tax would be applied at the point of sale. But here’s the point we needed to make: The visible sales tax, adjusted to be as fair as possible, would replace a hidden sales tax that had been patently unfair for decades. The Manufacturers’ Sales Tax, or MST, had been launched in 1926 and, in my opinion, had held back Canada’s growth for sixty-plus years. As its name implies, MST was levied on manufactured goods at the wholesale level, which meant end users were rarely aware of its existence. They paid the tax without knowing it. It was also a severe burden on exporters, who buried it within their pricing, often putting them at a disadvantage relative to foreign competitors. In a lesson on how a simple idea can become unexpectedly complicated, efforts had been made over time to balance the unfairness of the MST with exemptions permitted under special circumstances. Many exemptions were the result of politically motivated goals rather than practical applications. Some manufacturers might have been pleased with this development, but others weren’t. Nor were federal government treasury people who tracked falling revenue levels. They tried to rebalance the loss of income by increasing the amount of tax paid by those without

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exemptions, which, of course, triggered new demands for wider exemptions. That’s why the MST kept rising until in the late 1980s it hit a fat 13.5 per cent. Anyone who could balance his or her own chequebook could see an alternative was needed. The best was a Goods and Services Tax that, while visible to end users, would be fairly applied and revenue neutral – b­ uyers might see the tax applied but the bottom line wouldn’t necessarily be higher than when the tax was invisible. We began by providing illustrations of the unfairness of the MST, noting head-shaking examples that included different MST rates imposed on concrete buildings versus buildings constructed with steel beams. Some types of toothpaste were slapped with MST while others were not, and flashlight batteries escaped MST because – follow this closely – flashlights produced light, as did electric power, which wasn’t taxed, so neither were batteries. Some progress was made on justifying the move, but the GST’s visibility would be a major hurdle in selling the idea, as would the example of the US, which imposed no federal sales tax on consumers. Canadians frequently and obviously compared their situation with those of our nearest neighbour, making it even more difficult for us to explain why Ottawa needed a GST and Washington apparently did not. Through the 1988 election we left the GST simmering on a back burner. Our hands were full with other issues, including our defence of the ­Canada–United States Free Trade Agreement, and some politically sensitive deficit reduction moves that included cutbacks in spending programs and the removal of several income tax exemptions. Introducing a still-­ undesigned GST into the campaign would have been disastrous. We sampled a hint of this when Don Blenkarn, our gregarious and outspoken MP from Mississauga South, mischievously mentioned the GST while the election campaign was in full swing. The media seized and ran with his comments instantly, generating a surge of outrage from various quarters. Blenkarn’s position as chair of the Commons Finance Committee

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gave his words extra credence. He was a bit of a rabble-rouser, and when I called to ask him not to mention the subject again he guffawed at my suggestion, but ultimately backed away. The election was fought primarily on the basis of two factors: the Free Trade Agreement with the United States, and Liberal leader John Turner’s abilities. Mulroney’s putdown of Turner in the previous election – “You had an option, sir” – was still vivid among many electors, and the Liberal leader remained at a disadvantage in winning voter support. Despite the echo of Mulroney’s admonishing comment, however, John Turner managed to prove more effective as a leader in the 1988 election than he had four years earlier. This, together with the expected controversy over free trade, cost us forty-two seats, but we retained a comfortable majority over the Liberals and the strengthened NDP – comfortable enough to begin shaping and introducing the GST. Details, we are often reminded, are where the Devil resides, and over the course of 1987 we invested enormous amounts of time to avoid errors in the GST that might appear satanic to those who opposed it. The concept remained controversial, and any suggestion of unfairness or favouritism could make a difficult job impossible, whatever the size of our parliamentary majority. Among the basic guidelines proposed was identifying food as the only exemption of note and offering tax credits for low-income consumers. While structuring the proposal, it occurred to us that introducing the GST could serve as an impetus to tackle badly needed personal and corporate income tax reforms. Many tax preferences for various sectors or policy areas had outlived their usefulness over the years. Eliminating some of these preferences would enable us to simplify the Income Tax Act, always a good idea. We identified a number of steps that would enable us to reduce personal income tax rates, and there was merit in the idea of cutting income taxes sufficiently to introduce a higher rate on the GST. This would complicate things somewhat, but reducing personal income taxes was an

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unbeatable way of building wide support that, in this case, could soften the negative response to the GST introduction. Nice idea but, as they say in show business, timing is everything. While we were busy planning to overhaul our income tax system the Americans were equally busy renovating their own. We agreed that it would be best to coordinate our tax reforms with theirs, letting the dust settle before riding in with the GST. I wanted very much to blend the two moves together for a comprehensive and balanced result, and I made this point in multiple cabinet debates. In the end we chose to delay introduction of the GST for three years. This was somewhat easier to accept because the income tax reform on its own improved the system. No matter. Without pairing revisions to the Income Tax Act with the GST introduction, we lost ground with voters when the new tax was announced. Our rationale had been honest and logical: The GST replaced the unfair and unworkable MST. But logic doesn’t work well when overwhelmed by emotion. Nor does introducing a new visible tax as a replacement for an old hidden tax. Almost no one knew about the MST and its failings. But everyone knew all they needed to know about the GST, which was that it would be tacked onto almost everything they purchased in the future. Nothing I nor anyone else can say all these years later is likely to appease those Canadians who attacked Mulroney, me, and the rest of the Conservative Party over the introduction of the GST. I trust, however, that in moments of reflection they understand how our move served as the fairest means possible of correcting an out-dated tax while delivering benefits to those who most needed them. Yet our original opponents still stumble over the devils they claim to see in the details. Mulroney’s political instincts, especially those attuned to voter response at election time, were bristling through discussions we had regarding the GST and the wisdom of introducing it. At one point he sat back in his chair and said, in a voice that echoed with unease, “This [the GST] is not going to be very popular at all.”

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“That’s not what it’s for,” I replied. “It’s not for today or tomorrow or for a year down the road. It’s something that will make a positive difference to the country and what it can do long into the future.” Mulroney paused, then nodded his head. The decision was made. The FTA/NAFTA and GST may stand out as the notable reforms made during my tenure, but they were not the only ones. The deficit problem, caused in part by insufficient control over spending, represented a serious barrier to the country’s growth and prosperity. Too much money – far too much – was being spent to service the debt. When we took office in 1984 the deficit totalled $38 billion, representing a debt-to-national-income ratio of 8.2 per cent. You don’t have to be a CPA to understand the impact of those figures on our ability to fund programs. By my final budget in 1991 we had cut the ratio to about 3.25 per cent and the dollar amount to $27 billion. The ratio wasn’t far off the European Community’s target of 3 per cent, but the dollar amount still left little room to manoeuvre in case of an economic setback. In my opinion, we changed more than dollar figures and ratios. When we took office, the general public may have acknowledged the size of the national debt, but it was not seriously decried. We held fast to our debt reduction policy in the face of spirited opposition to the idea of reducing spending from the Liberals and NDP. Every spending item has champions who oppose cutbacks to them; that’s the nature of politics, and I understand and respect it. Much of the success or failure of this opposition depends on public opinion, and I believe that, by the end of my term as finance minister, public opinion in Canada had swung away from mere shoulder-shrugging acceptance of massive public debt to supporting the idea of reducing it. We used a simple but ingenious advertising concept to make our point. It consisted of a television commercial that opened on a black screen. On cue, a silver dollar rolled into view. When it fell flat onto the surface, a large wedge broke off the coin and a caption appeared reading,

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“Did you know that 37% of every revenue dollar is spent on paying interest on the public debt?” Until the commercial began running, the level of public o­ pposition to increasing the debt was about 1 per cent. Within a month after the advertisement appeared it rose to almost 20 per cent, making it much easier to trim programs with an eye to reducing the national debt. Members of the general public weren’t the only ones who objected to my cost-cutting efforts. Some of my most spirited discussions weren’t with the press or public – they were with my own colleagues in cabinet. These ministers agreed with me in principle when I pointed out the country’s need and our strategy to cut spending, but they fought me tooth and nail when it came time to slash costs relating to their own departments. I remember a few of the arguments used to counter my proposals, including: I won’t be part of a government that would make the cuts you propose!

And: This was not in our campaign policies!

And: How can I face our supporters and defend these proposals?

Plus many more. A deficit, I reminded my colleagues, may benefit the current generation by allowing it to live beyond its means but it represents a tax on future generations. Or, to put it another way: There is no free lunch in fiscal spending. There is only the question of who gets the bill. Despite grumbling and protests from several of our own members, I received strong and consistent support from Brian Mulroney through it

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all. Cutting the national debt so deeply remained a source of pride to me, but I will admit to one nagging, unavoidable regret. It involves Liberals and horticulture. Many of our policies instituted through the 1980s benefited more than the country generally. They also benefited the federal Liberals. Consider this quote: Governments that followed the Mulroney PCs would not have been able to achieve their goals without the shift in the attitude toward high deficits that he and Michael Wilson made during their tenure.

Who said that? Former Liberal Prime Minister Paul Martin. Mulroney loves to tease Martin, who built a reputation on deficit reduction while serving as Jean Chrétien’s finance minister. “You know, Paul,” Brian is fond of saying to him, “Wilson planted the seeds for deficit reduction, and you guys got to pick the flowers!” While the 1990s was a generally prosperous economic decade, I believe Canada was positioned to take advantage of growth opportunities thanks to the impact of the Free Trade Agreement, the reduction in income tax rates, the income-generating effects of the GST, and the structural policies we introduced. To these I would add the benefit of the constitutional reform we initiated to inspire greater cooperation with the provinces, especially regarding federal–provincial fiscal transfers. One of our first initiatives following the 1984 election was the elimination of the National Energy Program. Its introduction had been a huge political mistake for the Trudeau government. Disregarding the constitutional ruling that responsibility for energy resources is a provincial concern, the Liberals generated a major disruption in federal–provincial relations. Low oil prices produced weakness in the energy sector, magnifying the negative impact and heightening the outrage from the West, especially from Albertans.

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Their outrage proved contagious. We moved to eliminate the Petroleum and Natural Gas Royalty Tax (PGRT) as promised, but procedural delays slowed things down long enough for many Albertans to claim we were dragging our feet just to cater to residents in Ontario and Quebec. We were more successful in completing negotiations regarding offshore oil production to assist Newfoundland and Labrador, which boosted the economy of the province dramatically. We scored another success with our termination of the Foreign Investment Review Agency (FIRA) and the introduction of Investment Canada to screen foreign investment proposals and encourage qualified investments from offshore. The failure of two major banks in 1985 – the Canadian Commercial Bank and the Northland Bank – and weakness in three regional banks fostered their takeover by larger entities, creating a serious crisis in the financial sector. In response, we appointed a Royal Commission on banking, chaired by former Supreme Court Justice Bud Estey. Recommendations from the Estey Commission led to significant reforms to banking regulations in Canada. Just how effective were they? We’re all aware of the success of Canada’s banks in surviving the global financial and economic crisis of 2008–9, and those reforms played no small role in helping Canada endure that dramatic adventure. Credit must go to our Minister of State Barbara McDougall, an experienced investment specialist, in shepherding the installation of tough rules incorporated in the revised Bank Act. Aspects of international banking rarely inspire great dinner party conversation, but a few simple facts can make things easier to understand. One concerns bank leverage. Canadian banks are restricted to an absolute twenty-to-one ratio of assets to common equity. At that ratio, banks need to manage their affairs with discipline. This isn’t just an accounting philosophy; it’s a hard fact that was proven dramatically and tragically when Lehman Brothers collapsed in 2008, almost upending the entire global financial system. At the time of its bankruptcy, Lehman’s leverage was well

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above forty-to-one. Banks in the US and Europe had leverage levels ranging from the mid-twenties to the mid-thirties. This gave them enormous business opportunities compared with Canada, which was fine while the system was flowing smoothly. When tough times arrived for US banks, however, the same institutions found themselves scrambling madly to survive. Our tighter leverage limits explain why, year after year, the World Economic Forum has rated Canada’s banks the soundest in the world. We also overhauled the traditional four pillar structure of the country’s financial system. Commercial banking, investment banking, stockbroking, and life insurance had all been classified as separate functions, with no cross-ownership allowed. Investment bankers couldn’t participate in selling equity shares, for example. This limited the banks’ markets too severely. Permitting them to engage in three of the four activities – life insurance remained an exception – expanded their product base and markets immensely. Events occurring outside Canada prompted me to propose and implement many of these changes, and the UK served as both model and impetus. In 1986 Britain ignited, if that’s the term, a “Big Bang” that altered its banking system in ways similar to the steps we already had in mind. Its effects were wide-ranging and, in the opinion of some, not altogether beneficial to the nation. It did, however, at least partially restore London as a leading international financial centre. Meanwhile, the Americans were in the early throes of repealing the Glass–Steagall Act, reflecting a similar approach.2 Both events persuaded me to launch debates in the Department of Finance about taking parallel steps. Things were complicated somewhat by Canada’s restriction on foreign ownership of our large banks, which would have given them the financial strength to compete with giant banks headquartered outside our borders. Investment banks were a different matter, and I proposed providing them with greater leeway. I encountered pushback from some of my former colleagues, who predicted their firms would be dominated by large commercial banks headquartered outside of Canada. I acknowledged this likelihood but responded

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by noting that the American competitors would overwhelm smallish, undercapitalized partnerships, leaving the major players on their own. Now, every Canadian bank operates with a strong investment business emanating from its acquisition of an independent firm. They function as dominant factors in personal stockbroking as well as mutual fund ownership and distribution. Competition between them is strong, cross-border business is robust, and the overall outcome has benefited Canada in several ways. In the midst of these concerns, we also had to deal with significant declines in the value of the Canadian dollar, or loonie, if you prefer. By the end of January 1986, it had fallen to less than 70 cents and threatened to keep plummeting. My years of experience in financial markets provided a clear view of what was occurring, and how to reverse it. I knew the best solution, however, would come with a major risk or two. Essentially, our dollar was travelling down a one-way street. Traders kept shorting our currency, expecting to profit on further declines. International investors may or may not have been aware of the cause, but the result was apparent to all: Canada appeared not to be a good place for them to invest their money, which, in turn, led to less confidence in the currency. We had to stop this. How? By squeezing short-selling traders, forcing them to reverse their positions, and buying back our dollar. I began with a call to Gerald Bouey, practising a little verbal choreography in my comments to him. While he agreed with my concerns, I carefully avoided any suggestion that I might be directing him to follow a certain policy. The governor of the Bank of Canada must function, and be seen as functioning, independent of the minister of finance. Should the governor’s point of view differ significantly from the minister’s it could lead to the governor’s resignation, something the financial markets would not look upon with favour. Choosing my words carefully, I asked what he thought of the Bank entering the market the next morning to buy the dollar at the current price of 69.13, raising the bid when there were no more sellers. I also enquired

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about his opinion of raising interest rates to reinforce our intention of reversing the currency’s downward trend. He listened carefully and we agreed to talk further the next day, which happened to be the date of our next caucus meeting. Bouey surprised me when I called him. “We’ve already started,” he said when I asked his thoughts on the matter. “The shorts are being covered and the dollar is strengthening.” This, I realized, was good news and bad news. Becoming proactive about strengthening the dollar, rather than leaving it in the hands of rapacious short-sellers, was good. Facing the Prime Minister and the caucus, neither of whom had any inkling of my strategy beforehand, threatened to be something else. How would they respond to my engineering the rise in interest rates without their consultation? I needn’t have worried. I had built sufficient confidence among them that they approved the move and accepted my assurance that the interest rate hikes would be short-lived, as they were. At his retirement dinner the following year, Governor Bouey thanked me for my support as finance minister. Smiling, he added, “We have done some things together that probably would not have been possible with other ministers,” a remark that confused some members of the audience. I knew what he meant. Most of the other cabinet ministers were lawyers who might have been more cautious about steps like the one we took to strengthen our currency. Their restraint would likely have prevented the move from taking place. Lawyers, need it be said, play a vital role in our society. But so, may I suggest, do accountants from time to time. Things indeed had gone well between Bouey and me, but my relationship with his replacement grew entangled in a policy decision evolving from our 1991 budget. Inflation had become an even more serious concern, and we reacted with a spending reduction plan that included freezing government salaries. Nothing in the proposal necessitated that we coordinate things with the Bank of Canada, but we were making demands

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on sectors that included the public service. The idea of consistency appealed to me, and I believed it would also appeal, in some measure, to other Canadians. Would John Crow, the new governor, agree to take steps demonstrating the Bank’s more disciplined and visible approach to inflation control? After extended and carefully crafted dialogue to untangle apparent conflicts, Crow agreed. The Bank developed the mechanics of the policy and moved quickly to have its steps coincide with the budget, permitting Crow and me to issue concurrent media releases. Both Crow and his successor, Gordon Thiessen, publicly praised this practice, suggesting that it helped them in their management of monetary policy. Other countries chose to follow the same path in subsequent years. These were “big picture” items – important to the overall economy but rather distant from individuals and families. It didn’t take long to identify some financial disparities at that level, too, and we moved to correct them. One concerned Registered Retirement Savings Plans (RRSPs), a great incentive for Canadians to invest for their retirement years. When we took office, however, annual contributions to an RRSP were limited to $3,500 per person. We calculated that adding this maximum amount to one’s RRSP each year for the duration of an individual’s working life – and enjoying investment performance equal to stock market average returns over those years – would support a pension of $23,000. Not bad when coupled with Canada Pension Plan (CPP) entitlements and Old Age Security (OAS), but hardly impressive compared to senior executives of large corporations, who benefited from an income tax law that allowed a maximum guaranteed or defined benefit pension of $60,000. Small business owners, who represented prime prospects for RRSPs, were at a much greater risk of losing both their investment and income than senior executives, yet the senior executives enjoyed far more tax room for their retirement savings. In response, we increased RRSP contribution limits to a level that would support similar pension incomes. Doctors, lawyers, and other professionals

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solely dependent on their job performance rather than a large corporation’s success also benefited from the change. We made further adjustments to improve pension prospects for Canadians. The Pension Adjustment (PA) levelled the playing field by calculating allowable contributions for each upcoming year and permitting taxpayers to make up shortfalls. Adjustments to CPP made it an actuarially sound plan that will remain so (according to actuaries who know this stuff) for the next seventy-five years. And we changed an existing law that had required RRSP owners to convert their plans into annuities upon reaching age seventy-one. Annuities have their benefits and their fans, but they are largely the preserve of banks and insurance companies. We dropped that requirement in favour of Registered Retirement Income Funds (RRIFs), holding bond and stock investments similar to those accumulated within RRSPs and managed according to the individual’s investment preferences. These retirement opportunities of Canadians are both fair and comprehensive, in my opinion. They are not perfect, but this is, after all, an imperfect world. They are, however, responsible at least in part for the higher savings rates among Canadians when compared with US citizens, and they indirectly contribute to Canada’s economic performance. I took pride in the fact that we successfully carried out a large number of actions signalled in our Agenda Paper prepared years earlier, well ahead of the 1984 election that we won, at least in part, on the basis of that Paper’s vision and promises. Nothing in a finance minister’s role is more high profile and headline generating than the creation and submission of a federal budget. Nor should it be. Budgets have an almost immediate and often universal effect on Canadians, justifying the traditional emphasis on secrecy prior to their presentation to Parliament. I agree with this practice, but not as much as I did before it led to one of my most unpleasant experiences in politics. All federal budgets are controversial by nature and by the circumstances of their time. Whatever reception they receive among the general

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public, they are almost certain to be pilloried by the Opposition. That’s fine. Criticism of spending programs falls neatly within the Opposition’s responsibilities. By traditional measurements, however, the program I was to deliver to Parliament on 27 April 1989 was laden with proposals that we felt were essential to the country’s economic future. It included, among other measures, the introduction of the GST, sale of the federal government’s remaining equity in Air Canada, slashing $500 million from support for VIA Rail and other services, scrapping an $8 billion nuclear submarine program, and imposing increased federal taxes on liquor and gasoline. Quite a list. These were substantial changes, implemented for the most part as a means of reducing the national debt, and they inevitably brought pain for some. But as I noted in the draft of my budget speech, The sad reality of debt is that it feeds on itself. It places a nation on a treadmill. Each year, added effort is required from its citizens to produce new revenues that merely go to pay the interest on a growing debt. We must ask ourselves: Should this enormous debt be our legacy to future generations? Let’s be clear about what it means if we continue, year after year, government after government, to borrow and borrow just to pay the interest on that debt. We would be borrowing from our children, not paying our own bills. It’s easy to borrow from future generations because they have no voice in this debate. They have no vote. Yet it is they who must live with the consequences if we do not act.

The extent of the budget proposals, and the massive impact they were expected to make on various sectors of society, made it even more important than usual to ensure total secrecy prior to my budget speech. So you can only imagine my reaction when Doug Small, Global TV’s Parliament Hill bureau chief, delivered portions of my budget speech on air the day before I was to deliver it to Parliament. Here’s how it happened: A single page summarizing the budget proposals had fallen off a conveyor

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belt at the printer’s plant and was picked up by an employee. Instead of destroying the sheet, the man passed it on to a friend who worked in the Department of National Defense who, in turn, handed it to Small. Regardless of the label hung on the event by the Opposition, this wasn’t a leak; it was a theft. To counter any advantage available to people who might use the confidential information for their own ends, we asked the Opposition for consent to deliver the speech that evening. They refused. Their attitude implied that I was ultimately responsible for security arrangements at the printer and that I needed to be penalized for lax management, preferably with my resignation. This was totally bogus, and they knew it. The Opposition was gleeful about the chance to embarrass us, however shaky the grounds might be. But that’s politics. Our response was to deliver an abridged version, including all the sensitive issues, to the media in the National Press Theatre that evening. Markets would be closed until the following morning, so no one seeking to profit from the budget’s measures would have an unfair advantage. This would erase the major impact of the leak and end the turmoil. Or so I thought. The next day in Question Period an endless barrage of charges flew at us from Opposition benches, including demands for me to withdraw the budget and for Mulroney to request my resignation. We were expecting this, but both we and the Opposition knew I could not be held responsible for someone else’s thievery. Then things changed. Unbeknownst to me when I left my office on the way to Question Period, someone at Mutual Life in Waterloo, Ontario, received a copy of the same stolen document. They advised my office of this, but only after I had arrived on the floor of the House. The life insurance company’s advance possession of the material was even more scandalous than the revelation by Doug Small. He had delivered a brief outline; Mutual Life had details, and they were a financial institution whose everyday decisions would be influenced by the budget’s material. So in the middle of Question Period the Opposition began firing volleys of new accusations at me, wild and exaggerated claims about our inability

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to keep budget details secret. I was unprepared to defend myself because I had no idea, until filled in by my staff, what the Opposition members were accusing me of. My inability to respond only boosted their resolve. They claimed I must have known about Mutual Life’s possession of the material, and, in the most upsetting experience of my parliamentary career, I was called a liar. Later, my staff was apologetic for not alerting me to the matter earlier, but this was understandable, given the uncertainty of the news they received. No matter. I was the bull’s eye in the target, and I offered my resignation to Mulroney – who refused it. Not only was my resignation unwarranted, he assured me, but it would set a very damaging precedent. The Prime Minister did, however, characterize possession of the budget sheet and sharing it with others as “a criminal act.” Small, the Department of National Defence employee, and three others were arrested and accused of possession of stolen property. The charges were later dismissed but the point had been made. The scars of that day healed, and I acknowledge that some good arose from the experience. Budget matters remain secret for the most part, but finance ministers are now more open about their plans and often discuss widely reported dialogues with experts in the private sector. This tends to eliminate startling surprises on budget day in the House, but a little less drama is probably a good thing. Regrets? As the song goes, I have a few where my role as minister of finance is concerned. One relates to the national deficit: We cut it (from $37 billion to $28 billion) in our first three years, but we didn’t eliminate it. We did, I believe, raise Canadians’ awareness of the folly of seemingly endlessly growing debt. Prevalent in Ottawa over many years had been the notion that “the money will always be there for the asking,” meaning money to pay the debt. Well, it generally is, but ask Canadian taxpayers if they agree with that premise and, since our tenure in politics, they are likely to say

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“No!” We also put policies in place to boost economic growth, leading to enhanced government revenues; both were key to the next government’s success in eliminating the deficit. Timing was again a factor in achieving our goal, but in this case with negative impact. The upcoming 1993 election was to be dominated by debates on our free trade policy, not our fiscal restraint. We had also reached a point where further significant spending cuts would have to come by reducing transfers to the provinces. More bad timing: The Prime Minister was heavily involved in constitutional matters and needed as much provincial support as possible. Suggesting the provinces assume a major portion of the deficit-reduction burden by accepting lower federal transfers into their coffers would not be a productive option. With this in mind, Mulroney and I agreed to ease off on spending cuts. Inflationary pressures and a strong Canadian dollar – stronger than I would have liked, considering my efforts to halt its descent two years earlier – hurt our export sectors. Our white paper on the GST and its introduction in January 1990 used up a large amount of political capital, and when Don Mazankowski assumed the role of finance minister in 1991, he ran head-on into a major recession that cut our deficit reduction efforts even further. The improved economy of the 1990s was welcomed by everyone, but especially by Jean Chrétien, Paul Martin, and their colleagues who achieved dominance in the House following the 1993 election. As a result of the improved economic environment, they were able to take strong action against the deficit, especially regarding federal transfers to the provinces, which had to deal with a Supreme Court challenge. This is not meant in any way to denigrate Chrétien and Martin’s achievements. They did a fine job. I just wish we’d had the benefit of good timing. By April 1991 I had served as minister of finance for almost seven years, or about three times as long as the average tenure of others who had recently occupied the position. During a chat with Mulroney that month,

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he asked, “How’d you like to set a new record for Canada’s longest-serving finance minister?” I asked who held the old record. Mulroney replied, “William Fielding. He spent fifteen years with Laurier’s government and another five under Mackenzie King.” That was almost three times as long as my years of service to that date. The prospect darkened my mood, and I replied that I had no intention of challenging that particular statistic. Without missing a beat Mulroney said, “So how about industry and trade?” Both portfolios were being managed separately at the time, a mistake in my opinion. An obvious interconnection existed between the two, and I believed they should be managed within a single portfolio. Mulroney agreed to combine them if I agreed to accept the portfolio, which made the idea more appealing to me. For a brief moment I had second thoughts when I realized my title would be Minister of Industry, Science and Technology and Minister of International Trade. It wasn’t the length of the title that deterred me. It was the scope of the responsibility. Among the first measures I proposed in my new position was the Prosperity Initiative, launched in October 1991. With the goal of improving the country’s productivity and competitiveness on the international market, we formed a steering committee headed by ­David McCamus, former president of Xerox Canada, and Marie-Josée Drouin, then executive director of the Hudson Institute of Canada. We invited Shirley Carr of the Canadian Labour Congress to serve as co-chair. She unfortunately saw the move as a corporate agenda and, believing her presence in the group would legitimatize the venture, declined to participate. David and Marie-Josée organized almost 200 town hall meetings across the country in search of grass-roots opinions on policy changes we could make to improve Canada’s productivity and economy. I accompanied them to a few sessions and can attest to the “grass-roots” aspect: In one

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Saskatchewan meeting we discussed the challenges being faced by farmers while perched on hay bales in a cattle barn. For the most part, the findings from these consultations reflected many points in our TTI&T (Technology, Trade, Investment, and Training) program drafted prior to the 1984 election. Since then, the FTA agreement had underlined the significance of Canadian businesses matching US advances in technology. The result would be wider trade opportunities, higher investment in productivity systems, and greater training to employ them. I was pleased not only with the individual proposals and their potential, but with the report’s consistency. Each component complemented and reinforced the others. Once again, however, timing derailed our plans. In this case, it was a decision to defer implementation of the proposals until after Mulroney stepped down as leader, allowing the new leadership to capitalize on them. It didn’t happen. Soon after assuming the Prime Minister’s Office, Kim Campbell decided that the initiative bore too many Mulroney and Wilson fingerprints and shelved the report. My disappointment at her decision was not ego-driven; a few years’ service in the federal cabinet can dissolve much of that attitude. My regret grew from the knowledge that the introduction of the Free Trade Agreement with the US and its follow-up NAFTA made the TTI&T program even more relevant and advantageous than when first conceived several years earlier. I was pleased, nevertheless, to note that in 1993 Jean Chrétien’s newly elected government saw merit in the report’s proposals. Recognizing that they were by no means partisan or politically motivated, the Liberals implemented several elements of the plan early in their tenure. Good for them. Among all the steps we took during our tenure in Parliament, for lasting impact none exceeds crafting and participating in the North American Free Trade Agreement. Its success easily counterbalanced our disappointment over the failure to launch the Prosperity Initiative. Whatever its

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current status and future consequence, NAFTA marks a significant step in Canada’s economic development and identity. NAFTA’s wheels started turning during John Crosbie’s tenure as minister of international trade, a position he assumed after Pat Carney chose not to run in the 1988 federal election. Crosbie was as colourful a personality as we can ever expect to see in federal politics. Each parliamentary session spawned a raft of new Crosbie anecdotes and hair-raising quotations, and on the floor of the House he applied his allegiance with a shovel rather than a trowel. One of his more famous lines delivered during Pierre Trudeau’s tenure was his response to the appointment of Marc Lalonde as finance minister. “The Canadian economy needs a transfusion,” Crosbie barked. “And who do they send us? Dracula!” His comments could be as profound as they were humorous, such as this one about cross-border trade with the US: Someday we’re going to have a North American continent that’s an economic union. That’s inevitable. These economic forces are there, and government policy can’t stop them. It’s only a question of, how do you get into a more secure position? They’re next door, and geography dictates reality. Like it or not, we’re going up or down with the U.S.3

Which accurately predicted the birth of NAFTA. Its roots had been planted within days of our signing the FTA back in October 1987. When Mexican President Carlos Salinas de Gortari recognized the benefits of the deal, he approached Reagan’s successor George H.W. Bush seeking a similar arrangement. Salinas’s motivation was somewhat different from ours. When the 1980 Latin American debt crisis struck, Mexico and several countries in Central and South America discovered their foreign debt levels exceeded their ability to pay them. Twenty years later the crisis had receded somewhat, but the same countries were having difficulty attracting foreign capital. Salinas recognized that an agreement between Mexico and the United States similar to our FTA

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would overcome investors’ resistance, and he approached George H.W. Bush with the idea. Bush agreed and negotiations began. News that the US and Mexico were discussing a trade deal alarmed Mulroney, who feared their bilateral pact would undermine the FTA benefits we had managed to carve out for ourselves. When he contacted both Washington and Mexico City, asking to join the party and fashion a threeway deal, the response was not enthusiastic. In fact, it was discouraging. Both countries had been moving along rather nicely to that point, and they felt a third voice at the table would slow things down. We persisted. Our argument was that a tripartite deal treating North America as a unified market would deliver benefits to all three partners. This was true, of course. But there was a greater strategic design on our part. A level three-way arrangement would prevent the Americans from negotiating two separate bilateral agreements and creating a structure where the US served as a hub while Mexico and Canada played the role of spokes, each receiving preferential treatment from the United States but lacking similar access to other markets. Our pitch worked, and we were soon at the table. As minister of international trade I took a hands-on approach with the NAFTA negotiations. In fact, I was more involved than I had been with the FTA. Despite the added complexity of having three sets of concerns on the table instead of two, the process proceeded smoothly. Things were helped along by the good chemistry shared among my counterparts from the US and Mexico, Carla Hills and Jaime Serra Puche, plus the cordial relations between Mulroney and President Bush.4 Carla, with long experience in trade matters and well known in Washington, drew on her extensive trade expertise to present the US positions directly and effectively. Jaime, secretary of trade for Mexico, was more of an academic. Having earned his PhD in the United States, he understood the American system and brought an intellectual approach to the talks. Things worked out so well that the three of us continued our friendship over the years. Whenever we met at various international policy discussions, we had good fun and lively conversations.

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John Weekes, a long-standing trade specialist, served as my chief negotiator for day-to-day meetings. Whenever a serious impasse occurred, Carla, Jaime, and I would meet directly, as we did in the summer of 1992 when the pace of negotiations had slowed considerably. The three of us convened “for a couple of days” that stretched across two weeks of sessions in meeting rooms at the infamous Watergate Hotel. The hours were long, the mood was intense, and the progress was slow. As dedicated as we were to achieving success, the rounds of meetings melted into a blur until, at one point, someone suggested we take a much-needed afternoon off. Someone else proposed travelling the short distance to Baltimore to attend a Major League Baseball game. The Orioles were hosting Cleveland, and with the Toronto Blue Jays holding down first place in the American League East (they would go on to win their first World Series that season), the idea grew even more appealing to me. We spent a wonderful couple of hours at Camden Yards in Baltimore, a terrific baseball stadium. Carla and I enjoyed ourselves, but Jaime, not a baseball fan, grew restless. Halfway through the sixth inning he suggested we return to Washington for a late-night session. Carla and I agreed – me reluctantly – and we headed for the exits. Just as we left the stadium, out of sight of the field but still on the grounds, a tumultuous roar from the fans shattered the air. We had just missed a rare and dramatic triple play. I had never seen one before and haven’t since, and shards of my disappointment remain to this day. Just another price to be paid for being in politics, I guess. My major squabble with Carla towards the end of the negotiations rose out of a somewhat more serious matter when she accused me of refusing to agree on a number of sensitive issues. “You are far too protectionist as a country,” she told me with some annoyance. “You need to open up about some things and not be so sensitive over them.” I disagreed with her but made a suggestion. “Why don’t you make a list of sensitive issues that my side can’t agree to,” I said, “and I’ll make a list

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of issues that your side won’t agree to? Then we’ll get together at breakfast tomorrow and compare lists.” She agreed. The next morning over coffee we exchanged notes, and, to her astonishment, my list was longer than hers, turning the tables on her claim of Canada being too sensitive about trade matters. “You don’t understand,” she said, looking at both lists. She held up my list of items showing that the US had substantially more concerns than Canada. “These issues are politically sensitive for our country.” “And do you think,” I said in turn, “that the issues I can’t agree to are not politically sensitive in my country?” I believe I made my point because we then moved to a fairly rapid conclusion. Objections and concerns over NAFTA flew at us from every direction, including our own party. Some scare tactics used by opponents of free trade were outrageous, especially those who proclaimed it would mean the end of Canada’s health care system. One strong Conservative supporter told me she couldn’t back me in the next federal election because we “had given away our country.” Other sources of concern were more pragmatic and thus more receptive to logic. When the owner of a small business expressed his unease about the impact of free trade, I asked him to name his biggest competitor. It was a firm in Buffalo, New York. “You’ll both see the tariffs reduced,” I reminded him, “so the playing field won’t be upset. In fact, for you the playing field will be ten times larger. The big question is, can you beat your competitor on an even basis?” “You’re damn right I can!” he responded, confirming my belief that appealing to competitive instincts is as effective in business as it is in sports. It soon became clear that NAFTA would be more than a simple expansion of the existing Canada–US trade agreement. The FTA had focused on removing irritants in trade between the two countries and the elimination

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of tariffs over time. In that sense, the changes were mechanical in nature. We were, in effect, tightening angles here and loosening others over there. Things were quite different with NAFTA. Individual items needed attention on their own, to be sure. But NAFTA negotiations dealt with principles rather than patch-ups, reflecting both the benefits and challenges of globalization on a limited scale. The negotiations had been as tough as expected, and the response from various sectors underlined the impact and meaning of the agreement. While it had yet to be signed by the leaders of the three nations – this wouldn’t occur until mid-December 1992 – NAFTA played a role in that year’s US presidential election. Independent candidate Ross Perot built his e­ntire election platform on opposing NAFTA, employing colourful language rather than logical analysis. His description of US manufacturing jobs lost to Mexico (“You’ll hear a giant sucking sound going south!”) became part of the lexicon of those opposing wider free trade agreements elsewhere in the world.5 Although Perot’s attacks were successful to a remarkable degree – he received more votes than any other independent presidential candidate in US history – he was unable to overcome the appeal of Bill Clinton. The deal was equally controversial in Canada. Through the 1993 federal election, Liberal leader Jean Chrétien campaigned on a promise to repeal or abrogate the agreement. The NDP were even more vociferous, but most Canadians considered the debate over. The Liberals scored a major victory in that election, but NAFTA remained intact. Almost twenty-five years later, Donald Trump assumed the mantle of Ross Perot, reshaping NAFTA into something called USMCA (the United States–Mexico–Canada Agreement). Contemporary accounts of Trump’s actions on the subject have been voluminous, and I leave it for future historians to measure the impact of both the revised agreement and the Trump presidency. We completed a full economic agenda during the Mulroney years, and we did it in the face of fierce political opposition. Moreover, I believe that the

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significance of the steps we took, and their value to a more prosperous and secure Canada, have been confirmed in various ways. The Liberals campaigned during the 1993 federal election by assuring voters that our departure from the scene would see NAFTA ripped up, the GST scrapped, and the spending cuts we had implemented reversed. None of this happened. Public acknowledgement of the GST’s importance to our economy grew stronger, concern over deficits and the need to control them became more widespread, and the restructuring of NAFTA into the USMCA resulted not from the designs of one country or even one political party, but from the whims of one US political leader. The Liberals recognized that all three giant economic steps were vital to the country’s economic future and key to the success of their government. They were indeed, and they sprang from our efforts during the Mulroney decade of 1984 to 1993. Throughout my political career I frequently made the point that ­Canada was best governed from the left or right of centre, not from the mushy middle. This represents an unusual point of view for many people, but I stand by that notion, more ardently than ever.

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CHAPTER NINE

Journeys and Revelations

representing etobicoke centre in parliament was immensely rewarding to me in many ways, including several that I could not have foreseen when I first chose to run. As I noted, a substantial number of my constituents were immigrants with roots in Eastern European and Baltic nations. Many belonged to the Association of the Seven Captive Nations, which advocated on behalf of immigrants from those countries. I’d had little exposure to Poland, Czechoslovakia (as it was then known), Hungary, Ukraine, Lithuania, Latvia, or Estonia – the seven nations in question – but when asked to speak to the organization about the principles of freedom and democracy I immediately accepted. The countries had suffered for years under Soviet domination. Not surprisingly, members of the organization treasured those principles in ways that few native-born C ­ anadians could truly appreciate, and I tailored my remarks to reflect their point of view. My words resonated with them. In fact, that initial speech fused a connection that extended through my political life and beyond. Repeatedly invited to address their organization over the years, I was privileged to be elected an Honorary Hungarian Freedom Fighter along with Sandy Millar, my primary link with Eastern Europeans in the riding. I was also asked to serve as co-chair of the “Baltic Soiree,” an annual gala on Parliament Hill. This event involved about a hundred MPs in a ceremony

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honouring an equal number of representatives from the three Baltic states. The o­ ccasion celebrated the freedom enjoyed in Canada by the members, and my speeches emphasized the need to “keep a candle in the window” as a means of supporting the dream of these countries shaking off the yoke of communism some day. The “some day” arrived with the collapse of the Soviet Union, triggering one of the most memorable events of my political career. When the Baltic states declared their independence amid the accumulating wreckage of the Soviet Union, Brian Mulroney, aware of my association with the Baltic Soiree, asked me to represent him on a visit to the three nations. I was to personally deliver a letter from the Prime Minister of Canada to leaders of each of the countries, recognizing their renewed status as independent states and signing documents to formally establish diplomatic relations between us. I accepted with pleasure. My only condition was to insist that representatives of the three communities in Canada accompany me on visits to their respective countries. These were tumultuous times for Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia. Annexed by the Soviet Union in the early stages of the Second World War, they had been among the first to declare independence when communism began to crumble. This simple act demanded a good deal of courage. Troops from the Soviet Union, defying the reality of their rapidly dissolving empire, continued to occupy the countries until September 1991 when Soviet President Gorbachev accepted the inevitable and withdrew his hostile forces. Still, tensions remained high, and I made the journey knowing that the situation could be volatile. Not everyone in Russia agreed with Gorbachev’s policies of glasnost (“openness”) and perestroika (“restructuring”), and in August 1991 Gorbachev himself was placed under house arrest in an attempted coup. How far was the turmoil to stretch? No one knew for sure, and there was some trepidation about a Canadian politician leading a group of expatriates back to their home countries in celebration of their newly achieved independence. Resistance to their declarations remained

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alive and kicking among some quarters in Russia, so the celebration, I was warned, might be a little premature. This proved to be true. No matter. I jumped at the opportunity. Having worked closely with the Baltic community, I understood how important this was to them. They had dreamed of such an event for so long that many who escaped Soviet rule had abandoned hope of their mother country ever achieving freedom. To share the experience with them would represent a highlight of my time in government that would be difficult to match. David Dodge and some Baltic colleagues came along on our flight to Germany, where Lithuanian representatives joined us. Together we boarded a Canadian Challenger aircraft and, flying over the border into Lithuania, we popped open champagne and toasted the end of fifty years of Soviet domination in the region. In Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania, the economics minister escorted us to a celebration in a park adjacent to our hotel. We chatted with the celebrants, all of them understandably jubilant over their freedom from Soviet domination. But vestiges remained. Our nondescript concrete hotel, built during the occupation years, reflected the standard, formless design of Soviet architecture. Plus something else. I noticed that the fifth and sixth floors, unlike the rest of the building, had no visible lights. Floors above and below were brightly illuminated. Was there a reason these two floors were blacked out? Indeed there was. It was explained to me that they housed elaborate electronic equipment used by the secret police to listen in on conversations in the guest rooms. The following day we encountered other evidence that Lithuania’s struggle for freedom was not over. Arriving at the wood-panelled office of President Vytautas Landsbergis, we were stunned to see the receptionist and her desk almost hidden behind a wall of sandbags, positioned for protection in case armed Russian soldiers should burst through the door. Gorbachev’s acknowledgement of the Baltic states’ independence may have been sincere, but his government’s actions were late in confirming the fact.

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Landsbergis, an otherwise genial host, displayed the stress he and his people continued to undergo during a visit to a park on the outskirts of the city. There we saw the fresh graves of perhaps a dozen citizens who had been shot barely two weeks earlier for protesting limits on their freedom imposed by Soviet sympathizers. Kneeling to examine their names and ages, I discovered they had all been just eighteen or nineteen years old. Leaving Lithuania, we flew to Riga, capital of Latvia, once again breaking out the bubbly when we entered Latvian airspace. Latvia’s vice-­ president, a tough-looking man of small stature, greeted us in the hotel lobby. Looking around the lobby I noticed obvious bullet holes in a glass panel above the stairs. “How did they get there?” I asked. The vice-president suggested we discuss it later. Things grew dramatic when our group left the hotel and crossed the square en route to a nearby park. On the way I noticed we were accompanied by a squad of burly and heavily armed individuals. When I asked who they were, the vice-president called them “new friends.” The men had been recruited just a week earlier after Latvian security raided a house used by the Russian secret police and seized a list of perceived “enemies.” The vice-president’s name occupied a prominent place on the list, which explained the armed protection. The vice-president apologized for the presence of the security guards. I assured him there was no need to. Arriving at the park we were shown a bier of fresh flowers, marking the location where a journalist had died at the hands of the Soviet military just ten days earlier. Those bullet holes in our hotel lobby? They marked an earlier attempt to assassinate the man, whose articles had been critical of the Soviet Union’s policies towards his country. Escaping the ambush in the hotel, he had been tracked to the park and shot to death. That’s how fresh the country’s escape from Moscow’s domination had been at the time of our visit. It was, as you can imagine, somewhat chilling. From Riga we travelled to the beautiful city of Tallinn, capital of Estonia. Breaking away from the Soviet Union’s control had been less traumatic

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for Estonia than other Baltic nations, so we were spared some of the heart-wrenching images and stories we encountered elsewhere. The most striking sight was a cluster of massive boulders, about two metres in diameter, positioned in the driveway leading to the parliament buildings where we were to meet. Their function was clear: to deter Soviet military vehicles and troops from approaching the buildings. As elsewhere, I formally submitted Mulroney’s prime-ministerial letter recognizing Estonia’s independence to the President along with an agreement to re-establish diplomatic relations. Once again our actions were both warmly received and much appreciated for their sincerity and the speed with which Canada acted. Given all of the animosity towards the Soviet Union we had encountered to that point, a remarkable development occurred just as we were about to depart Estonia. Our embassy in Moscow had enquired about the possibility of us meeting with Soviet President Gorbachev and Russian President Boris Yeltsin. The Russians actually agreed to the idea, and so, quickly altering our schedule, we flew directly to Moscow the next morning. Our timing was outstanding. We arrived on the day that a scheduled vote would initiate the process of dissolving the USSR, formalizing the independence of its individual states. We would not only be witnesses to history; we would be immersed in its unfolding. Things began with a welcome from the leader of the Russian Senate. In the midst of our meeting, he took a telephone call from Soviet President Gorbachev, who extended an invitation to meet with him. So off we went – Michael Richard Bell (our ambassador to Russia), ­David Dodge, and I – to Gorbachev’s office in the Kremlin. Aware of the attempted coup to unseat him that had taken place two weeks earlier, I was unsure how the President would look and act. I needn’t have been worried. He was relaxed and gracious in his welcome to us and quite candid in our conversation. We spoke, of course, of the vote taking place that day and the imminent creation of the former Soviet Union, as it would be called.

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His attitude was positive, and he acknowledged that the principles behind glasnost and perestroika, both quite divisive in his country, were taken for granted in Canada and other western democracies. Resistance to them in his country, he explained, was rooted among hard-liners who feared that greater freedom would undermine Moscow’s control of the economy and political life in general – which, of course, was the whole idea. Seen in retrospect, Gorbachev’s influence and courage were immense, representing a complete reversal of the policies and principles pursued by Soviet leaders for more than seventy years. No one in modern history, in my opinion, demonstrated more determination to move his country and its entire structure out of darkness and into light than Gorbachev, and he paid the price. Within a few tumultuous months of our visit he announced his resignation, abandoning his dream of a voluntary federation of former Soviet republics that would retain their political independence while sharing the benefits of partnership. Our meeting with him lasted perhaps ­forty-five minutes. Given the timing and the state of affairs, I felt privileged to be present, and I valued the memory immensely. The remarkable day was not yet over. During our session with Gorbachev, our embassy was busy exploring the possibility of us meeting Boris Yeltsin, who was seeking to establish himself as the effective leader of the former Soviet republics. This kept him busy shaking hands, sharing goals, and generally networking among the presidents of each of the republics. While the idea of sitting down with Yeltsin was never formally dismissed, we were warned that our session with him would be more of a photo opportunity than an actual meeting, and that I should restrict myself to asking two questions; there would be no time for more. But following our meeting with Gorbachev, more surprising news. We could meet with President Yeltsin in his office that evening and, while the time available to us would still be restricted, we could anticipate at least a few in-depth discussions. I could hardly believe our good fortune. My first reaction upon entering Yeltsin’s office was that Russia severely lacked a multi-line phone system, so familiar in the West for so many

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years. About twenty telephones were crowded together on a table next to Yeltsin’s desk, each an individual line. One, I noticed, was red. As with Gorbachev, our conversation with the Russian President centred around the challenges of restructuring the Soviet Union and establishing a new relationship between Russia and the former Soviet republics. Not surprisingly, Yeltsin echoed many of Gorbachev’s concerns. While speaking, Yeltsin’s eyes flitted towards the wall behind me, which was almost entirely covered by a map of Russia. When I turned to look, I noted that his country stretched across ten-and-a-half time zones. The sight made a powerful impression of the magnitude of the country Yeltsin was responsible for transforming into at least a facsimile of a democratic free-economy society. Towards the end of our session I grew specific about Russian–Canadian relations. Spurred by the sight of the wall-sized map of Russia, I pointed out that both of our countries were large northern nations facing similar challenges and opportunities. Did he have any ideas on how we might work together to our mutual benefit? To my surprise, the question launched Yeltsin into a wide-ranging discussion covering goals we could achieve through partnership, from developing our food resources and sharing technology for northern road building to industrial technologies and social program ideas. He hadn’t mentioned technology in energy development, so I broached the subject, which launched him into an even higher gear. Gesturing at the enormous map, Yeltsin identified the location of every major energy source in Russia, explaining how they promised to provide his country with the energy reserves it would need in future years. In the midst of this, one of the many telephones next to him rang. It wasn’t just any phone – it was the red one, which raised my concern a little. A Yeltsin staff member lunged for it, seized the receiver, listened for a moment, then leaned to speak to Yeltsin, who shook his head solemnly. The staffer spoke a few words quietly into the phone, hung up, and stepped away. Yeltsin glanced at me and, with a smile taking shape, said, “That was

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Gorbachev. He wanted to talk. I told him you and I were having a very good discussion and did not want to be disturbed.” The President of Russia had just dismissed the President of the entire Soviet Union, or what was left of it. Yeltsin’s smile broadened and he added, “Now you see how things have changed around here lately!” The two men were very different in style and personality. Gorbachev was thoughtful, open, friendly, and urbane. Yeltsin was direct and a little rough around the edges. If I were to categorize them in a certain manner, I’d suggest you might meet Gorbachev sipping wine at a country club while Yeltsin was downing a beer in a corner tavern. Each played an essential role in transitioning the Soviet Union from a hard-line dictatorship to a loose federation of republics anxious to put their past behind them. I suspect that Gorbachev saw himself as the strategist and visionary with Yeltsin playing the role of enforcer. By at least one measure, the strategy proved successful: The transition was achieved with a minimum of bloodshed. Neither man could have accomplished this historical change on his own. But while they played equal parts in the drama, Gorbachev lost both power and prestige as a result of poor planning. Soon – perhaps too soon – after winning the position of general secretary of the Soviet Union, he declared his policies of glasnost and perestroika to the world. Advancing his agenda so quickly left him with insufficient political backing from ­Yeltsin and others, a serious error in my opinion. He was essentially flying solo, which led to the attempted coup that destabilized the Soviet Union. ­Gorbachev’s status plunged dramatically after the attempt, and Yeltsin, taking advantage of Gorbachev’s weakened position, filled the vacuum by bulldozing his way into control. My meetings with the two most powerful men in the former Soviet Union generated a good deal of interest almost everywhere. The blatant exception was Canada.

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Immediately following my session with Yeltsin, I attended a press conference and faced about forty journalists and fifteen or more TV cameras. The journalists fired a barrage of questions at me. How did Gorbachev look? Did he show any effects of battling the attempted coup? Did each man refer to the other in his conversations? Did presidents of other republics offer any views on the relationship? Clearly, the international media had an enormous interest in the historic development, along with my personal views of the men and their actions. With one notable omission. When the press conference finally ended, I asked our press secretary John Fieldhouse how many Canadian journalists had attended. “None,” John replied glumly. “We couldn’t get any to come.” More than mildly annoyed, I returned to my hotel room. Within minutes the telephone rang, and I answered it to hear an excited Brian Mulroney on the line congratulating me. “Just saw you on television,” he said, “and you were terrific. You must have had a fascinating few days over there.” I asked if he had watched the press conference on CTV or CBC. “Neither,” he said dryly. “They didn’t carry it. I had to go to CNN to see it.” Things became more encouraging, however. Before leaving Moscow I called Sandy Millar in Toronto. Recalling the last few days, I asked if she could pull together a few friends from the three Baltic communities to gather for a small dinner on Sunday, the day after my return to Canada. I thought we might share some photographs taken on the trip, and I could fill in the audience on my encounters with the presidents of the three republics as well as Gorbachev and Yeltsin. “I know it’s short notice,” I said apologetically, “but please do your best.” Back in Toronto, Sandy informed me that our planned “small dinner” had mushroomed into something very different. With just two days notice, the Baltic communities had booked the ballroom at the Harbour Castle Hotel, which they expected to fill to the rafters. And they did!

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It is difficult for me to imagine any similar event, with the possible exception of the Toronto Maple Leafs winning the Stanley Cup, which would inspire native-born Canadians to respond with such unbridled enthusiasm. Only those whose land and people had likewise been deprived of freedom and democratic governance for so long could match the enthusiasm of those in attendance that evening. Supporting my recollections and descriptions with photographs, I recounted my visits to the three states, my reactions to the violence they suffered almost up to the day of my arrival, my conversations with their leaders and, perhaps most of all, my encounters with Gorbachev and Yeltsin. Their rapt attention to my words generated an intensity I had never experienced before, and shivers continued to run up my spine whenever I recalled that evening. The lasting impression was of the love these immigrants felt for their homelands and the good fortune all of us have to reside in Canada. We should remind ourselves that our democratic system of government, for all of its shortcomings and challenges, remains the fairest, most treasured means available to us. Something we must never take for granted. Of all of humanity’s actions, nothing exceeds war for its idiocy and tragedy. Whether justified as defence or rationalized as necessity, warfare represents failure by one faction or another, and the 1990–1 invasion of Kuwait by Iraqi forces, expanded into the Gulf War with the addition of a US-led coalition, was as mad and destructive as any. Inevitably, the lunacy of war leads to the prospect of doing business through rebuilding and restructuring. When the Gulf War ended in early May 1991, Mulroney directed me to lead a contingent of Canadian business people to the area and identify ways we might participate. The first day or so of the trip would be spent in Riyadh, and I asked Margie to join me to give her an opportunity to assess the status of women in Saudi Arabia. In Riyadh we were accommodated in a massive, opulent

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guesthouse, and I spent the next morning being briefed by Kuwaiti officials and business people at the Canadian consulate. Margie, meanwhile, was invited by a wife of a Saudi official to join her for a tour of the region. This was very hospitable, although Margie discovered that she would be restricted to the countryside because her wardrobe did not include a hijab or chador. Without them, she would be considered improperly attired in the city. The countryside, we assumed, was more tolerant. Back at the consulate for lunch she joined a number of women from Syria, Lebanon, and other Islamic nations. “It was great fun,” Margie told me later. “I enjoyed their company immensely. Even though they all wore proper Islamic outfits, and I was the only one in western dress, they did their best to make me feel comfortable.” After lunch the women insisted on taking Margie to the antique market, which she looked forward to. This wasn’t in the countryside, however, and she needed to be outfitted in proper garb. The antique market proved fascinating, and Margie acquired some unique and attractive jewellery items there. More memorable was the experience of sharing and coming to understand the lives of women living under the unbending Islamic law that dictated many aspects of their lives, including their public appearance and the dominant role of men in the culture. Margie retained warm memories of the Saudi women and the hospitality and warmth they showed her. One of them promised to send silk garments suitable for wearing in public in Saudi Arabia should Margie return for a visit. Or, the Saudi woman suggested, Margie could wear it back in Canada as a costume on Halloween. The garments arrived, beautifully decorated with gold thread, and with a little assistance Margie learned how to don them correctly. That evening, the Saudis held a reception for we Canadians, all of whom were men with the exception of Margie. We were somewhat surprised and flattered that a large contingent of Saudi men arrived to join the gathering.

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The imagined flattery vanished when we discovered that the Saudi men were attracted at least as much by the opportunity to consume alcohol and smoke cigarettes as by the opportunity to shake hands with Canadians. The consumption of alcohol and cigarettes, of course, was banned beyond the walls of foreign consulates and embassies. The next morning we flew to Kuwait City. This was shortly after the retreat of Saddam Hussein’s armies from Kuwait, which meant we would be entering territory that, a few days earlier, had been a theatre of war. Commercial flights were still banned from landing at the Kuwait airport, so we would be flying not in a comfortable commercial aircraft but aboard a military Hercules transport plane. The Hercules was built for reliability, ruggedness, cargo capacity, and a range of other things. The last concern was passenger comfort; this was definitely not business class. With no windows, seats were arranged along the side of the aircraft, where passengers sat facing each other as though riding in subway cars. Seeing the aircraft and its passenger facilities I suspect Margie regretted joining me on this particular journey, but she typically refused to complain or question the wisdom of my invitation. Things were made decidedly more comfortable when the pilots suggested Margie and I sit immediately behind them at the front of the aircraft. Along with padded chairs we enjoyed the prospect of viewing our destination as we approached Kuwait City airport. The flight wasn’t a long one, although I imagine it seemed longer to the businessmen travelling with us who were strapped sideways into the unwindowed part of the fuselage. As we approached Kuwait, our destination appeared as a monstrous black cloud. The smoke carried specks of oil as high as 10,000 feet, a challenge to the Canadian military pilots guiding us safely to the ground. The oily fumes rose from dozens, possibly hundreds, of fires set by Iraqi soldiers as they retreated in the face of the US-led forces advancing on them. It was and remains one of history’s most selfish acts of destruction. With the airport in sight, one of our pilots requested landing instructions. There were none. “Land anywhere,” he was told, and so we did,

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settling down onto a damaged runway littered here and there with burntout cars and trucks. Things were made easier by the fact that, aside from one small passenger aircraft next to the warehouse that had been adapted to serve as a reception area, the place appeared deserted. On the ground we discovered some Canadians already on site. Many were experienced firefighters working alongside the legendary Red Adair, busy extinguishing the blazes set by retreating Iraqi troops. It was dangerous work on an enormous scale, and I was pleased to discover that our people were highly regarded for their ability to tackle the disaster efficiently. On the way to the desert the following day, outfitted in paper coveralls to protect us from the oil and soot, I recalled some tongue-in-cheek advice about never stopping to look around while travelling through hell. The Kuwait desert was as close to hell as I ever wished to be. I stopped anyway, just long enough for a 180-degree scan of the landscape, and counted ­thirty-five roaring fires within view. I found it impossible to understand how and why Saddam Hussein or anyone else could inflict such wanton destruction. The impact was felt not only on the tiny nation of Kuwait, whose only real economic asset was its oil fields, but also on the environment itself. The rich gold of the sun and the deep blue of the sky were both obscured by the oily black smoke that choked and almost blinded everyone. After losing his audacious gamble to occupy Kuwait and claim the value of its oil fields, Hussein had attempted to create a permanent barrier to the nation’s recovery. Saddam Hussein’s wanton destruction of Kuwait’s only natural resource and the environmental damage it created generated more anger and disgust in me than I felt towards any individual in my life. Along with others in our party, I returned to Kuwait City shaken by what I had seen. Later that day I was scheduled to meet with Sheikh Jaber, the emir of Kuwait. We couldn’t meet in the badly damaged Bayan Palace. Instead, Ambassador Larry Dickenson and I were taken to the private home of a wealthy Kuwaiti. Entering the ballroom-sized chamber, I thought I had been misled. The room appeared to be empty. Then a small voice in a

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far darkened corner spoke softly to us. “I think they’re over there,” Larry said, and we walked towards two men seated at a small table. It proved to be the emir and one of his advisers. I immediately felt sympathy for the man who had been so diminished by the actions of Saddam Hussein that he was forced to meet us in such a cavernous, austere, and borrowed space. The four of us spoke at some length about Saddam’s motivations for treating his neighbouring country so harshly. Like almost all Arab rulers, the emir’s power had been acquired through traditional heredity succession rather than democratic election. Still, I was impressed at the sincere concern he expressed over the difficulties his citizens would face in rebuilding their oil industry and their country. He was both realistic about the extent of the damage and troubled over the prospects of his people who depended on him for leadership. Margie, meanwhile, had been escorted on a tour of the area around Kuwait City. Things were made easier for her than in Riyadh thanks to Kuwait’s more relaxed approach to women’s appearance in public. She and the two young women accompanying her wore casual western-style clothing everywhere they went. The first part of the tour provided Margie with a measure of the war’s aftermath. Much of the city remained off-limits for all but the brave people assigned to locate unexploded bombs and mines, many of them along the shoreline. Disturbing as this was, a more terrifying experience awaited Margie. “They took me to a museum,” she told me later, “which sounded fine, but they weren’t supposed to take me there.” The reason became evident shortly after Margie entered the building. The people of Kuwait had violently resisted the Iraqi invasion, sometimes by refusing to work or perform any duties to keep the country functioning, and sometimes through sabotage and other violent means. The Iraqi forces responded to both with the kind of brutality expected from Hussein’s forces. Suspected members of the Kuwaiti resistance were publicly executed; others were secretly

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kidnapped and their bodies, many bearing evidence of horrific torture, were deposited in front of their family homes. Kuwaitis insisted on documenting these atrocities, and the most immediate means was to display evidence in the museum. Nothing was held back. Along with chains, knives, and other weapons used by the Iraqis, Margie was shown jars of human body parts severed from Kuwaiti citizens by the invaders. Margie took as much of this as she could handle before saying, “I think we should go now, please.” The women with her understood. With apologies they told her they wanted her and, eventually, the world to know how much the Kuwaiti people had suffered. Some time later we left Kuwait for Abu Dhabi, capital of the United Arab Emirates (UAE), where I visited Sheikh Zayed. I had travelled to Abu Dhabi on visits during the 1970s when it was a somewhat different city, filled with intrigue and colour but devoid of modern development – especially air conditioning. I recalled one July journey when the heat was so stifling that I found it difficult to understand how anyone could survive in such an environment. That had been just fifteen years earlier, and on this visit I could not believe I was in the same city. A corniche built along the waterfront was stunning in its design, as modern and brilliantly executed as anything I had seen elsewhere in the world. The rest of the city was pristinely clean, spotted with modern malls and shiny shopping areas, all blessedly air-conditioned. Sheikh Zayed, who had ruled Abu Dhabi for many years, had long set the development of his capital city as a major objective. Quite elderly by this visit, he was justifiably proud of his achievement and in animated discussions spoke of the difficulties overcome and his pleasure at the results. My ministerial counterpart from the UAE, who was present during my meeting with the Sheikh, later told me he had been almost brought to tears by Sheikh Zayed’s emotion when speaking about his accomplishments. I understood the reactions of both men. Abu Dhabi had been originally constructed out of stones and sand dunes over an extended period of time.

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Then, in a burst of planning and energy, driven by the vision of a single man and financed from the wealth of its oil reserves, it had been transformed into one of the world’s great metropolitan communities. The following year I visited Japan along with David Dodge, then deputy minister of finance, where we met with Mamoru Ozaki, Japan’s deputy minister of finance. I had met Mamoru several times over the years, and we had become good friends. During our visit, Mamoru invited us to the fabled Buddhist Toji Temple in Kyoto, where he served as a part-time priest. After passing through a special honorific entrance, we were formally greeted by the head priest who ushered us into a simple dining area. In Japanese tradition we were seated cross-legged on the floor to dine on a meal of fish and root vegetables, washed down by a refreshing Japanese beer. The meal was fine, but my long legs protested about being bent and I had to excuse myself to stand and walk around before the meal ended. The dinner concluded with a traditional tea ceremony served by young women of the temple, none of whom, I noted, had any problem kneeling on the floor. The temple was established around AD 700. This was made even more impressive when the priest escorted us into a special enclosed area featuring ripples of sand that reputedly dated back to the year of the temple’s founding. Through centuries of war and upheaval, we were assured, the ripples had never been disturbed, an impressive demonstration of the focus on timelessness and rejection of temporal concerns. From there we were led to another area of the temple where the priest motioned for me to stand on a marked spot before vanishing behind a curtain. Suddenly a spinning globe bathed in bright light descended from the ceiling and a raft of unseen speakers began blaring “O Canada.” The globe lowered itself to my eye level and stopped spinning with Canada positioned directly in front of me. Very impressive. “We do that with all our visitors,” the priest said when he emerged again, wearing a smile. “It usually results in very nice financial donations to help support us here in our temple.” I took the hint and made a contribution to

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the temple’s upkeep. The undisturbed 1,300-year-old ripples in the sand were still impressive, but I saw their demonstration of timelessness in a new light of practical need and modern promotion techniques. Later that year Margie and I made a memorable trip to Vietnam. It had been less than twenty years since the end of that terribly destructive war and significant damage remained evident almost everywhere we looked. Travelling into Hanoi from the airport we passed row upon row of houses under construction. I noticed stacks of bricks in the front yard of every unfinished house, part of a system of rebuilding not just the community but also the country. When the occupants of each house accumulated enough bricks for another row, they were added to the wall. Over time each house would be built according to the means of the occupants, a demonstration of how Vietnam was literally pulling itself up by its bootstraps The upbeat mood was evident everywhere. Waiting for a traffic light to change at a major intersection in Hanoi, I watched as the sea of people on foot and aboard their bicycles and scooters jockeyed for position. As soon as the light turned green they were off in a tremendous surge of energy I saw repeated over and over during our visit. I sensed echoes of this same attitude during discussions with the country’s senior political leaders. Vigorously planning to rebuild their nation, they were determined to lead the region and perhaps the world in economic growth and social benefits. Their strategy would not likely work in Canada or similar societies, but the unified resolve to succeed was something worth assessing and perhaps emulating to a degree. I made other trips in the region to promote trade, establishing relationships with leaders who could look favourably upon our country and appreciate the mutual benefits we could share. One such trip took me to Malaysia, where the dynamic and straight-shooting Minister of International Trade and Industry Rafidah Aziz served as my host. She and I hit it off well, partially as a result of our shared passion for golf. Discovering my love for the game, she suggested we play a round that Saturday

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following our business sessions. Rafidah invited her husband Mohamed Basir Ahmad, who would soon be appointed chairman of the country’s largest bank, to join us, and I rounded out the group by inviting a member of our trade mission. We began the game literally at daybreak. As surprising as the tee-off time had initially been, I quickly realized it was a matter of sheer necessity. Playing for several hours in the oppressive heat of the equatorial midday sun would have been impossible, especially for a foreigner like me. Rafidah told me that she and others frequently played golf at night, beneath floodlights. Rafidah, approaching fifty years of age and barely five foot three in height, had been playing golf for barely a year. This raised some concern about what the next four hours might bring. Would we spend much of the time standing around while Rafidah chopped her way along the course or searched for her ball in the rough? Wanting to avoid any embarrassment on her part, I suggested that we three men could tee off from the standard location while Rafidah take her drive from the women’s tee. It was a major faux pas. Pulling herself up to her full height, she barked, “When I play with ladies I hit from the ladies’ tee. And when I play with men I hit off the men’s tees.” Before I could apologize, she drew an oversized driver from her bag and, with perfect follow through, sent the ball straight down the fairway, an accurate and distant drive that I or any other man would be proud to make. Rafidah proved to be more than an exceptional golfer. She was also acutely aware of her appearance, and it reflected in her choice of wardrobe. On this occasion every element of her outfit and equipment, from visor and glove to tee and ball, were the same purple-pink colour. As we headed down the fairway I asked Mohamed how many such coordinated golfing outfits his wife owned. He told me to guess. “Five?” I said.

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He shook his head. Rafidah was some distance ahead of us. “Seven?” Another shake of the head. “Ten?” “Many more than that,” he said. “There aren’t that many colours!” I protested. Mohamed smiled and said, “Polka-dots.” Rafidah served as Malaysia’s minister of international trade and industry from 1987 to 2008, setting a record for women parliamentarians in that country. I often wondered about the role her fashion sense and golf expertise played in her extended career. It was always a pleasure to meet bright and dedicated officials with whom to exchange shared visions and goals. Sometimes the location of such an exchange was both surprising and eye opening. In July 1992, not long after my visit to the Baltic states, I led a Canadian trade mission to Russia. Moscow in July can be very hot, which comes as a surprise to some people given all the familiar clichés of the city being mired in ice and snow much of the year. Despite the heat and humidity in summer, air conditioning in the city is rare and often ineffective. Such was the case on the day of our first reception at our embassy, where we invited a large number of Russian business and professional people to join us. Towards the end of the reception I was introduced to a Russian in military uniform. His khaki shirt was soaked in perspiration, partly as a result of the heat and humidity, and partly from all the liquid refreshments he had ingested from our embassy bar. The man proved very jovial despite his apparent discomfort, and our conversation, one might say, was quite spirited. I discovered he was Major General Pavel Popovich, the fourth Soviet cosmonaut and first Ukrainian to fly into space. He boasted other achievements as well. Thirty years earlier, as commander of Vostok 4, he completed the first communication between two manned spacecraft in orbit.

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Later, in 1974, he commanded Soyuz 14 in a manned space flight to the Salyut 3 space station. Quite a guy. Twice named Hero of the Soviet Union and recipient of the Order of Lenin, among other awards, he appeared uninterested in discussing these aspects of his life. Instead, he wanted to address more serious issues. He was shocked at the obvious deterioration of the global atmosphere that had occurred over the twelve years between his two space flights, and he vowed to devote his life to protecting the atmosphere from more damage. Recently appointed head of a Russian agency responsible for environmental protection – a rare achievement in Russia for a Ukrainian – he was in a position to make a significant difference. I was quite impressed by his apparent dedication and sincerity. At one point in our conversation he asked about our plans for the coming weekend. When I replied that our delegation would be attending the Moscow Circus, Pavel insisted we come to his dacha for dinner beforehand. I agreed to bring four or five people from our trade mission, and he would invite an equal number of his friends to join us. His dacha turned out to be roughly equal in size to the economy townhouse Margie and I had rented for $125 a month as newlyweds. The ground floor consisted of a carport, an entrance, and a staircase to the second floor, which had a living/dining room on one side of a corridor and a kitchen on the other side. Another staircase led to a third-floor bedroom and the only bathroom. I mention this in detail because cosmonauts are famous and privileged people in Russia, honoured celebrities eligible for luxuries and special treatment as a measure of their country’s pride and gratitude. The Soviet Union had apparently depleted so much of Russia’s wealth, however, that this simple residence was all it could allot to one of its most distinguished citizens. The most prominent features of the home were a framed photograph of Pavel alongside Nikita Khrushchev, Yuri Gagarin, and some Soviet officials celebrating Pavel’s 1962 trip into space; and five unopened bottles of

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vodka lined up on the kitchen table. Through dinner the photograph was ignored but the vodka received constant attention, punctuating a multitude of toasts and stories. I participated in all of them, downing the vodka free of water, ice, tonic, or any other dilution of its power. This may explain why I felt no after-effects of the alcohol the next day. And it almost certainly explains why I recall almost nothing of the Moscow Circus performance we attended.

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CHAPTER TEN

Brian, Mick, and Me

with time to look back at those years spent in government, I’ve changed my perspective somewhat. It enabled me to sharpen my assessment of many things and many people, none more so than Brian Mulroney. I’m not prepared to name the Canadian who received the most press coverage throughout his political life, but Mulroney is close to the top, if not sitting at the summit. Depending on the media’s mood and his actions, coverage on Mulroney swung from veneration and esteem to hostility and outright condemnation. Time’s passage has generated its own recompense, and many Canadians who were among the least supportive of Mulroney when he occupied the Prime Minister’s Office have now come to see him in a warmer light, actually assuming admiration in some quarters. I look back on our years together with a deeper appreciation of the man and his qualities, free of the fealty I might have owed him during our parliamentary years. No one was born more naturally to political life than Martin Brian Mulroney. When it came to formulating policy, his instincts were superb. He could assess people and situations instantly before determining the best way to take advantage of both. Along with the clarity of his vision, his natural instincts guided virtually every step he took in office and beyond. Soon after our 1984 election victory he made a profound and revealing comment while we were chatting in the library at 24 Sussex. “Mike, you and I are here to make a difference,” he said. “We can always get a good

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job elsewhere. That’s a given. But we’re in government to change things for the better. If we weren’t, we might as well go back to the private sector and make ourselves a little money.” This may sound like hype or Irish blarney, but it was neither. He was totally sincere about using his position to make a difference for Canada and its residents. Knowing this made me proud to have been a part of the team he assembled to turn his vision into a reality, and if that makes me appear like someone who drank the Mulroney Kool-Aid, then so be it. All of us in the party became engaged in his agenda, and together we covered an immense amount of ground at a pivotal time for Canada. Mulroney was dedicated to change. Change wasn’t some plotted political strategy to differentiate him and our party; it was at the core of his reason for entering politics in the first place. Only after he left the political stage did supporters and critics alike stand back and reflect on how much of his vision he accomplished. It was a formidable list. Along with the FTA/NAFTA and GST it included the following: • changing the constitution to bring Quebec closer to the rest of the Canadian family; • making Canada a member of the Organization of American States; • committing to the elimination of apartheid in South Africa via sanctions, a move that challenged his friendship with Ronald Reagan and vexed Margaret Thatcher immensely; • teaming with President Mitterand of France to successfully launch La Francophonie, including Quebec and New Brunswick as active participants; • fighting and winning a significant (and sometimes near-hostile) encounter with the United States to bring them aboard an Acid Rain Treaty with Canada; and • influencing US President George H.W. Bush to significantly broaden opposition to Saddam Hussein. I’m not interested in painting myself as a cheerleader for the guy or for anyone else. It’s not only possible to distinguish between loyalty and

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blind commitment when assessing political leaders – it is essential. Mulroney and the rest of us in the federal Progressive Conservative Party had our missteps and misgivings. But everything, both in and out of politics, must be weighed from all sides, and on balance even his critics agree that Brian Mulroney managed to make positive gains both within and beyond Canada’s borders. One aspect of Mulroney’s years in office that some Canadians found difficult to handle was his obvious and highly successful effort to forge strong relationships with Ronald Reagan and George H.W. Bush. Both men were the closest friends he had among all international leaders, and he worked hard to build and develop those friendships. Setting aside any discomfort this created among some sectors of the country, his rapport with both men was highly beneficial to Canada because of the magnitude and complexity of our affiliation with the US. Besides being the closest of neighbours, we were each other’s largest trading partners, and Canada was the largest supplier of energy to the US. Our economies were and are deeply integrated, and we shared common interests in foreign policy and national security, a fact I observed first-hand during my years as ambassador to the US. Were we toadies to the US under Mulroney? Not a bit. The rest of the cabinet and I were quite aware of the frank exchanges that occurred between him and both occupants of the White House during his tenure. All good relationships, as much between nations as between friends, depend on rapport and respect on both sides. Mulroney recognized this from the beginning, and he developed both to suit Canada’s interests by ensuring they were shared with any country we dealt with. The same guideline works just as efficiently in relationships between private sector organizations. The best way for any CEO or manager to ensure honesty and openness among employees is to display and practise it themselves. This is one place where the trickle-down theory works effectively. Mulroney and I worked together by following general rules of trust and transparency. When it came to issues relating to my portfolio, we would

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discuss them from a strategic viewpoint without delving into technical details. This was especially the case (and especially welcomed by me) when I was delivering a budget to the House and proved invaluable not just when I was dealing with the Opposition and media but within our own caucus too. My position as minister of finance implicated me in parliamentary debates that spanned the entire spectrum of national interests. While preparing budgets, I was tapped by colleagues from all across the country bringing me the needs and concerns of their constituents. The knowledge and grasp of issues I acquired could not be restricted to the financial end of things. I needed an understanding of matters associated with social policy, health care, defence, energy, foreign investment, mining, manufacturing, climate change, and an entire gamut of affairs that were drawing the attention of Canadians. The decisions and rationalizations to be made in drafting a federal budget affected them all. Sometimes decisions made in one sector conflicted with and even overturned the plans of departments under the aegis of other members of the cabinet, and I needed to demonstrate sensitivity to their views. I tried to be always acutely aware of the impact a federal budget makes on the lives of individuals. And, in all honesty, on our popularity (and future) as a government. So where did this leave me? My background in finance and investment qualified me at least to some extent for the finance minister portfolio. But there was no way I could have brought similar levels of expertise on issues affected by decisions I made while crafting a budget. I could meet that challenge only by requesting and evaluating contributions from groups that included public servants, political colleagues, contacts in the private sector, and whatever other trusted input I could gather from accredited individuals. The situation reminded me of a comment I heard by an expert on veterinarians. In this person’s view, a veterinarian’s education was far more complex than that of a physician’s, whose medical knowledge need only include Homo sapiens. They needed to know and apply information on

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just one species. Veterinarians needed similar understandings of dozens of different animals, from gerbils and horses to cats and dogs. In that sense, I suppose I was something of a fiscal veterinarian. When I took the jump into federal politics, I expected to be tapped at some point for my familiarity with financial, taxation, and investment matters. It never crossed my mind that I would also be responsible for the impact of tariffs on mushroom growers or the challenge of determining taxation levels on software developers. This proved a real stretch for someone with an introverted nature and a decidedly lower level of self-confidence than most born political leaders. Politics at the cabinet level often appeared to me like a high-stakes game show where one wrong answer could cost the country billions of dollars, not to mention my job. As time passed, however, I grew to view politics less as a game and more as an adventure, a journey to be taken down an unknown road with unexpected obstacles encountered along the way. Incidentally, this contrasted deeply with all that I learned during my financial days on Bay Street. When evaluating a bond trade or stock issue every conceivable element was identified and scrutinized in advance to avoid surprises. In contrast, much of public service consists of encountering unexpected changes and challenges, and dealing with them in as unflappable a manner as possible. I learned to treasure my experience in office because it helped me to overcome my fear of change and challenge. I began viewing these things as opportunities to learn and act, maximizing the potential of the decisions I made while having an exciting time in the bargain. Brian Mulroney succeeded at finding the perfect knife-edge balance between managing his team to help him achieve his own aspirations and leaving room for others to set their own strategies. It may have been his most valued talent, next to building warm relationships among those whose support he needed, and he did it superbly. Of course, it took a few choruses of “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling” to get the job done.

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By early 1993 our team had spent nine years governing the country. That’s not a long time in a nation’s history, nor was it a record period in comparison with other Canadian federal governments. But it was long enough for Mulroney, who informed me and other cabinet members that he intended to step down before the next federal election. In a private session after announcing his plans, he suggested three options that he believed I might pursue. One would be to serve as ambassador to the United States, adding that he would be more than happy to appoint me to the post. Or I could remain in politics and vie for the leadership, filling his shoes as Prime Minister. The third alternative: I could resume my career in the private sector. I was flattered by his suggestion that I assume the ambassadorial role. It would have been a great honour, as it proved to be when I stepped into the position sometime later. But this was 1993, and despite our achievements the country was ready for a change. We were lagging in the polls, and in the event that we lost the upcoming election I would be asked by the new government to step down from the position. Run for the party leadership to replace Mulroney? This was a possibility. I learned a great deal over our nine years as governing party, plus my time in Opposition. I absorbed much of the Prime Minister’s technique and strategy as leader, I had clear policy views on improving things in Canada, and, while my French was just passable, I could always work to improve it. No matter – I lacked an instinctive understanding of Quebec politics and would need a strong Quebec lieutenant. I also had to assess with brutal honesty my appeal as a party leader candidate. Would members look for continuity from someone who had been an integral part of the Mulroney team, or would they prefer a fresh new face with a fresh new agenda? And how could anyone, least of all me, measure up to Mulroney’s magnetism and love of the limelight? Then there was Margie. She was not keen to see me run again, although she promised to support me if I sought the party leadership. After fourteen years in politics she suggested it was time for us to pursue a “normal”

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life, which meant living away from the incessant glare of media lights and ­attention. It also meant spending more time with our family, beginning with shifting the family nest out of Ottawa. Cameron, who set off for London after graduating from Concordia, had returned to accept a position with National Trust in Toronto. Geoff graduated from McGill and was with TD Bank on the investment management side while Lara, with her degree from Bishop’s University in hand, was employed in the telecommunications field with a small Toronto firm. All three children were back in the city where it all began, and Margie herself had moved there the previous year. These were reasons enough for me to bid goodbye to Ottawa and federal politics. As proud as I was of my contribution to the Mulroney government’s achievements over the years, I had paid a price in the amount of time I had been able to spend with my family. Now, with all three children poised to launch their own careers and families, I wanted to stay close to them. Nevertheless, the possibility of stepping into the Prime Minister’s shoes and leading the party to a potential victory later in the year was difficult to reject, and I decided to test the water. Canvassing some caucus members confirmed my feelings about the party’s preference for a new leader. While they shared our pride in the achievements we had made, they sensed the need to shift gears and appeal to a new generation of voters. Coupled with this was some residue of resentment about the Free Trade Agreement and the GST within and beyond the party. I heard kind words about my contribution to the overall good record of the party under Mulroney, but the members were looking elsewhere, including in the direction of Kim Campbell. She matched the majority’s vision of an ideal candidate, not the least in becoming potentially the first female Prime Minister in the country’s history. Now there was a break in tradition. The kiss of death for my idea came from a colleague who responded to my question about running for the leadership by saying, “I’ll support

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you provided that, if you don’t win, you promise to continue as a senior ­minister serving under whomever the new leader may be.” I refused to assume the risk of losing while bound by a commitment to serve another four years under a new leader regardless of the outcome of the election. Margie, as always, influenced my decision with her usual blend of wisdom and instinct. Having grown weary of both federal politics and Ottawa winters, she had moved back to Toronto, leaving me to ponder my future. While in Toronto she had listened carefully to comments about the Mulroney government from acquaintances and, as she put it, “people in the street,” coming to a conclusion she expressed to me in three words: “You can’t win.” Leave now, she said, and avoid the punch in the gut I would suffer when I lost my seat. I listened and announced that I would not be seeking re-election. I would become an intrigued spectator of the race to replace Mulroney. Of the five leadership candidates, Kim Campbell emerged as the favourite almost from the beginning. I wasn’t surprised. In fact, I was somewhat pleased since I had encouraged her to consider running for the leadership earlier. She certainly had the experience. Kim had served under Mulroney in four cabinet positions, including the important justice minister portfolio, and there was much excitement within the party about seeing her assume the title of Canada’s first female Prime Minister. I supported her because I considered her highly qualified and capable. She won the leadership handily and on 25 June 1993 was appointed Prime Minister by the governor general. The election was set for exactly four months later. While I made my support for her known, I avoided playing a prominent role in the election. Both the party and the country wanted a change in Ottawa. As a key player in the Mulroney government, I felt my presence would dilute the concept, so I chose to keep my involvement off stage for the most part. The wisdom of this move became apparent as the election campaign progressed. Among the many missteps leading to a decline in support for her, Kim chose to toss the record of the Mulroney government out the window. In her view, the electorate had developed a strong negative

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perception of Mulroney – strong enough, she directed, that he was not to be mentioned in her campaign dialogue nor in her government’s agenda. This was a fatal error from the start. Her intended overhaul of government policies was never articulated adequately, which meant that voters were being asked, to employ an old phrase, to buy a pig in a poke. There were other missteps as well, including her suggestion that neither the deficit nor the unemployment levels could be solved “before the end of the century,” as well as her campaign’s personal attacks on Jean Chrétien. The October 1993 election was devastating to the party, leaving it with just two seats. Blame naturally fell heavily on Campbell’s shoulders, but it was not entirely her fault. The rise of two new parties – the Reform Party, which acquired a strong following in the West in response to its abrupt shift to the right beyond the PCs; and the Bloc Québécois, led by my former cabinet colleague Lucien Bouchard, who created it to serve as a federal base for separatist sentiments – captured a large portion of the PC vote Mulroney had nurtured for years. Both groups positioned themselves to the right of the Progressive Conservative Party. With the loss of the 1995 referendum and the resignation of Jacques Parizeau as PQ leader, Bouchard was acclaimed Parizeau’s successor until retiring from politics in 2001. This, along with the amalgamation of the Reformists and PCs into the Conservative Party, paved the way for Stephen Harper’s success in 2006. All of this came later, of course. Margie and I moved back to Toronto during the summer prior to the election. We spent a relaxing month in a cottage owned by good friends Doug and Sue Bassett, taking time to discuss our options. I left it to others to endure the scrums in the hall and the jibes of Question Period. I had made my choice, and it felt good. But I wasn’t ready to retire to golf or anything else. So much for my political record. Now I want to set another “record” straight, this one loosely related to music.

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I have been asked if Mick Jagger was a classmate of mine at the London School of Economics, a question that confused me because I never attended the school while living in London although, as I suggested earlier, I was not an unfamiliar face around the school’s environs. Mick Jagger famously did attend, of course, planning to become either a journalist or a politician, allegedly comparing the latter profession with pop stars. Following the 1988 federal election, nearly thirty years after Jagger left the LSE to join his buddy Keith Richards in launching The Rolling Stones, Margie and I took a badly needed Caribbean vacation. Sir James Fitz-Allen “Son” Mitchell, Prime Minister of St. Vincent and the Grenadines, also served as his country’s finance minister, which is how he and I connected at my first Commonwealth Ministers’ Conference in 1984. Each time we met, Sir James would repeat his insistence that Margie and I simply must come to visit him and his island nation. He owned a hotel called The Frangipani on the neighbouring island of Bequia (pronounced “Beck-way”). “Call me anytime and I shall arrange immediately for you to be my guest there,” he would say. His invitation, I knew, was sincere and I would thank him very much, but the pace of things in ­Ottawa just didn’t permit it. By the end of 1988, however, his invitation proved irresistible. A remote Caribbean island sounded like the perfect place to reflect on my eventual return to the private sector. Sir James was overjoyed when I contacted him and suggested we come the following day to spend New Year’s there. He would arrange for us to explore other islands in the region as well. We managed to make the travel arrangements on such short notice and quickly saw Bequia as the perfect tiny Caribbean island, covering barely ten square kilometres of land and populated with perhaps 5,000 residents. Sir James’s hotel was a compact jewel, charming and comfortable but not luxurious. We loved it. The day after a memorable New Year’s party that featured a steel-drum band playing from seven at night to seven the next morning, we sailed to Mustique, settling in a house owned by Harding Lawrence and his wife

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Mary Wells. They were an interesting couple – Lawrence had been CEO of Braniff International Airways and Mary had run the advertising company handling the account. Their large home crowned a hill on the island. Our residence for the holiday was a nearby smaller but luxurious dwelling known as the Beach House, accessible to the beach by descending – and re-ascending – ninety-seven steps (I counted them!). But both house and beach were exquisite, so I didn’t mind a bit. On our first evening there, Harding and Mary invited Margie and I to a dinner party with about two dozen other guests, two of whom, we were casually informed, would be Mick Jagger and David Bowie. Bowie was there when we arrived, but he left early to catch a flight to London. We had a long, casual conversation with Mick Jagger, however, covering a wide range of topics. He proved articulate, relaxed, and well versed on every subject that arose, including international politics and finance. Margie and I must have impressed him because he called us at the Beach House the following morning. “It’s good to hear your voice,” I said, assuming perhaps he had something to add to the previous night’s conversation. Instead, he said, “Why don’t you both come over and join me for lunch tomorrow?” How could we not accept? We entered Mick’s house, which was quite nice but modest in size compared to Harding and Mary’s hilltop home, to the sound of classical chamber music playing softly on the stereo. What a contrast to “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction”! The three of us spent a delightful hour over lunch covering a host of topics, many of them financial issues. He grew especially interested when I mentioned our plans to introduce the GST in the coming months, correctly linking it to Britain’s value-added tax. This launched an interesting back-and-forth exchange about similarities, differences, and the general impact of the tax on each country’s economy. It was obvious from his comments that he retained much of the lessons from his classes at the LSE. As we were leaving, I told him I hoped we would meet again, adding, “Some time when you’re in Toronto, let me know.”

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He brushed the idea off, saying, “We don’t do Toronto.” When I asked why, he replied that he didn’t like the city. “We’ll be touring late next year, but only in the States,” he added. “We’re not coming to Canada.” I noted this with regret, then added, “If you ever change your mind and play there, let us know. We’d love to host a party in your honour after your performance.” He thanked me kindly but was clearly noncommittal, and off Margie and I went with memories of an encounter with a genuine international celebrity who displayed surprising charm and wisdom. On a day the following summer I received a telephone call from someone who identified himself as a senior assistant to Mick Jagger, informing me that The Rolling Stones were coming Canada after all. Not only that, but Mick would love to see us while in Toronto. Would I and Margie and our children be interested in attending The Rolling Stones concert scheduled for the upcoming Labour Day weekend at CNE Stadium? When I responded with an enthusiastic “Yes!” the caller noted that Mick didn’t do this kind of thing very often. “Where would it stop if Mick handed free invitations to just anyone?” he added. I took the hint and replied that we would keep his presence a secret and host the promised party for him. “Oh, that would be very generous of you,” the man replied. “He would love to join the party!” Plans for the party, I was instructed, were to be made in the utmost secrecy, including the fact that other invited guests could not know the identity of the surprise visitor who would arrive between eleven o’clock and midnight. Our invitations noted only that guests were requested to arrive before 11:00 p.m. Despite the inconvenience – some would be arriving from Muskoka, Georgian Bay, and other distant addresses – and having no idea of the identity of the guest of honour, no one turned us down. The intrigue, I suspect, was magnetic. I persuaded our friend Tim Chisholm to offer his large home in Forest Hill as the site of the party. He agreed, even though I chose not to reveal the guest’s identity.

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All five of us – Margie, Cameron, Geoff, Lara, and I – attended the ­concert at Toronto’s CNE Stadium before heading for the Chisholm’s home where guests were already arriving. Soon the member of Mick’s entourage who had called me back in June showed up wearing a heavy woollen three-piece suit despite the hot and humid late summer weather. When I asked if he was warm inside the garment he replied, with perspiration flowing from him, “Yes, I am boiling, but I do not take the jacket off.” I attributed this unusual fashion decision to the fact that he was English. When I asked what he did for Mick, he replied, “I look after the maw-nee.” He mentioned that, after Toronto, the tour would include the southern US and several countries in South America, then hop over to Japan and other Asian countries before returning to Europe and ending a full year later in Rotterdam. This led to a discussion on the economics of controlling the income and expenses of a worldwide tour extending over a year and a half. He assured me it was a tough job and a challenge to earn a profit, making it all sound like a nickel-and-dime operation. Later I discovered that the tour grossed over $100 million, which suggested that no one would ever need to host a charity drive for Mick and his associates. Mick didn’t arrive until almost 1:00 a.m. By then the guests had figured out the identity of the mystery guest and were, of course, delighted to be there. Two guests, Gordon Lightfoot and jazz musician Hagood Hardy, were thrilled to speak with Mick, who appeared to enjoy talking with them every bit as much as they did him. Others milled about, taking photographs while generally treating Mick with respect as a true world-class celebrity. He proved as gracious seeing Margie and me again as he had been in the Caribbean, and eventually we wandered to a far corner for a quiet chat on our own. I suspect the other guests assumed we were discussing music or favourite Bordeaux wines or some aspect of life on the wild side. Instead, Mick began the conversation with, “So how’s your value-added tax coming along?”

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Then I revealed that I understood why he didn’t like Canada and hadn’t planned to return. “It’s because of that jerk of a judge who convicted Keith Richards of possession of drugs back in 1979, right?” I probed. “He knew that having you pay a fine to keep Richards out of jail, no matter how much money it might be, wouldn’t mean a damn thing to you. That’s why he made you do a charity concert in beautiful downtown Oshawa as a condition of Richards getting a suspended sentence.” Mick laughed and agreed that was the reason. “I’ll let you in on a secret,” I said. “That judge was my cousin, Lloyd Graburn.” Mick’s eyes widened and he looked around. “Is he here?” he asked, with an expression somewhere between anger and panic. “Relax,” I replied. “He died two years ago.” I added that Lloyd had been an interesting guy who, as a judge, always tried to make a point without resorting to whatever the letter of the law told him to do. This made Lloyd something of a rebel, which might have softened Mick’s attitude towards him. After an hour or so he exited the party, leaving behind a host of people who would recall Mick Jagger not only as a surprisingly approachable individual but also a highly intelligent and widely read man. Nothing they had heard or read about him to that point matched the reality of him as a person. I don’t know a better lesson about the wisdom of not prejudging an individual too quickly or easily.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Back to Business

i knew that walking back into the private sector would not be as simple as changing my wardrobe. In government, many decisions are made for you and your actions occur in the public eye, two aspects of life that rarely occur in business. I was prepared to make that adjustment, and while I knew my career choice would be related to banking, finance, and investment, I needed to define the role I wanted to play within it. Eric Barton, a good friend from our days at Upper Canada College, had served as principal there for some time. He left academia and launched a service to advise people like me who were facing a career shift. When I sought his wisdom for guidance on my decision, Eric handed me a copy of What Color Is Your Parachute? The book has been widely recognized as the prime source of advice for job hunting and career changing. More than that, it’s about deciding who you are as a person and what you want out of life. Among the several guidelines the book provides is the basic lesson that most people do better in jobs they enjoy than in jobs they don’t enjoy. The sweet spot, of course, is found in the balance between the ideal and the practical. Having fun in your job is ideal; earning sufficient income from it is practical. What can you do that will deliver adequate levels of both job satisfaction and income? The book suggests you find the solution by reviewing all the job experiences you have acquired through life, assessing how much enjoyment you gathered from them, and noting how successful you were at each.

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I applied this formula to all the jobs I had stretching from my high school days to the present, then weaving in my experience with travels, recreational activities, and sports. It was a good learning exercise, and one that enabled me to view my rather eclectic life with some perspective. I confirmed to myself that I enjoyed my work in the investment business and had proven pretty successful at it. My career in that area of the private sector, plus years in government, first as finance minister and later as industry and trade minister, revealed the same picture. I loved setting challenges and goals, analysing situations, creating and applying strategies, and working with the people I encountered. Taken all together this made my decision easy, especially when Margie gave her whole-hearted approval. I would return to Toronto and launch my own company, Michael Wilson International (MWI), to provide counselling and related activities in the fields of international trade and investment. I wasn’t certain that the firm would prove successful, but I relished the promise that it would bring me independence. Could I have found suitable employment in a large corporation at the time, instead of launching what was basically a one-man shop? Probably. But I wasn’t prepared to make that move. I needed a cooling-off period from political life, free of bureaucracy and filled with attractive options. I also needed assurance that I would avoid a potential conflict of interest with my public sector experience. This was critical to me. The rules were not as onerous as they are today, but I wanted to avoid any hint of questions regarding my ethics on the subject. I continued to take immense pride in those years spent in government and the accomplishments of our team under Brian Mulroney. We had changed the course of Canada for the better, in our opinion. If history proves us wrong – and I do not believe it will – we will be recognized as parliamentarians who honestly sought improvement on a fair and equitable basis for the widest possible group of citizens. But I had spent a whole decade beholden, in many ways, to an entire country, and I wished to be obligated to no one but my family and myself.

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I cannot explain my exhilaration more clearly than that. Many people, I understand, prefer working within a large organization, trading a portion of their independence for job security and defined responsibilities. I wasn’t one of them at the time. My vision was in the opposite direction, looking for the opportunity to achieve goals on my own terms, or at least as much as my work offered. If working without a net meant that I flew or fell according to my own energy and abilities, I was glad to take the risk. I was also, however, prepared to take a few small steps before sprinting full speed. When I discovered that four friends and former colleagues were intent on launching their own businesses from modest beginnings, a picture came together for us all. The friends were Jim Pitblado, a former partner at RBC Dominion Securities; Frank Potter, my former banker in Ottawa whom I later supported for appointment as Canadian executive director for the World Bank in Washington; Bob Sillcox, another former colleague from my early days at Harris & Partners; and Denyse MacKenzie, a trade specialist who had worked with me in Ottawa. We took our first small steps together by sharing rented office space at BCE Place (now Brookfield Place), each of us excited about building our businesses from scratch. And our timing was good. Tech-based start-up companies were surging and dependent on capital markets for their growth and expansion. I was no techie, but I knew a thing or two about capital markets and start-up financing. I had a limited list of clients, but they were exceptional in size and the challenges they presented. I did some interesting work with the Irving family in Saint John, New Brunswick. Jim Irving Sr. and I had met while I was industry minister and we had gotten along well. The Irvings are a hard-driving family whose interests centre on petroleum refining and marketing, forest products, and shipbuilding. It was in the shipbuilding end of things where Jim sought my assistance. He was looking for opportunities to develop business in the Middle East, selling frigate-class vessels there. I had made contacts with a few of Irving’s target countries while serving as trade minister, and I became part of the team demonstrating the

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capabilities of the frigates in the Gulf waters off Kuwait. Very exciting and stimulating, but we were unsuccessful at making a sale. Still, I enjoyed my relationship with Jim and the family. Most of my activity leaned towards RBC Dominion Securities, where good friends from my pre-politics days were still working. Many of them had assisted me in winning the nomination in Etobicoke Centre. Finding myself among them again made me feel like a soldier returning from battle, having shed his uniform and weapons and eager to rejoin the civilians. My RBC colleagues had changed little, but the firm itself had been altered to a major extent, mostly from acquisitions. Included among the companies absorbed within RBC Dominion Securities were staunch pillars that had dominated the finance and investment industry for decades – A.E. Ames, Pitfield MacKay Ross, Richardson Greenshields, Pemberton Securities, and others. The differences in RBC itself were evident beyond its inflated size; the company handled a vastly larger number of products and a more sophisticated approach to business than before, and its operations were far more complex and professional. But the substance remained. As transformed as many aspects of the company may have been, its culture and the core of its services were essentially unchanged. This made it easy for me to integrate my services within the company until CEO Tony Fell suggested I “drop that little thing” – meaning MWI – and join a mainstream firm. Like RBC, of course. That “little thing,” I explained to Tony, represented my independence and I was not ready to drop it. After some back and forth exchanges we found a middle ground and agreed I would spend about 60 per cent of my time on RBC business and the balance on my MWI clients. News of my re-immersion into the Toronto investment scene attracted invitations to serve as director for various public corporations. I anticipated that these opportunities would come up and I accepted a few, choosing boards linked to large multinational companies and bypassing start-ups or regional operations. While it may sound practical to first serve

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as a director with small firms and move up the ladder to larger corporations after establishing your bona fides, that’s a difficult goal to achieve. I knew one former politician who chose that path, associating himself with small firms to get his feet wet, as it were. Instead of building a reputation as a shrewd and competent director, he was seen as someone who lacked the capacity to serve effectively on a large company board and thus was never asked to join one. I was pleased to be invited to join the board of Amoco, a major integrated global oil company headquartered in Chicago. Five years later Amoco merged with BP, the giant UK-based oil and gas company, to become BP Amoco plc (now just BP plc) and I continued on the board of the new firm for several years. I also served as director for both Manulife Financial and Rio Algom Mines. These experiences established my eligibility for large company boards. Later, I reversed course to accept appointments to boards of some exciting technology companies, sampling the job in much different circumstances. Each was satisfying and educational. In 1997 my position on the board of Manulife led to a startling experience. That year marked the centennial of Manulife’s presence in Hong Kong, and Margie and I were invited to attend the company’s celebration, scheduled for 1 July. The date also happened to mark the end of Britain’s ninety-nine-year lease of Hong Kong, when the city was to be handed over to China. Manulife was hosting a dinner for 500 of its employees in a Hong Kong hotel ballroom. A projection system had been set up for everyone to watch the televised event unfolding elsewhere in Hong Kong, featuring Prince Charles and Chris Patten, the British-appointed governor of Hong Kong. As you might expect, the ceremony was tightly staged and very formal, culminating in the Prince and governor signing the declaration transferring Hong Kong to the mainland. Margie and I were sharing our table with Mary and Arthur Sawchuk, chair of Manulife; and Pearl and Domenic D’Alessandro, the firm’s CEO. The six of us, plus a handful of others, represented the only

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non-Chinese participants at the dinner, so we grew confused when, as the ceremony reached its climax, a loud clamour welled up around us when the image of the ceremony on the TV screen suddenly shifted. Instead of Prince Charles and the governor, the screen showed a contingent of Red Army troops bounding up the stairs towards the ceremony platform, looking for all the world like the New York Yankees erupting from their dugout to celebrate the final play of the World Series or, dare I say it, the Toronto Maple Leafs leaping over the boards upon winning the Stanley Cup. Taking up their positions on and around the stage, the soldiers made their point: Britain no longer belonged in Hong Kong in any official capacity. Hong Kong residents in the room celebrated the arrival of the soldiers with joy. Our boys are back! That was the message to those of us from Canada and elsewhere. It was easy to sense the delight of those from Hong Kong and understand their excitement at once again having control of their land. In the years since, however, I wondered if the same people continued to share the pride of the event and its historical significance in light of the excesses demonstrated by Beijing as it tightened its control over the former colony. By 1998 I realized that almost all of my time, apart from my work on corporate boards, was devoted to RBC Dominion Securities. Greater integration between traditional bank services and investment banking had produced complex assignments for me on their behalf, and I often teamed with Bruce Rothney who captained RBC’s activities in this sector. Bruce and I had complementary skills and worked well together – so well that I caved in to set MWI aside and occupy office space at RBC. This meant relinquishing some of the independence I so valued, but I gained monetarily with RBC paying my rent and covering my office expenses. Besides, we were doing exciting work at a unique period. The technology industry continued to expand at an enormous rate, and our involvement with the demands of its growth proved stimulating and rewarding.

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Among our most prominent clients was Research In Motion, now called BlackBerry. At the time, their unique cell phones were among the highest regarded products in the industry, and we helped take the company public. This was key to the industry whose leaders, while making amazing progress and revolutionizing so much of life in the twenty-first century, lacked an understanding of various financial and investment practices. When we brought critical expertise in finance and investment matters to the mix, both sides benefited enormously. And yes, the bubble eventually broke, or at least deflated substantially. This occurred shortly after my departure from RBC in 2000, and no, I am sure there was no connection between the two events. I did receive some undeserved compliments, however, on my supposedly brilliant timing. My association with Dominion Securities ended abruptly and perhaps significantly on a Friday the 13th. On that day in July 2000, I took a phone call from Tony Fell, who informed me that RT Capital, an investment management arm of RBC, found itself in serious regulatory trouble. RT Capital served as Canada’s largest privately owned pension fund manager with assets under management of about $35 billion. But there were problems. The Ontario Securities Commission (OSC), Tony revealed, was charging RT Capital with artificially elevating the share prices of its investments at the end of reporting periods, using the fraudulent figures to claim unwarranted increases in fee revenues. Given the company’s role of stewardship over the retirement plans of a multitude of Canadians, even a hint of fiscal misconduct was unacceptable. It was easy to foresee the devastation to its reputation, and to RBC’s as well, that news of the scandal would generate. Top members of the RT Capital executive team – chair, CEO, chief investment officer, VP of finance, and two traders – were already gone in a necessary house cleaning, but the taint persisted. Tony’s request was direct: Was I prepared to take over at RT Capital, stabilize the situation, bring remaining members together in a revamped team, and ensure there would be no repetition of similar action within the

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firm? It would be a matter of firming values and defining roles. RT Capital and RBC needed a stabilizing force, and my role would be to convey this stability to clients. The latter was important since I was not, nor claimed to be, an investment management professional. Tony’s offer gave me pause. Accepting it would launch a new experience for me. I had never worked on the RT Capital side of the investment business, nor had I ever been a CEO. But there was a risk: I could only assume that all of the details of the issue had been exposed and that no skeletons were left behind in the closet, so to speak. If they existed, or if I slipped up in any area associated with compliance, my reputation could be soiled almost as much as those of my predecessors. But the challenge and experience were too tempting to pass up. I agreed to make the move, with some trepidation. I was not exactly taking the helm of a sinking ship but, to extend the analogy, RT Capital was listing rather badly. Some clients were threatening to withdraw their assets. Others were taking, at best, a wait-and-see attitude. Among my initial decisions on the job was to instigate a series of downto-earth and often difficult conversations among our clients and their committees. The primary ingredient in each was straight talk; there could be no pretending that the compliance issue had not arisen. Yes, I agreed, there had been problems with compliance, and yes, the shiny reputation of RT Capital had been tarnished. But the people involved with the malfeasance were gone, new inflexible protocols and a new executive team were in place, and RT Capital was committed to a plan of future growth and enhanced service. That was the strategy and, for the most part, it worked. We retained most of our clients, the firm’s operations stabilized, and we began moving forward. I still wasn’t sure we were positioned to make the most of things, given our situation. When client conversations were completed, I initiated a study within the firm itself. I asked all remaining senior management to prepare a report covering the options we might consider employing

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to improve the firm’s prospects. I didn’t ask for recommendations on the strategy to be followed. I wanted assessments, not decisions; ideas, not action. When the report arrived on my desk shortly after Labour Day, the observations were telling. In the opinion of top-level staff, RT Capital was not considered an integral part of RBC, nor had it been for some time. Ownership did not equate integration. RT Capital had long deemed itself distant from RBC’s core business and was not a meaningful part of the RBC management structure, including its compliance system. The revelation shone a bright light on the roots of the disaster that had led to the crisis in the first place. Two alternatives to take in dealing with the issue appeared obvious: either we become closely integrated with all RBC investment management activities, or RBC sells the company to a firm more familiar and comfortable with RT Capital’s line of business. The latter was most amenable to RBC Wealth Management, and, following a short series of discussions, RT Capital was put up for sale. Negotiations with potential buyers proved interesting to me not only because I had never previously engaged in anything similar but also because we were marketing, in a way, damaged goods. The OSC’s charges against RT Capital had generated many headlines and much discussion, not only on Bay Street but also among the finance and investment community generally; knowledge of the full scope of the scandal was limited, but the shock of discovering that the firm had been in violation of well-­ established guidelines was widespread – and alarming. We were confident, nevertheless, that we could re-establish RT Capital as one of the top firms in the industry. The bad actors were gone, and the company continued to operate with skilled and seasoned professionals servicing a number of large blue chip clients. With that as our pitch, we went in pursuit of potential buyers. The greatest interest in acquiring the firm came from offshore. This wasn’t entirely surprising. Acquiring RT Capital represented a rare

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opportunity for foreign firms to enter the Canadian investment market via an established company boasting a fair-sized portfolio of substantial clients. Not to mention the roughly $35 billion under management. Anyone outside Canada wanting a presence in the country’s investment industry would see RT Capital as an irresistible option as compared to starting from square one with no client list, no name recognition, and no qualified staff. Serious inquiries soon began arriving, bringing serious issues with them. One issue concerned me and the senior staff I had assembled. Selling the company raised the potential for a major financial pay-off to us as top-level players, and I began negotiating retention payments for us. This is a fairly routine practice today but was unusual at the time, and it proved financially beneficial to those who qualified. It was beneficial to me in the form of a bonus for keeping the company intact, managing the sale process, and providing stewardship for the business into and beyond the transition. In the end, the giant Swiss bank UBS stepped in, acquired RT Capital, renamed it UBS Global Asset Management in Canada, and asked me to continue in the role of CEO. I agreed, but I made it clear that among my principal tasks would be locating a new CEO to fill my shoes. I enjoyed the experience as well as the people I worked with while at RT Capital, but I was not an investment management specialist. My strength, my ­expertise, and my interest lay in the investment banking side of business. Reverting to the life review exercise I practised after leaving politics, I chose doing things that I knew and enjoyed. Searching for a CEO whom I could recommend to fill my shoes proved difficult in the beginning. No one I encountered either within or outside of RT Capital filled the bill adequately in my opinion. By chance I came in contact with Victor Dodig, at the time working in London with Merrill Lynch. Victor, anxious to bring his young family back to Canada, joined the firm soon after UBS took over and quickly rose to managing director and CEO. He later moved to CIBC, becoming its CEO in 2014. Bringing him back to the former RBC Capital proved a good move.

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With Victor in the CEO office, I moved on to become chairman of UBS Canada and their three business divisions: UBS Securities, UBS Global Asset Management, and UBS Private Bank. Most of my time was dedicated to working with Jim Estey and his team at UBS Securities. It was a good fit, and I remained there through March 2006, when life took me to a new place and an entirely new career. Meanwhile, I found the time and energy to continue serving on three major boards as well as a few smaller technology-associated companies. I mentioned the three major boards earlier. Manulife, BP plc, and Rio Algom were all substantial global corporations operating within three highly contrasting industries. Regardless of their differing activities they all shared the same strong system of governance. Each boasted strong chairs – Peter Sutherland for BP, Arthur Sawchuk for Manulife, and Gordon Gray for Rio Algom – and each maintained a clear separation between chair and CEO. In addition, the board members of each were strong, drawn from a variety of backgrounds that included business, public service, academia, not-for-profit, and others. When it came to gender balance, I’m sad to say that none was even close, although women were present on each, and all made strong contributions. The few smaller boards I served on were focused for the most part on technology, and their governance was neither as strong nor as sophisticated as the three global firms. No surprise there; the tech company CEOs were typically entrepreneurs, strong hands-on operators but not necessarily strong managers. Their job had been to create the product or software behind the company’s existence. Some found it natural to refer to their firm as “my baby,” an understandable reference considering that their biggest challenge was fostering the company’s growth and maturity. I rarely understood all the details associated with the technology behind these new businesses. My primary task as director consisted of assessing the firm’s position in the market and guiding it towards success. This meant helping to steer CEOs in their broader efforts while maintaining a reasonably sound basis of governance and keeping a close eye on finances. There

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was little time or inclination to pursue more subtle aspects of operation because niceties of succession and human resources are hardly paramount when the immediate goal is survival. Still, it was stimulating, rewarding, and educational for me, and those are three pretty good returns on almost any activity in life. Some effort in this sphere was linked to the evolution of tech-based organizations and the changes this evolution necessitated. As a young organization matured, it became critical to shift its focus from operational, hands-on governance towards strategic matters and oversight concerns. This tended to demand a major adjustment to the chemistry of the board. Many board members who had made strong hands-on contributions in a firm’s early stages found it difficult to adapt to a position more distant from day-to-day undertakings as the corporation evolved. And that’s easy to understand. It’s a challenge to be objective about the performance of an organization if you have been involved in its activities almost from the beginning. The degree of involvement by board members, including the chair, is a critical factor in good corporate governance. I was acutely aware of my own tendencies. As a board member, I often had to restrain myself from encroaching on the position of the chair. And as chair, it took a conscious effort to avoid injecting my opinions prematurely and influencing an open discussion. The best tactic was to wait for others to express a view similar to mine and reflect theirs when summing up and making a decision. If I disagreed with the direction that discussion seemed to be taking, I would make my views clear, but only at the best moment. Like so much else in life, timing was indeed important. I always believed in the benefits of public service, both for society as a whole and for the individuals engaged in it. Whether my years in Ottawa heightened my appreciation or the source was personal maturity on my part, I grew increasingly supportive of not-for-profit organizations and their goals. Some were related directly to my business responsibilities, but

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in most cases I served as a volunteer and advocate in environments unrelated to those of my corporate employers. While my involvement chewed up a fair amount of my time, both RBC and UBS were consistently supportive of my work. This proved important not only to the not-for-profit groups but to me personally. My contributions in that sector grew in importance over the years. Their broad range made my life vastly more interesting and greatly expanded my perspective of the world beyond the investment business. All of my experiences gained through serving on boards extended my appreciation for the importance of good corporate governance. Much room for improvement remained, and I tried to make my position known more by deeds than with words. Sticking to my insistence that boards adhere to high standards of practice gave me a reputation of sorts. I’m sure this was a key factor in my selection to serve as the first chair of the ­Canadian Coalition for Good Governance (CCGG), a role I relished because it was, in my view, essential. In the early 2000s, high-profile incidents in the US highlighted the near-total failure of corporate boards in fulfilling their responsibilities. Their poor governance practices led to devastating consequences in every sector of their operations – for employees, customers, suppliers, shareholders and, in a few cases, senior executives. You probably know the names. When the giant Houston-based energy and commodity company Enron collapsed, the devastation was overwhelming. Some 20,000 employees lost their jobs along with their retirement savings, and a highly regarded accountancy firm saw its reputation destroyed. Only a few of the executives responsible for the disaster were dealt prison terms. It went on from there. The American security systems company Tyco endured a major scandal as a result of its CEO’s excessive abuse of corporate prerogatives. WorldCom, a mammoth US telecommunications company, revealed a multibillion-dollar asset inflation that represented the largest accounting fraud in American history. These and other examples

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represented sheer corporate irresponsibility and mismanagement. Some companies were exceptional in their size and the impact of their collapse, but all exemplified white-collar misconduct fuelled by greed and the booming economy of the late 1990s and early years of this century. Canada, in the view of many, was fortunate to avoid problems similar to those of the more dramatic US financial downfalls. It would be foolish, however, to assume that we were immune from the impact of poor or non-existent governance. In response, two stalwart Canadian corporate investors, Stephen Jarislowsky and Claude Lamoureux, launched the ­Canadian Coalition for Good Governance, whose clearly defined objective was to encourage better corporate governance as a means of avoiding problems becoming common in the US. They began by assembling a coalition of major public sector pension plans and private sector investment management companies to deal with the threat, creating a critical mass to encourage effective governance of Canadian companies. This fit my vision perfectly. I had a high regard for both Jarislowsky and Lamoureux, and as CEO of UBS Global Asset Management, I was sensitive to the issues that CCGG would be addressing. When the invitation to serve as first chair arrived, I responded with enthusiasm. We needed a CEO and I immediately thought of David Beatty. A director of Bank of Montreal and other companies, David taught corporate governance at the University of Toronto Rotman School of Management. The position was a natural fit for him. He accepted the offer, and David and I began developing a set of priorities for submission to member companies. These consisted of three key elements. The first was separation of the roles of chair and CEO. Assigning both to one individual gave rise to conflict, or at least the perception of it. Next came director independence. An obvious factor, this was not always practised. We felt the principle needed strengthening. The third key element involved fair compensation issues, always a high-profile concern.

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No one sincerely interested in bettering corporate governance could object to addressing these matters, but we encountered resistance to the first goal from a few of Canada’s chartered banks. They had been awarding the dual titles of CEO and chair to a single individual for some time, creating a situation of cross-purposes. In defence of the practice, we were informed that most CEOs of Canadian banks interacted on a regular basis with their US counterparts, and all of them functioned as both chair and CEO. Any Canadian CEO who did not also hold the chair’s position, the argument went, would be diminished in the eyes of peers south of the border. This struck me as a matter of sensitive egos overriding good governance. How could the title of chair associated with one CEO provide a strategic advantage over the other who lacked the label of chair? Both CEOs would be senior executives running their banks and making critical decisions. The difference was that one could face conflicting matters of interest that the other would never encounter. Titles be damned. The function and responsibility of the chair needed to be separate and distinct from the CEO. How could the board function independently from management if both shared the same top decision-maker? It could not. The chain of command must be clear: The CEO is responsible to the chair, who in turn is responsible to the shareholders. Awarding both roles to one individual risked creating a situation in which a conflict of interest would be more than possible. In some instances, it would be inevitable. No one could seriously argue with the logic of this position, but logic wasn’t the barrier here. It was optics that had to be overcome. For years, the banks had awarded the dual titles and distinct responsibilities to one individual. Being asked to abandon the practice was something of an aboutface they found difficult to perform, even as they agreed to the logic of the principle. One point held credence: Removing the much-revered title of chair from a CEO sounded like disapproval or a demotion. But thanks to good timing, things changed. A number of banks were about to transition

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to new CEOs, providing an opportunity to abandon the practice without sullying the egos of sitting CEOs. Eventually we succeeded in bringing about change among the major banks in Canada. The banks may not be trendsetters in fashion, but they are by far the country’s most closely watched business group, and what became de rigueur for them – in this case clearly delineating the CEO and chair functions – soon became standard practice for others. Director independence took a little longer to achieve. For generations it had been commonplace for a CEO or chair to invite close friends or business associates to join a board. Boards, especially of public companies, are not social clubs. Inviting your golfing buddy to serve as a director might be a collegial thing to do, and he or she may be fully qualified with high personal integrity. Human nature being what it is, however, in a crunch decision these same individuals could find it difficult to oppose the CEO. Biting the hand that feeds you is just as unwarranted, on many occasions, as biting the hand that helps you aboard. But the goal was independence, which is why we recommended that at least a majority of board members be independent of any relationship with the CEO. Eventually, we proposed that all members meet the same standard; regardless of their qualifications, the people sitting around your board table should not be the ones sitting at your bridge table. Naturally, we encountered some pushback. Boards were reluctant to displace an individual who provided strong performance over the years. As new positions opened, however, the guidelines should apply. I discovered that governance rules in the UK took this approach a step further. On the understanding that board members cease to be independent over time, the country’s governance dictates they step aside after nine years’ service, on the assumption that they will have by that time become too comfortable with management. My experience as a board member with BP plc displayed this policy in practice. I saw that the CEO clearly reported to the board where the chair was very much the leader. The chair participated in the actions of the

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nominating committee, which selected and proposed new directors. The CEO was not a member of that committee. Progress on enshrining director independence was gradual over time, but most boards we worked with came to accept the practice. Compensation was another issue, and an exceptionally thorny one. This had become a serious shareholder concern in recent years, one that echoed among the general public and fostered a growing anti-business attitude. Executive compensation and entitlement packages in Canada had been climbing steeply for some time in response to competitive pressure between sectors and the impact of similar developments in the US. Without imposing a fixed ceiling on such packages – a very impractical means of dealing with things – we pressured member companies to establish a fair compensation policy and, with stakeholders’ interests in view, hold executives to account for the outcome of their decisions. Again, this appeared a reasonable solution on paper but often failed to work in practice. CCGG members became involved in various high-profile disputes, none more egregious than the billion-dollar payout to Frank Stronach of Magna International in return for Stronach giving up his multiple voting shares. One of our most productive moves was to generate a numerical measure of corporate governance, ranking Canadian companies on a chart while identifying chronically weak performers. Under David Beatty, who initiated the idea, we would draw attention to areas where governance could be improved and encourage boards to adopt practices that support the interests of shareholders. We had little time to build support for the program; almost as soon as we announced it, several good boards of directors sought us out to learn where and how their own governance could be improved. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to be at the top of the list. The CCGG experience revealed that some CEOs missed the point of the exercise entirely, focusing narrowly on their personal situation while assuming that our guidelines limited their freedom to run things the way they damned well pleased.

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One of these was Jim Balsillie, co-CEO of Research In Motion, now BlackBerry. When I called him to discuss a regular business matter, he launched into a long harangue, expressed in quite colourful terms, on the multiple reasons CCGG had no business telling him how to run his company. In retrospect, given the company’s later performance, paying attention to the CCGG recommendations might have done his company a service. In any case, the call failed to endear us to each other, which made the visit I received from Balsillie some time later, while serving as Canada’s ambassador to the US, rather curious. He came by the embassy in Washington to inform me that he had founded the Centre for International Governance Innovation with the goal to improve global multilateral governance. He did this with great personal pride. I could only surmise that Mr. Balsillie was damned if he would accept any suggestions offered him by the CCGG, but he was determined to tell the world how to govern itself. By the time I stepped down as chair of the CCGG in order to fill the ambassadorial post, the coalition had grown from an initial membership of thirteen companies managing $350 billion in assets to forty-five members with assets under management in excess of $1.3 trillion, a tribute to David Beatty’s leadership. Much has happened over the years since. The membership now numbers more than fifty firms who collectively have more than $3 trillion under management. Among the services provided are the publication of a Best Practices list for boards and companies and annual recognition of companies with best-in-class governance across a range of categories. Size may matter, but results matter more. According to the Globe and Mail ’s annual “Board Games” placement in 2015, Canada was ranked number one in the world when it comes to corporate governance of publicly traded companies. Another opportunity for my involvement in a business-based organization occurred when Donald Macdonald invited me to replace him as chair of

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the Canadian Council for Public-Private Partnerships (CCPPP). Don and I had remained in touch through my years in Ottawa. It was Don who, while chairing the Commission on the Economic Union and Development Prospects for Canada in the 1980s, first proposed that Canada take “a leap of faith” by launching discussions with the United States on a free trade agreement. So along with the personal relationship between Margie and me and Don and his wife, we had a political bond despite his lifelong association with the Liberal Party. At first, Don’s invitation to fill his role at CCPPP when he stepped down made me hesitate. I wasn’t sure that my involvement with the organization would represent the best use of my time. But I believed deeply enough in its premise – to link the objectives of the public sector with the strengths of the private sector – that I decided to take on the job. Until the arrival of the CCPPP, Canada had very little experience with such arrangements. To adapt a phrase, the private and public sectors functioned like two solitudes with little overlap between their goals and operations. The UK had applied this arrangement for many years, generally with positive results. No one less than Margaret Thatcher had launched and promoted the concept, leading to the successful construction of highways, bridges, hospitals, prisons, universities, and a host of other projects. The degree of government involvement varies from oversight and financial participation to ensuring that pricing for a service matches a pre-arranged formula. A Public-Private Partnership, or P3, confirms to financial sponsors that the project has the full support of government and that the financial conditions are acceptable. Despite its benefits, the system had its detractors. Opponents claimed that governments unfairly could raise financing costs at lower interest rates than operators in the private sector. True, but financing costs represent only one part of the overall price tag, which can be limited by contractual agreements assigning responsibility for excess costs to the private sector builder. Jane Peatch, who had served as executive director of CCPPP under Don Macdonald, continued in that position during my tenure and dedicated

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her considerable expertise to the job. Like David Beatty at CCGG, she not only made my task much easier but also made the organization much more successful overall. Our challenge was to explain P3 to both the general public and governments, encouraging wide adoption of the concept. We also offered advice to private sector organizations that had the operating capacity and financial structures to succeed in such partnerships. One means of achieving this was through an annual conference that became the largest and most successful P3 event of its kind in North America. Speakers and attendees arrived from all across North America as well as the UK and Australia, adding their P3 experience to generate a wider understanding of the concept. The volunteer work I performed on behalf of these and other organizations came naturally to me. Or as naturally as any value ingrained by one’s parents. In this case, the source was my mother who made it clear, when in my mid-teens, that she expected me to emulate my father’s support of volunteer service. Dad took a leadership role in all the organizations that sought his help as a volunteer, and my mother believed that this attribute was important for me to assume as an adult. She insisted on this so strongly that to this day I recall not only the conversation on the subject but its location as well. We were driving over the Glen Road Bridge in Toronto at the time. “I expect you will be as active in volunteer work as your father,” she said. “It is important to both of us and to those around you. We would be very disappointed if you failed to honour your father’s contribution to society in a similar fashion.” Her words made a powerful impact on me. They influenced my desire to support various organizations as a volunteer, to the point where I found it hard to turn down invitations from deserving organizations such as CCGG, CCPPP, and others. But my greatest contributions to the not-for-profit field were still to come.

C H A P T E R T W E LV E

Cameron

all families learn to deal with tragedies as years pass. We record them in our memories, and their scope and number are less important than the manner in which we deal with the misfortune and heartbreak they bring. Their shock and unfairness can crush us if we permit them, so we deal with them by absorbing the blows, gathering our strength, and eventually moving forward again with life. Psychologists have a name for this ability. They call it emotional resilience, and those blessed with it learn to cope with tragedy more efficiently than their non-resilient peers. Members of my family appear to possess this quality because it seems we faced and handled more than our share of tragedies. My mother suffered the loss of her husband and two babies while still in her twenties, and Margie’s mother lost twins early in her own marriage. At age twenty-six my dad lost his father to cancer, and my niece Margaret, whose wheelies on the Royal Yacht were such a hit with Prince Philip, was confined to a wheelchair as a result of a serious biking accident while in the bloom of youth.1 There have been others as well. Robin Younger, my sister Tricia’s husband, a wonderful guy, a great brother-in-law, and a terrific business partner, contracted incurable cancer that took him at age fifty-two. We have had many close calls. Our nephew Richard suffered a horrific injury in a bizarre manner. Jumping off a step into a deep snowbank, he impaled himself on a hidden steel rod that penetrated deep into

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his abdomen. He survived, thanks to excellent care, but the horror of the incident remained. Our grandson Eamon required a kidney transplant, donated by his mother Lara, when he was just eighteen months old and weighed barely twenty pounds. Lara and husband Sean decided to risk an early transplant because it seemed the only way to save his life, and the result was nothing less than spectacular. I often tease his parents that it was too bad Eamon never learned to walk – following his recovery from the transplant procedure he advanced directly to running! One monumental tragedy suffered by our family was of a special category. It left us with a muddle of emotions consisting of guilt, remorse, frustration, incomprehensibility, and pain. The loss of our son Cameron at age twenty-nine was as heartbreaking to us as any parent can imagine. He chose to take his life primarily because of an inability to deal with society’s opinion of him as a mental illness patient. Cameron’s death caused confusion among those who knew and loved him, the confusion sown by our culture’s unfair attitude towards mental illness and, more specifically, those who suffer from it. His friends never knew the extent of Cameron’s distress because Cameron did his best to conceal it. And he did his best to conceal it because he feared, with some justification, the assumptions that his friends and the rest of society might make – that he was weak, that he craved attention, that he just needed to “Snap out of it!” Along with the other symptoms he endured, Cameron’s mental ailment carried a stigma that makes its victims feel unworthy of the same consideration afforded sufferers of physical disorders. That was Cameron’s perception. At the time he chose to take his life, the perception was accurate and precise. The impact of mental illness was not entirely alien to me prior to Cameron’s death. In 1983, a lovely woman named Elizabeth Ralph worked as my constituency assistant. I grew to know both her and her husband, who one

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day offered to drive me to the airport. He appeared an agreeable fellow, and the two of us chatted easily during the ride. A few days later I received unbelievable news: Elizabeth and three of her children had been murdered at the hands of her husband who, after committing such an abhorrent act, drove to a cemetery and killed himself at the grave of his first wife. My first response was disbelief. This could not be possible. Any man who could do such a thing must be, by definition, a monster, someone who would not in any way resemble the amiable person I had recently met. But of course it was. Elizabeth’s husband had been suffering from mental illness for some time, and he managed to conceal it when circumstances required. Such as when driving his wife’s boss to the airport. The memory of a horrific event of this magnitude leaves a scar on your soul. It certainly did on mine. The scar remained years later when Margie and I were attending a Commonwealth Ministers’ meeting in Jamaica. After a long day of meetings and discussions I returned to our room to relax and opened a local newspaper where an article on mental illness caught my eye. Whether it was the power of the writing, the impact of reading dark details in such a brilliant location, or the memory of Elizabeth and her children, the article’s point of view made a major impression on me. The writer pointed out that mental illness was far more common than most people knew … or admitted. Aggravating the suffering was the general public’s frequent intolerance for victims of the illness. Most people preferred to neither accept the reality of the illness nor deal with it in a meaningful manner. The most common response was to ignore its existence in others. Or even belittle those suffering from it. This confused me. How and why, I wondered, could people turn on those who made no choice to acquire the ailment and lacked the ability to combat it on their own? Break a leg, suffer a heart attack, even catch a bad cold and you can expect sympathy and offers of assistance from almost everyone in your social circle. Be diagnosed with schizophrenia, psychosis, or any other defined illness of the mind and you should prepare to be shunned, even ridiculed. That was the message I absorbed.

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I turned the newspaper towards Margie and showed her the article. “Maybe this is where I should devote my volunteer work when I leave politics,” I said. “It’s one place I can make a difference.” This sounds like a prescient moment, one of those instances in life when it appears we know something we have no right to know. But that’s exactly how it happened, and after leaving political life later that year I followed up on my promise. Responding to my mother’s subtle command all those years ago, plus the memory of losing two young friends to the disease, I had spent a good deal of time volunteering for the Canadian Cancer Society, eventually serving as Ontario campaign chairman. In that capacity I dealt with 45,000 volunteers who worked hard on behalf of the society and its goals. It was a source of pride for many of them to dedicate time and energy on behalf of others. Busy canvassing from door to door, distributing pamphlets, and performing other unglamorous chores, their attitude was always positive and upbeat. And why not? They were gaining satisfaction from doing good things on behalf of others. Other health scourges such as heart and liver disease, MS, diabetes, and cerebral palsy generated similar intense efforts to reduce misery for their sufferers and aroused pride in the volunteers who dedicated their time to these efforts. And there was more: The universal need to overcome these diseases inspired volunteers not only to join the battle against them but to display symbols of their dedication to the cause. They aggressively identified themselves and their contributions by marching in parades and setting up booths at social events, seeking both funds and additional volunteers to join the effort. No one, it seemed, made the same commitment towards mental illness. When I left political life, I volunteered to assist at the Clarke Institute of Psychiatry, the most prominent facility for treating mental illness in Canada. It served as the main psychiatric teaching hospital for the University of Toronto, making it by far the largest in Canada and one of the largest in the world. Several things struck me as I grew acquainted with the Institute. The high quality of the staff and the range of their activities immediately

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impressed me. They had set and were achieving ambitious research goals, with much of their energy focused on motivating and training new clinician scientists in psychiatry. Yet I was disappointed by the small number of volunteers who took part in fundraising programs, and by the rudimentary methods they employed. Things were out of balance here. The goals of the Institute and the work being done to achieve them were significant and groundbreaking, but the means of supporting them were sadly inadequate and severely understaffed. Arnie Cader, who was himself living with mental illness, had established a foundation to serve as the centre’s funding arm. When I mentioned my disappointment at these aspects, he opened my eyes to a hard fact of life. “We have a difficult time recruiting people to sit on the board,” he said. “Many people we invite have family members who suffer from mental illness. They’re aware of the need for research and treatment, which we might assume would inspire their support. So what’s the problem? It’s this: Too many of them are unwilling to associate themselves openly with mental illness.” He explained that anyone suffering from mental illness appeared to stigmatize not only themselves but their family members as well. I knew of no such disgrace related to other ailments. Why were people shirking the chance to assist those touched by mental illness, even if they were close family members? And just how widespread was the problem? A little digging revealed a lot of facts. One study showed that about one in five Canadians experiences a mental problem or illness in any given year. More distressing was the news that suicide accounted for 16 per cent of all deaths among those aged twenty-five to forty-four, a stunning revelation. Surely, I thought, the best step towards raising funds and support for the research and treatment of mental illness must begin by confronting the stigma associated with it. We could start by alerting Canadians to the scope of the problem. If roughly one out of every six Canadians in the prime of their lives die not by disease or accident but by suicide, that’s an enormous loss that cannot be ignored. We needed to get everyone talking about mental

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illness as a commonplace ailment to be openly discussed, not treated as a salacious family secret whispered about out of earshot of strangers. Overcoming that barrier could, I suggested, generate a larger force of volunteers, widespread funding support, and a major reduction in lives lost. Shortly after I launched my work on behalf of the Clarke Institute, we achieved a major breakthrough. Don Tapscott and his wife Ana Lopes, leaders in the Portuguese Canadian community and active volunteers for a number of causes, donated $300,000 to the facility. Don had written extensively on information technology and served as chancellor of Trent University. The Clarke Institute had never before received a single funding donation of this amount from a private source. Most telling was the fact that there was no fundraising campaign underway at the time of its arrival. This, I envisioned, was a harbinger of good things to come. It might have been. But we still had a lot of work to do in raising awareness of mental illness, erasing the stigma associated with it, and slashing the number of tragic suicides among its sufferers. We still do. Which brings me back to Cameron. What was our eldest son like as a child? In some ways very much like your own child or your sibling’s child or the child of neighbours down the street, I imagine. He was active, he was healthy, he was at times frustrating or loveable, and sometimes he was both at once. Thanks to the genes acquired from Margie and me, he and his brother and sister demonstrated a fair bit of athletic ability, made stronger and more satisfying by Margie who insisted the boys learn to skate before taking a hockey stick in their hands. Lara found joy in running and swimming, reaching a fairly advanced level in the national junior category before stepping away from competition. Through it all, Margie ensured all three were at practice on time, with their homework completed. Talent and skill were fine, but Margie and I emphasized the need for a healthy dose of work ethic.

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It sounds like a Father Knows Best scenario. But not quite. Geoffrey and Lara grew up generally happy and relaxed. Cameron did not have such an easy time. Margie and I were aware of the difference between Cameron and his siblings, but our concerns seemed minor. It took many years and many incidents for us to understand what was to come, omens of the disease that was beginning to grip him. One hint, seen with total clarity much later, was the aggression Cameron displayed in sports. This was not unusual among intense young men determined to win. But excessive intensity surfaced too often with Cameron. Whenever Cameron became involved in fights during amateur or pickup hockey games, his hostility appeared to be driven entirely by overpowering anger. And it was more than hockey. Off the ice Cameron tussled too often and too violently with his younger brother. But brothers can be like that at times, we believed. They were siblings, they were competitive, they were normal. Most concerning to us were incidents of violence against his younger and much smaller sister, often over tiny disagreements. One incident still burns in my memory. When the children were young, Margie and I chose to have just one television in the house. The idea was to encourage reading or some activity other than staring at a TV screen. One evening Lara was watching TV when Cameron entered the room and insisted that she change the channel to a hockey game. With some disdain for the idea – Lara was never much of a hockey fan – she refused, pointing out that she had been the first to turn on the TV set and was involved in the program she was watching. Cameron’s response was to punch his sister with a closed fist. Have events such as these occurred among teenaged siblings in homes all across Canada? No doubt. But the frequency and outright violence of Cameron’s outbursts alerted us to his inner demons. Margie and I dealt with them by expressing our love and support for Cameron, and by encouraging him in any endeavour he chose. Our approach was to suggest the children identify a pastime or profession they enjoyed and use it to

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choose a career. Cameron disagreed. His interests wouldn’t guide him down that path. He yearned for monetary reward above all. He wanted to grow wealthy, and he believed the route to his wealth lay in finance and investing. I suppose I was flattered because he would be emulating my own career path. But I honestly enjoyed my work – every aspect of it – to the point where my income, as gratifying it was, came second. Cameron appeared uninterested in the satisfaction of work, only the income. Despite anger issues, Cameron made it through Ottawa’s Lisgar Collegiate Institute with marks high enough to win acceptance into Carleton University. He spent his first year there before moving to Concordia University, where he earned a degree in business. On the surface at least, Cameron had much to be pleased about. He often was, in fact. And oh, how he loved to laugh. And how he loved sports, especially hockey and his beloved Maple Leafs. He played a fine game of tennis for a while, and never tired of following NFL football. Despite periodic eruptions of anger, he appeared in many ways a talented and contented young man. But he was dealing with problems none of us fully understood at the time. Some concerned his social life. Cameron made friends easily, yet complained to us about them often, and his relationships with girls were always short and ended abruptly. Not all of this disturbed Margie and I through Cameron’s teenage years. Like most people, our own adolescent years had been challenging in various ways. Other people we knew had much greater difficulty than us navigating those years, and perhaps Cameron was one of them. Once out of his adolescence, we suspected, he would grow more relaxed and deal with his problems more easily. But he did not. After earning his degree, Cameron left for London to spend a year at Baring Brothers, as I had. Living on his own in London seemed to free and stimulate him at first. Enrolled in Baring’s training program, he began grooming himself for a career in finance while partying as much as any other ambitious and charming young man in the City. A new, more promising part of his life began to open. Then, sadly, it began to close.

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One night, during an intense period of work, Cameron woke from sleep believing he was chewing on glass. As he explained it later, the strange dream triggered a sudden decline in his energy. He began arriving home from work exhausted, wanting only to sleep, and he had difficulty completing assignments in his training program. The nightmare had begun. Within a year he was back in Canada and needing a job, but the economy had softened and jobs were scarce. Eventually he obtained a position with National Trust, his grandfather’s company, and the news gave Margie and me satisfaction and hope. After training at the London firm that introduced me to the world of finance and investment, my son was employed at the company where his grandfather had served as president and director. It wasn’t exactly a dynasty, but the continuity offered comfort in view of Cameron’s earlier problems. It all ended abruptly and painfully. Literally. One day, Cameron’s temper got the best of him and he physically assaulted his boss, terminating his career with a single blow to the man’s face. With no job and little self-confidence, his anger erupted over and over again. During a golf game with his brother, Cameron became so abusive that Geoff had to walk off the course in the middle of the game, unable to handle his sibling’s anger and insults. Were these isolated incidents, flashes of anger from a young man trying to find himself and his place in the world? Margie and I continued to hope so, but Geoff and Lara believed the problem was more serious. When they suggested therapy for their brother, we disagreed. Give him time, we responded. He’ll work it out. But we were wrong. Then came the fall of 1994. By this time my involvement with the Clarke Institute had taken me beyond the realm of fundraising and deeply into its operations. Discussing the roots of mental illness with Dr. Paul Garfinkel and others in the psychiatric community, I learned that mental illnesses are generally the result of an interplay of factors that include temperament, genetic makeup, hormones, and chemistry. External events make an impact, especially

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traumatic experiences and relationships. Sometimes a single overwhelming incident can precipitate illness. The validity of this premise was confirmed when Cameron’s behaviour seemed to change for the worse almost overnight. He grew even more angry and aggressive. We suspected something had triggered the change, and we were correct. Cameron and an old friend had gotten together after a long absence to discuss events from their past – one event in particular. During their conversation, each revealed the same man had sexually abused him when both boys were about twelve years old. There was no doubting the truth of the episodes. Both had clear, near-identical memories of the event, and both suffered emotional damage. Later, our son Geoff revealed that the same man had approached him, but Geoff escaped the abuse. Earlier, Cameron provided a clue to the source of his trauma in a note to Margie and me, one we hadn’t recognized or acted upon at the time. “For years I have gone through the greatest emotions,” Cameron had written. “Guilt, humiliation, doubt and, most of all, extreme frustration.” We were unsure what his words meant or what he seemed to be hinting at. When we asked, he was reluctant to explain. Cameron and his childhood friend grew bold enough to locate the man and confront him about the abuse. The man denied his behaviour outright, refusing to admit he had done anything wrong and showing no empathy for the pain the two young men had suffered over the years. His denials left both simmering with barely repressed rage. Cameron carried this secret within himself for fifteen years. Only once during that time, in a passing reference to Geoff, did he even hint at it. It took a second note from Cameron for Margie and me to understand finally what had happened to him and his friend. When we discovered the truth we were horrified and outraged, our rage intensified by the fact that the man who had abused Cameron and his friend, and who attempted the same thing on our younger son, was an acquaintance of ours. Together Margie and I confronted him about it, and each time the man denied

I found my way home to my father’s relief and my mother’s surprise. (Wilson Family)

Among my responsibilities as a teenager in winter was hefting shovelfuls of coal into the Iron Fireman each night, a chore I learned to take seriously. (Wilson Family)

My mother, the former Constance Lloyd Davies, and me in my teenage years. She went from immense tragedy to a long and happy marriage with my father. (Wilson Family)

I (top left) made the U of T ski team in the risky days before safety bindings. (Wilson Family)

Following graduation I headed for London – at the time, the world’s second most important financial centre. (Wilson Family)

After the wedding we were on our way to Antigua and Barbados. (Wilson Family)

Cameron and Geoff helping me on the farm. (Wilson Family)

Visiting “The Farm” provided a chance for the family to bond. Top (L to R): Tom Smellie, Tricia Younger, Doug Lawson, Peggie Smellie, and Margie. Middle (L to R): Harry Wilson and Brian Lawson. Bottom: (L to R): Wendy Lawson, Richard Lawson, Robin Younger, John Younger, me, and Connie Wilson. (Wilson Family)

(top left) Margie never entirely forgave me for forgetting to return with the ladder. (top right) Peter Baring (left) and me. He was crushed by the bank’s collapse. (bottom) Margie, Cameron, and me, with Geoff (in front) at the farm. (Wilson Family)

Serving as campaign chairman for the Canadian Cancer Society, with Margie (right). (Wilson Family)

Celebrating Dad’s seventy-fifth birthday. Standing (L to R): Doug Lawson, Tricia Younger, Wendy Lawson, me, Margie, and Robin Younger. Seated (L to R): Harry Wilson and Connie Wilson. (Wilson Family)

My first campaign – 1978 – with Margie, Geoff, Cameron, and Lara. (Wilson Family)

Joe Clark’s speech during my first federal election made a major impact. (Wilson Family)

My run for leadership of the PC Party was not really about my charisma. (Wilson Family)

Brian Mulroney built relationships like a musical virtuoso. (Office of the Prime Minister)

May 1985 – my first budget, sporting the traditional new shoes. (Wilson Family)

Celebrating the Free Trade Agreement in October 1987. L to R: Allan Gotlieb, Stanley Hartt, Donald Campbell, Derek Burney, Pat Carney, Gordon Ritchie, me, and Simon Reisman. (Office of the Prime Minister)

Christmas Eve, 1988, in the House: the Free Trade Agreement passes. (Office of the Prime Minister)

Jack Nicklaus gave me advice, but not about golf. (Wilson Family)

Mick Jagger knew as much about taxation policy as he did about music. (Wilson Family)

Her Majesty gave me a rave review! (Office of the Prime Minister)

Celebrating the Free Trade Agreement in October 1987, with US Trade Representative Carla Hills (middle) and Mexican Secretary of Commerce and Industrial Development Jaime Serra Puche (right). (Office of the Prime Minister)

The good vibrations between Mulroney and US President Ronald Reagan proved priceless. (The White House)

Cameron at a newspaper office: for fifteen years he kept a secret within himself. (Wilson Family)

All of us together smiling (L to R): Myself, Margie, Geoff, Cameron, and Lara. This was the last family picture with Cameron. (Wilson Family)

In Kuwait shortly after the end of the war with Iraq – as close to hell as I ever wish to be. (Wilson Family)

The proud Dad walking Lara down the aisle. (Wilson Family)

With Boris Yeltsin soon after the fall of the Soviet Union. The call from Gorbachev made him laugh. (Office of the Prime Minister)

Born to be wild. Is this a future ambassador to the United States? (Wilson Family)

Sworn in as ambassador with children and grandchildren attending. Bush asked for a picture with the grandchildren since they hadn’t judged him yet. (The White House)

With Stephen Harper, who claimed everything he knew about charisma he learned from me. (Office of the Prime Minister)

President Barack Obama was pleased to meet “somebody I already know” when he arrived in Ottawa. (Office of the Prime Minister)

Receiving the Order of Canada from Governor General Adrienne Clarkson. (Wilson Family)

California Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger revealed his most important job to me: marketing Arnold Schwarzenegger. (Office of the Governor of California)

Serving as chancellor of the University of Toronto was always a delight. (University of Toronto)

A proud grandfather. Top (L to R): Patrick Wilson, Ciara O’Brien, Thomas Wilson, and Kalin O’Brien. Bottom (L to R): me, Eamon O’Brien, and Margie. (Wilson Family)

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everything. In search of justice, we consulted lawyers, who advised that legal recourse wasn’t available. Too much time had passed, too little evidence remained. Meanwhile, Cameron’s demeanour grew more tragic, more violent, more dreadful. Having opened his heart to us, revisiting the pain he had concealed for so long, Cameron began directing his wrath onto Margie and me. He grew mistrustful, suspecting we were bent on protecting our now former friend instead of seeking some form of justice. The three of us – Margie, Cameron, and I – often talked about what had happened, how it affected him, and how little recourse we appeared to have. The more we discussed the futility of seeking justice, the more unsettled and frustrated he became. Eventually Margie and I became the target of Cameron’s rage. Psychiatrists confirm that sexually abused children are at high risk of acquiring various ailments, including post-traumatic stress and anxiety. Disclosing the events long after they occurred can add serious bouts of depression to the mix. The impact on the victim varies widely, depending on the victim’s age, the number of episodes, the degree of force, and other factors. Over the long-term other emotional symptoms arise including destructive responses that can include social withdrawal, anger, self-mutilation, and suicidal thoughts. The rate of sexual abuse in Ontario is shockingly high among young women. Community surveys I examined revealed that 11 per cent of women experienced such abuse. The actual number may be much higher.2 The rate of sexual abuse of males is lower – perhaps as low as one tenth of that of females – but the ensuing problems are similar. Victims begin to view people around them as dishonest, malevolent, and undependable. They become frightened of emotional connection and isolate themselves, classic symptoms displayed by Cameron in the months before his death. We began to understand, as deeply as we could, all of these implications. Our innocent son’s encounter had scarred him in a manner that those of us who cared for him could never fully comprehend.

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I assumed the role of helping Cameron in any way I could. My primary goal was to help him find work. A job would provide confidence, independence, satisfaction, and a sense of identity, all things he needed. But jobs were difficult to find, and Cameron appeared to have little initiative. I tried not to overstep my bounds. Talking about things that disturb us, I believed, was a means of destroying them, of demolishing them, and I would watch for appropriate occasions to engage him in conversation. Cameron did not enjoy these sessions. He was often angry and impatient with me. I believed we still were dealing with a phase, a barrier on his part we needed to get beyond, perhaps emerging on the other side to leave us looking back at the experience with some satisfaction. It didn’t work. Nothing seemed to work. One December evening, Cameron visited my sister Wendy and her husband Doug. They discussed Cameron’s problem and state of mind. It was not a productive exchange. Just the opposite in fact. Later, Doug confessed that the encounter disturbed him, and that he feared Cameron was hallucinating and approaching a breaking point. A few hours after leaving Doug and Wendy’s home, Cameron called us, pleading for help. His voice alarmed me. I had never heard anyone sound so frightened and panicked. “You gotta come down, Dad!” he almost cried through the phone. “You gotta come down right now!” I glanced at the clock while hurriedly dressing. It was almost 3:00 a.m. as I sped in the car to Cameron’s apartment. Turning the corner onto his street, I saw a young man walking down the middle of the road, barefoot in the cold night air dressed only in his pyjamas. It was Cameron. Margie and I took him directly to the Clarke Institute where we were informed our son was suffering from a psychosis that left him confused and incoherent. Despite a series of brain scans, blood tests, and other examinations, doctors were unable to pin down the precise nature of his disease, but there was no doubt that he was seriously ill. After ten days at the Clarke Institute, Cameron came home with Margie and me. He was overwhelmed with worry over his future prospects. Doctors had told him bluntly that it could take several years for him to return to normality, years

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during which he would be labelled and treated as a mental patient. Their revelation was honest and direct. But it was not helpful. To his credit, Cameron tried dealing with this reality. In January he felt well enough to return to the apartment he shared with roommates. The move was premature, of course. Without work to fill his time, he spent his days alone, brooding about his future and awaiting the return of his friends at night. They would arrive talking about their workday, their problems, their achievements, their prospects, and their social lives. It could only have been severely depressing to him. Within a few days his roommates called us to say Cameron was catatonic. He had attempted to take his life by swallowing an overdose of medications. We had no choice, nor did Cameron. We took him back to the Clarke Institute for further treatment. Through it all, Cameron tried to shield the reality of his illness from the world, pleading with us not to reveal that he was being treated at a psychiatric hospital. The depth of his fear of being spurned by society due to his illness – a condition that should have generated sympathy and support, not rejection – has never left me. It never will. Cameron’s terror at society’s assessment of him, based exclusively on his mental condition, remains a shattering illustration of the stigma attached to mental illnesses and the damage they inflict. At a time when mental illness patients need, perhaps more than ever in their lives, understanding and support from those they value and love, they too often receive only rejection or denial that their condition exists. Things have improved somewhat since then, but many people remain reluctant to deal rationally with mental illness. Break a leg or be diagnosed with a serious disease and you can expect friends and family members to reach out to you, eager to provide assistance, express concern, and offer encouragement. Not so with mental illness patients. They are often avoided. The contrast in public attitudes towards sufferers of physical ailments versus mental illness is clear-cut.

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Here’s one example. The Clarke Institute, now known as the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (CAMH), functions like all other hospitals in Canada with one exception: It lacks a gift shop. This may not sound like a big deal. Hospitals need clinics, surgeries, nursing stations, kitchens, laundries, and many other facilities more than they do gift shops. But it reveals much. Family members and friends of hospital patients visit gift shops to purchase books, magazines, flowers, stuffed animals, and other items as a means of expressing compassion and concern for the patients. It’s also a source of income to cover some of the hospital’s operation costs. The CAMH has no gift shop because it lacks visitor traffic to support one. Not enough people arrive to purchase gifts. A gift shop would unlikely be able to recover its own expenses, let along contribute to the hospital’s overall costs. The success of an online program called Gifts of Light casts another light on things. Accessing Gifts of Light provides family and friends the opportunity to buy something for a mental illness patient without setting foot in the hospital; hospital volunteers then distribute the gifts to patients. The program appears popular. This is compassion by proxy. A way for people to assuage their conscience for not visiting a friend or loved one to offer a token of their concern. I’m sure such gifts still create a positive response from most patients who receive them, but not as much as a personal visit could. Nor would they ever. Recent efforts have improved the attitude of Canadians towards mental illness and those who suffer from it. But the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health still receives few visitors. And there is still no gift shop. Cameron, Margie, and I made it through the winter of his middle-of-thenight telephone call and breakdown. Spring brought promise that Cameron’s situation might have stabilized. When Margie and I chose the last weekend in April to perform our spring clean-up chores at the farm, we

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were pleased when Cameron agreed to help. If there were any intimation that our son was still struggling with his illness, we missed it. Or perhaps we didn’t want to be aware of it. It was a time of hope, after all. Spring had arrived and Cameron was with us doing things, achieving things, sharing things, even smiling from time to time. We saw no hint of the blackness that had affected us over the years until he gave that strange wave of his hands at the airport, his final goodbye. St. Clement’s Anglican Church was crowded with family, friends, and colleagues for the funeral service. In delivering the eulogy, I wanted to do more than express my feelings as Cameron’s grieving father. I wanted to speak as someone made abruptly aware of the need for a greater understanding of the impact of mental illness on those who suffer from it, and on those who love and care for them. Mental illness had inflicted one form of agony on our son, but he had been forced to deal with more. Margie and I had witnessed the stigma inflicted on him by society, unintentional as it might have been but excruciating nevertheless, and how it compounded his suffering. Something had to change. “Cameron wanted to love,” I told those gathered within the church that day, some standing against the walls with no room left in the pews. “And he wanted to be loved in return. He wanted to talk to you. He wanted to be close to many of you here today, but his illness prevented it. A few of you whom he permitted to get close to him found it comfortable. But it was difficult for him to reach out to you. His illness wouldn’t permit it. Finally – abruptly – it overwhelmed him.” The outpouring of response to my words was stunning. Over the next few weeks I received many letters and engaged in many confidential conversations with friends of Cameron and our family, each unique in its subject but similar in its message. I heard from a young woman whose father retreated upstairs after dinner each night to drink as a means of dealing with his depression. A father whose son, a brilliant student in the midst of gaining his law degree, dropped out of university and never returned

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to his studies because of depression. Children who suffered from anxiety so severely they could not deal with the challenges of school, had no close friends, and participated in no games or activities. And on and on. Most of those who told me of their experiences had never discussed them outside of the family. The flow continued. I began receiving invitations to speak about mental illness to groups associated with the ailment. At one of these talks I was surprised to see an old friend, a well-regarded lawyer, approach me. I hadn’t seen him for perhaps five years. I had, however, heard unfortunate rumours and, without prompting, he revealed that he had been a longtime sufferer of mental illness. While practising law, he had struggled for hours each morning to compose himself before meeting clients. Along the way he had, as he put it, “made some unfortunate mistakes.” The mistakes led to criminal charges, and the conviction sent him to the Penetanguishene Mental Health Centre, “The last place I should have been sent to,” he said. His legal career over, he turned to working on behalf of a national organization dedicated to assisting mental health patients and their families, rising to the post of executive director. I hadn’t expected my response to Cameron’s death to generate such deep and often passionate responses. Margie and I mourned our son’s passing and loathed the stigma associated with his illness. Mourning any loss may be needed, but it is rarely adequate. Years before, I had responded to the belief that I could do something to assist people living with a mental illness and their loved ones on that day in Jamaica. My commitment grew in the aftermath of Cameron’s death. It became a calling, an inner motivation to do something I had not considered before. With the passage of time, I grew more involved with the Clarke Institute. In 1998 it merged with three other organizations to become the ­Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (CAMH). Bringing the two issues of mental illness and addiction under one roof marked a great advance,

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since many people suffer from them simultaneously. Patients grappling with both could find themselves in a catch-22 position, being advised to deal with their addiction before being treated for depression, or vice versa. Progress was being made, but obstacles remained. None was more prevalent, more dominant, or more destructive than the perceived disgrace associated with mental illness and addiction. Its impact extended beyond the sufferer and their immediate social circle. The turn away response to mental illness that afflicted many people prevented them from lending their support, their names, and their money to assist in treatment or research. Someone needed to speak out and explain that mental illness and addiction are not the product of weak character or low moral standards. They are illnesses, and they are rampant at every level and in every corner of society. How, then, could we turn our backs and close our ears and eyes to the problem? The more I scratched at this often-ignored reality, the more I realized that the problem could be measured in hard-nosed economic terms. Some people cannot fully appreciate a crisis unless a price is applied to it, a cost to be paid and absorbed. That being the case, perhaps mental illness would be viewed more seriously as a problem deserving of attention if it were assessed as a cost factor. And it could be. Employees dealing with mental illness cannot function anywhere near top productivity. The fear of revealing their suffering to colleagues or managers restricts their energy, their creativity, and their focus. Many lose their jobs through firing or quit on their own, preferring to conceal their condition even at the cost of finding themselves unemployed. The more I added up the factors, the more I could see that the economic impact of mental illness on society was incalculable but surely massive. In 1998, Bill Wilkerson, a communications consultant, and Tim Price, then chair of Trilon Financial Corporation, tackled this very problem by founding the Global Business and Economic Roundtable on Addiction and Mental Health. Both had delved into various Harvard studies examining the burden of psychiatric illnesses on business, and they created their

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organization to carry the message of addiction and mental illness into the workplace. One of Bill’s first moves was to call and ask if I would be interested in collaborating with him and Tim on the project. My response was positive but guarded. Would he send information for me to examine before ­responding? He agreed, and a package soon arrived. I was still absorbing the material three weeks later when a media announcement landed on my desk declaring, “The Honourable Michael Wilson has been appointed Chairman of the Global Business and Economic Roundtable on Addiction and Mental Health.” It was a classic example of doing something now and asking for forgiveness later. Bill proved so irrepressible in his apologies and gratitude that I indeed forgave him. He has since gone on to lead a similar effort with major European corporations. The roundtable functioned in a manner similar to the CCGG, meeting with CEOs to discuss the impact of mental illness on their companies before setting up larger meetings with the senior managers. At each step executives were invited to acknowledge the prevalence of addiction and mental illness in their workplace and plan proactive measures to help employees deal with these issues. Our work extended beyond the private sector, collaborating with­ Canada Post, the Department of National Defence, and the RCMP, among others. Some spin-offs were surprisingly effective. Great-West Life Insurance launched studies to evaluate the impact of mental illness on shortterm disability insurance, and RBC incorporated employee case studies in its monthly staff bulletins, each identifying an aspect of mental illness and how to deal with it. Skepticism remained in some quarters but it began to dissolve, sometimes dramatically. I recall a senior executive of a very large Canadian company informing me that his firm did not address concerns about mental illness and addiction, assuring me, “We don’t have them here.” “Well, that’s very interesting,” I replied. “Thanks to your company’s immense size, you are a statistical aberration, because one in five people in

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this country suffers from some form of mental illness or destructive addiction.” I thanked him for his time and, before leaving, suggested he look a little more deeply into the situation. Perhaps three weeks later the same executive called to apologize. He acknowledged that an in-house study revealed his company indeed had a problem with both concerns, and he was about to take a personal interest in dealing with it by declaring support for employees dealing with any associated issues. We were making headway, as the events of one single day confirmed for us. On 11 May 2011 I attended an event at the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health, where Bell Canada announced a gift of $10 million to the Centre. This was part of Bell’s overall commitment of $50 million to the research and treatment of mental illness, and it marked the largest single corporate gift to the cause in Canadian history. It also bumped up the total amount we planned to raise that year to $108 million. Seems like a lot of money? I’ll say! It was the largest amount ever raised by a North American facility specializing in mental health and addiction, and quite likely the largest amount for any similar facility in the world. George Cope, the visionary CEO of Bell Canada, announced that his company had trained almost all of its managers on various aspects of mental illness and the need to deal with it. This fulfilled a major objective of the Global Business and Economic Roundtable on Addiction and Mental Health, and the day had just started. Bell followed up by launching its Let’s Talk campaign. For every phone call or text, email, tweet, or other related communication event made on a designated day each year, Bell would contribute funds to support mental health initiatives and facilities. By 2019, more than 1 billion qualifying events had been recorded on Let’s Talk days, generating tens of millions of dollars for the cause. The contribution went further than dollars alone: The Let’s Talk campaign actually encouraged Canadians to talk about mental illness and addiction, heightening tolerance and raising awareness of both ailments.

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The day wasn’t over. That evening I attended one of a number of sold-out “Unmasked Dinners” held in art galleries across Toronto in support of CAMH. It was the fourth year for these events. Over the first three years, the dinners had collectively raised $1.1 million. This single evening produced almost $900,000 on its own. To wrap the day up, all the Unmasked Dinner attendees gathered together for dessert and a money-raising auction. Looking around the room, I was elated to see many people who, while prominent at high-profile social events in the city, would not have considered attending a dinner on behalf of mental illness and addiction a few years earlier. The ice had been broken. So many things, large and small, have been achieved since the day Cameron waved goodbye to Margie and me. Much of the dingy Victorian building originally named (I cringe as I write this) the Toronto Lunatic Asylum has been replaced by bright, modern structures with lively colours and inviting open spaces. Only a portion of the original high brick wall remains, along with two workshops. Isolated from the community surrounding it, the original building at 999 Queen Street West had been so imposing, and its residents so feared, that some streetcar passengers riding by the facility would cover their noses and hold their breath lest they catch the “crazy disease.” Now officially at 1001 Queen Street West, much more than the facility’s address and name has changed. Displayed everywhere throughout the building are the names of families who have made generous donations, their identities confirming they are neither ashamed nor embarrassed to be associated with the CAMH’s function. The facility clearly is reaching towards full integration with the surrounding community instead of isolating itself from it. Impressive advances have also been made in research and medication. Staff under the direction of Dr. Jim Kennedy eliminated trial-and-error

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steps in prescribing medications by measuring each patient’s genetic makeup to create personalized prescriptions according to each individual’s specific needs. Similar steps were taken via the use of a Positron Emission Technology (PET) scanner to yield precise treatment programs, each finetuned for a particular patient. Closer to home, I have been heartened by the success of the partnership between the University of Toronto, the CAMH, and a committed community in raising funds to support the Cameron Parker Holcombe Wilson Chair in Depression Studies. As I write this, four chairholders have made dramatic advances towards understanding and treating depression: Trevor Young (cellular function in bipolar disorder); Sid Kennedy (new pharmacotherapies); Zindel Segal (mindfulness and cognitive behavioural therapy); and Robert Levitan (treating seasonal affective disorder). My congratulations and thanks to all of them. My decision to speak out about mental illness at Cameron’s funeral – to go beyond mourning the loss of our son’s life and address the source of his anguish – yielded far more than I imagined at the time. Drawing on my family’s experience and my public profile to help shatter the stigma surrounding mental illness has earned me an embarrassing number of accolades and awards. Some praised my courage in being open about Cameron’s illness, but to me it was never a question of courage. I spoke frankly about Cameron because I saw how the fear of revealing his illness to others shattered and tortured him until the burden became too heavy to bear. His distress faded only with his passing, but it continues to agonize others. The impact of my words generated a positive response that launched waves of gratitude, strengthening my commitment to spreading the message, knowing my voice would help others. My efforts to raise both money and awareness where mental illness was concerned became of the utmost importance to me. Some suggested these efforts were more significant than any other accomplishment in my life. If

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so, that’s because many others joined me. Together, we made a far larger impact than any single voice could hope to achieve. Nothing can make up for the loss of a child. And no words can ever express the sorrow endured by the family that undergoes such a tragedy. Over the years following Cameron’s final farewell to us, we watched major shifts in the attitudes and policies dealing with mental illness in Canada. They continue to offer promise for the future – the promise that those who endure mental illness will not also have to endure the rejection of society. It brought positive meaning to a family tragedy.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Embassy Life

“prepare yourself for a phone call,” Derek Burney said from Ottawa. “You’re on a short list of one.” It was a few days ahead of the 2006 federal election and he was referring to Stephen Harper’s choice to fill the position of ambassador to the United States, a role Derek had performed in the last few years of Brian Mulroney’s government. With Harper’s Conservative Party poised to replace Paul Martin’s Liberals, rumours of party faithfuls chosen to fill key positions were swirling everywhere. I had assisted as an Ontario campaign manager in the election, but I was solidly embedded in private life with no expectations of any government appointment. Elected political life was behind me, and while I took pride in the contributions I made during those years, I had no desire to return. Especially not back in Ottawa as an unelected senior official at the federal level. I didn’t need it, didn’t want it, and certainly didn’t seek it. But this was not Ottawa, and it was not an empty position. When the phone call came, as Derek predicted it would, I made up my mind pretty quickly. It was the only public appointment I could imagine accepting. I would be serving as Canada’s representative in the most important capital in the world. My job would be to handle positions, concerns, accolades, disputes, queries, and promises with our country’s most important friend, closest neighbour, strongest ally, and largest trading partner. How could I resist?

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I hesitated just long enough to get a better understanding of my ­responsibilities and sort out some personal matters. The first was to weigh the opportunity with Margie who, like me, had assumed our public life had ceased when I left Parliament thirteen years earlier. She was, shall I say, less than enthusiastic about any return to the limelight. I needed her support. Anything less and I would pass up the invitation – this was understood. Recognizing that the appointment was a special opportunity for me to be of service at a challenging time, she set aside her misgivings and gave the idea her blessing. This was reassuring, but I had concerns of my own to address. The most practical was money. Accepting the position as ambassador meant I would cease receiving my federal pension. What’s more, I would have to give up my membership on various boards I had been serving for some time, each of them paying me a stipend for my time and energy. In effect, filling the post of ambassador to the US meant I would be working for free. It was actually a non-issue for me. The honour and opportunity to establish rapport and implement policies with the US ultimately overrode any monetary matters. Abandoning my involvement in not-for-profit endeavours was quite another matter. It meant leaving behind my association with CAMH, CCGG, the Canadian Institutes of Health Research, and others, creating gaps in activities that had given me great satisfaction. I had especially enjoyed my participation in NeuroScience Canada (now Brain Canada Foundation). Every aspect of medical research is important, of course, and each deserves monetary and community support. The advances being made in brain studies, however, were of special interest to me. I recognized that greater understanding of how the brain works contributes to the prevention, diagnosis, treatment, and cure of its disorders. We had only begun to fathom the influence of the brain on so many aspects of life and health. Taking part in the efforts to identify these influences and the potential impact they had on our general well-being seemed as earth shaking as any

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other advance in science. As ambassador, I would have to watch future developments from the sidelines, but I promised myself to resume my involvement in the post-ambassadorial days.1 Next, I arranged a meeting with Harper to clarify our relationship. He assured me he would be open to regular contact as needed. Then he added that he was not good at making telephone calls so I should expect to be the one initiating contact when necessary. Overall, the chemistry between us felt good, which was an important factor. As I joked in an interview with the Globe and Mail, there was even a bit of a teacher/student element in the partnership: Harper revealed that everything he knew about charisma he had absorbed from me. Jokes aside, I was about to step into something of a hotbed. Canada’s refusal to join the US in the invasion of Iraq a few years earlier continued to rankle a few souls in Washington. And both countries were locking horns over Canada’s softwood lumber pricing, considered unfair by US interests even though the World Trade Organization repeatedly sided with us. Things hardly improved with the previous ambassador’s observation in an address to Canadians that “the government of the United States is in large measure dysfunctional.” Restoring our historically close relationship with the US was understandably high on Harper’s wish list. I looked forward to assisting to change the tone, recalling Mulroney’s oft-repeated words: It’s important that when we disagree, we are not disagreeable. With my major concerns satisfied, I accepted the appointment on one condition: It would not take effect until the day after my annual heliskiing trip to British Columbia. Some priorities and customs deserve respect, after all. Plus, I sensed that the trip would be my last chance to escape harsh levels of tension for some time. The road from my settled private life in Toronto back into the fishbowl attention of public life went smoothly. With one exception.

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Alan Gotlieb had served as our Washington ambassador during the 1980s, and he remained a good friend from those days. Who better to offer advice about potential pitfalls that I might encounter? He agreed to meet with me to discuss the job, and he kicked off our session with sincere congratulations. Then his words took an abrupt turn. To my surprise, Alan said he fundamentally disagreed with the kind of political appointment I was about to embark on. I had not risen through the foreign service route, he noted. I had achieved my position as an electioncampaigning politician, and I would thus land in the envoy’s chair with little understanding of the role I was about to assume. Learning on the job, he suggested, was never a good idea in any profession. In a diplomatic post, especially one as challenging as that in Washington, it could prove disastrous. This was not quite what I expected. I wasn’t looking for plaudits or acclaim, but neither did I anticipate hearing that I was unqualified due to lack of experience. Using direct but gentle – let’s say diplomatic – terms, I responded that I was not quite as inexperienced as Alan was suggesting. Canada’s relationship with the US had been a significant part of all four federal portfolios I held in the Mulroney government. I knew how the American political system worked, I grasped many of the policy issues, and I had dealt with several people I would be encountering in Washington. Moreover, my experience in the private sector had provided exposure to American markets and investment operations, another plus. I considered but ultimately declined reminding Alan that Jim Blanchard, Washington’s ambassador to Canada under Bill Clinton, had publicly stated that Harper had “hit a home run” by appointing me. I left the meeting sensing that Gotlieb was still unpersuaded, so it meant a great deal to me when, some months later, Alan admitted he had been wrong and allowed that I “seemed to be doing a decent job.” Fresh from skiing, I arrived in Washington the evening of 12 March. Early the next morning I was in the office of Deputy Secretary of State Nick

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Burns, who informed me that the ceremony to present my credentials in the White House would take place that very afternoon. This was unusually soon, but Burns told me that President Bush had been explicit about fast-tracking me, saying there was much work to be done and he didn’t want any delays. I had been told that “family” – normally parents, spouse, and children – were welcome to attend the credentials ceremony, and I jokingly asked about grandchildren. “Absolutely,” Burns replied. “The President loves to have grandchildren attend.” I suspect he regretted the invitation when Margie and I arrived at the White House with Lara, Geoffrey, and four grandchildren in tow. About twenty other new ambassadors would be presenting their credentials ahead of me, and they and their families were waiting in the reception area. That’s when I noticed that our children were younger than any other adults in the room, and no grandchildren were present. Ours – Patrick and Thomas in new sports jackets, and Ciara and Kalin in pink dresses – kept themselves busy, the girls doing pirouettes and the boys stuffing their pockets with White House M&M’s. President Bush welcomed us into the Oval Office, appearing enthusiastic about my appointment. With the formal ceremony completed he said, “Okay, let’s get the photographs done,” which prompted the kids to stampede and gather around him. “No, not with me yet,” he said. “We have to do the official picture first.” The family photo with the President came next, giving our children substantial bragging rights to their friends, and it remains a family favourite. With formalities out of the way, Bush and I had a brief private meeting covering the main issues. He emphasized his wish to improve relations between our two countries, stressing that we were and would remain strong friends, neighbours, and allies. He liked Stephen Harper’s surprise visit to Afghanistan the previous weekend, which launched a short talk about the status of that country and the ongoing conflict, and he touched on

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the civil war in Sudan, noting that the world needed to do more to end fighting there. The softwood lumber issue came next. Settling this dispute, he assured me, was his first priority with the Harper administration. After twenty years it remained a real irritant in our bilateral relationship, and he wanted to see it settled. Frank McKenna, my predecessor, had done some good work on the file, but not enough progress had been made to reach an agreement. By staying in touch with softwood producers in the US, Bush assured me, he would do everything he could to reach an agreement. Official business completed, the President invited us to the Rose Garden where he got down on his haunches, eye-level with the little ones, and pointed at windows of the White House, showing the location of the bedrooms, the library, the office of the First Lady, and other highlights. Then he warned them teasingly that two vicious Scottie dogs were somewhere in the garden and they could eat the children up. But they never appeared. It was a great beginning. He had showed his serious side during our private conversation and displayed his engaging personality with the grandchildren, whom he was clearly delighted to have at the ceremony. The softwood controversy remained top drawer. In fact, it powered my exchange with US representatives the very next day. Meeting with Susan Schwab, chief US negotiator, and Jim Mendenhall, general counsel for the US Trade Representative, we were joined by Claude Carriere, deputy head of mission from our embassy. Claude, a steady and experienced hand, was familiar with the file and I made no attempt to second-guess him in this inaugural setting. As time passed, I took day-to-day interest in formulating a strategy to make our point in search of a fair solution. It was and remains a complex situation. All softwood lumber producers in the US are private sector operations, and they assume a unified position on the subject through membership in a lobbying group. Things are more complicated on our side because the position of Canada’s softwood industry varies across the country. British Columbia, for instance,

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was adamantly opposed to any concession to the US while Quebec was willing to accept a quota if no tariffs were applied. The western provinces earned bigger profits than the east, so they would go along with a tariff rate beyond a defined volume of exports. The provincial positions varied by other measures as well. Finding an agreement to meet US concerns while addressing different expectations of the provinces would strain the wisdom of Solomon. But it had to be done. The dispute continued to harm relationships between the countries, and both sides wanted to put it behind them so they could move on to other concerns. I stayed in close touch with the Prime Minister on the file, impressed with his grasp of the finer technical points of the discussion. Susan Schwab kept the President similarly well-informed, and he was equally involved with the details, a fact that became apparent when she used exactly the same terms in outlining the US position as the President had used when we discussed the issue in the White House. After five months of negotiations we succeeded in hammering out terms that both countries could accept. Unfortunately, the respective industries spread across the provinces couldn’t agree. Harper was naturally disappointed at the news, but he philosophically assumed that success would have to wait until the situation changed significantly. Susan Schwab was equally disappointed and asked if there was anything she could do on her side to help out. In my discussions with Canadian companies and industry leaders, I had grown aware of one factor that might nudge our people over the line if the US side could accept it. When I proposed my idea she took it away with her and returned an hour later to say, “We have a deal if you can bring your industry on side.” Harper was surprised when I called to inform him that we appeared to have a settlement after all, and he seemed impressed with my negotiating ability. The truth was, my appreciation for the US position, my active ­dialogue with industry leaders, and the President’s desire to start off on the right foot with us were more important to the solution than any negotiating skills on my part.

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Mind you, we had an agreement in principle only, with difficult and protracted discussions to come. But we had broken the logjam. Literally. The other issue I encountered from the first day on the job concerned Afghanistan. We had been an early contributor in the effort to free the country from the control of the Taliban and Al-Qaeda. Washington was aware of our involvement, and I received words of appreciation from Secretary of Defence Donald Rumsfeld, Secretary of State Colin Powell, and others. They were especially impressed by the success of our troops in securing the highly volatile region of Kandahar from the Taliban. Fighting there was more intense than other areas of the country, resulting in casualties among Canadians proportionately higher than those suffered by US forces. The Americans frequently expressed their gratitude throughout my tenure in Washington, although Rumsfeld retained a prickly attitude. He had been noticeably cool at our first meeting but warmed up at later sessions whenever the subject of Canada’s military presence in Afghanistan arose. He allowed that our soldiers were “good fighters,” and was clearly impressed by their proactive policy of attacking the Taliban rather than waiting for them to strike first. This wasn’t enough, however, to override his criticism of our country’s level of defence spending. Canada, he reminded me on several occasions, spent less than 1 per cent of its GDP on defence, much lower than the target of 1 per cent for NATO countries. He would also make pointed reference to our lack of support for the US invasion of Iraq and our refusal to participate in the American missile defence program. Choosing not to join the Iraq operation turned out to be a wise move, something the majority of Canadians agreed with at the time and still do today. But hard-liners in the administration saw it as an indication of Canada’s failure to appreciate important national security issues in the US, a feeling that continued to persist in some quarters. One surprising source of goodwill towards the presence and contribution of our troops abroad came from Said Jawad, Afghanistan’s ambassador to the US. Educated in California, and very much at home in the

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environment of Washington, Said became a friend who often went out of his way to express gratitude for the quality of our contribution to the conflict. As much as you may think you understand the differences in governing between two nations, it takes proximity and access to the workings of another country to really clarify things. I was familiar with the structural differences between Canadian and US politics, but I failed to recognize a few less obvious but influential aspects until my tenure as ambassador. Here’s an example: The obligation and loyalty of Canada’s extensive system of bureaucrats at the federal level are welded to the interests of the country, not to the government of the day. They remain in place, performing their duties regardless of election results and party affiliation. Not so in the US. A change of administration in Washington dictates a wholesale change in the upper ranks of the civil service. This often leads to massive upheaval at the top levels of authority and even, as we have seen in the Trump administration, an absence of leadership in some areas. It can also create a situation quite alien to the Canadian experience. Losing your seat in a federal election tends to end your career. You may find opportunities on the fringes of government, but your active participation usually ends with the arrival of the winning party. In contrast, political appointees in the US ousted by a new incoming administration tend to remain in national politics. Many join think tanks (I used to call them “holding tanks”). Others move into academia or the private sector where they play an active part in their area of expertise. True professionals in their field, they remain on the party list, poised for an appointment back into the fray under a new administration. The impact on how the nation is governed may be subtle, but it is very profound. Important government decisions to be made on a national level, especially those emanating from the White House, launch a deep and wide-ranging dialogue among experienced and knowledgeable professionals on both sides.

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When governments change in Canada, similar arrays of qualified people are generally unavailable to perform the same function. A solid group may remain at senior levels of the public service, but cabinet members rarely assume office in key portfolios with anything like the depth and breadth of experience I saw among senior US officials. Many newly elected cabinet ministers in Canada are basically neophytes who rely on instinct, party affiliation, and bureaucrats to inform and guide them. Their US counterparts, for the most part, hit the ground running. To my mind, this explains an important reason for successive Canadian governments to nurture and develop the quality of our permanent civil service. They may not be the most visible part of our government apparatus, but they are essential in providing the expertise and experience necessary to governing, affording a generally smooth transition when needed. The benefits of serving Canada as its ambassador to the US were many, and they varied with the multiple responsibilities tied to it. Given my love for golf, it’s impossible for me to overlook my delight at the extended season for the sport in Washington. I was usually able to practise my favoured game whenever my schedule permitted. A club membership in the US capitol was essential, and within a few days of arriving I was introduced to retired Major General Paul Bergson, who sponsored me as a member of the Burning Tree Club. Every US President had been a member of Burning Tree since its establishment in 1922, so the prestige was wonderful. Unfortunately, it was offset to some measure by its men-only policy. I managed to overlook this issue somewhat, thanks in part to the quality of the club and its course, the warm welcome I received from my first day, and the understanding of Margie. Many club members became good friends of both Margie and me despite the exclusiveness of the membership. They included Ed Eckenhoff and his wife Judy, who we saw frequently when vacationing in Florida. Ed had been a superb athlete in his youth, but in one of those tragic incidents that make us shake our heads in wonder, his back was broken in an automobile

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accident when he was just nineteen years old. The accident took the life of his best friend. Left paralyzed from the waist down, Ed remained unstoppable in both his business career – he established the National Rehabilitation Hospital, a major centre for treating patients and training therapists, serving as its CEO – and his athletic pursuits, especially golf. Seeing Ed drive off the tee with his three-point stance and one-armed swing, his weight on a crutch under the other arm, was a sight to behold. Watching the ball fly unerringly towards the green and viewing Ed’s scorecard at the end of the game was a revelation. More than a good friend, and a fiercely competitive golfing opponent, he was another example of the maxim that we cannot control what life hands us, but we can always control how we respond to it. I’m sure Tip O’Neill, former Speaker of the House of Representatives, made many other memorable comments during his time in office, but his best-known line by far was his observation that All politics is local. Acknowledging this nugget of wisdom, I helped develop a program for senior Canadian business executives who were visiting Washington. Other embassy officials and I would introduce the business people to senators and members of Congress chosen from states where the Canadians operated businesses or made significant investments. The response proved overwhelmingly positive and productive, establishing rapport between Canadian entrepreneurs and elected US representatives. For my part, I made a number of trips around the US meeting governors, senior state officials, and ordinary Americans. On one occasion I met with Arnold Schwarzenegger, governor of California and former Mr. Universe. As we were shaking hands during the photo op, I jokingly asked if he wanted to arm wrestle. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” he said in his familiar, gravelly, Austrianaccented voice. He wasn’t smiling as he said it. Later, he invited me to join him in a tent erected in the courtyard of the state government buildings in Sacramento. The elaborate enclosure boasted a lovely Persian rug spread out on the grass. Set on it was a large

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comfortable chair for the governor and a circle of smaller chairs for his visitors. As soon as we were settled, Schwarzenegger withdrew a large cigar from his pocket, lit it, and leaned back to enjoy his smoke. That’s when I realized the purpose of the tent – smoking was not permitted anywhere in the government buildings, but it was allowed in the governor’s tent. During our conversation, he asked me to define his job, which confused me. Wasn’t it obvious? “You’re the governor of California,” I said. Arnold shook his head. “Wrong,” he said. “Try again.” “A movie actor?” “Wrong again.” “A bodybuilder?” “Nope.” “Okay,” I said. “I give up. What are you?” “I am a marketer,” he smiled. “A marketer of Arnold Schwarzenegger.” It was a down-to-earth bit of honest insight, and recognition of the reality of US politics. Each day, the most important task for Schwarzenegger to accomplish was to promote his name and image to the people whose support he needed, including his constituents. Everything else was secondary. Later I visited Boise, Idaho. This was the summer after Boise State University won a major collegiate football championship in the last minute of the game thanks to completing two spectacular plays. I had watched the game and made a point of mentioning it often during my visit. In the eyes of everyone I met in the city, I became something of a visiting hero, proving the truth of Tip O’Neill’s observations. Meeting Idaho’s folksy governor Clement Leroy Otter, whom everyone called simply “Butch,” was a different revelation. When I asked the governor his biggest concern, he replied without hesitation, “Water.” This was surprising to me. Idaho, a mountainous state, must have an untold number of rivers and streams. Perhaps they did, but Otter claimed that the state’s population was quickly overwhelming its ability to provide the volume of water needed. What’s more, he added, Idaho was just one of several western states facing similar water shortages.

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The governor also revealed a curious aspect of American policy towards foreign governments, especially Cuba. The Helms–Burton Act, introduced in 1996, forbade Americans from trading with Cuba. Interestingly, the Act exempted food exports from the embargo, a move motivated more by the interests of American farmers than the diets of Cuban citizens. Whatever the reason, Otter informed me that Cuba had grown into one of his state’s most important export markets, and he was planning to visit the country soon to solidify and expand trade. On the federal level, Cuba was considered something of an enemy nation. At the state level, in Idaho at least, it was seen as a valued customer. That’s when I wished Ian Delaney, CEO of Sherritt International, had been with me to hear this. By guiding significant investment money from his Canadian company into Cuba to support its mining and energy industries, Delaney had been blacklisted for violating a section of the Helms–Burton Act prohibiting Americans from visiting Cuba, even on ­vacation. The Canadian businessman risked arrest should he venture into the US, but the governor of Idaho was free to travel to Cuba on US business. If there was a rationale to this bit of hypocrisy, I failed to hear it. Other connections were made as well. Jon Huntsman Jr., Utah’s governor, impressed me with his grasp of global issues, which led to a number of wide-ranging conversations. A Republican, he was nevertheless named ambassador to China by President Obama in 2009 and, during one of my post-ambassadorial visits to Beijing, he hosted me at his residence there. Without exception, the reception I received from the state governors I met, and the attitude they displayed towards Canada as a friend and trading partner, was positive. In thirty-five states, Canada is the number one export destination for products and services, making our market critical to their economy. All the governors were aware of this fact, and of the importance of maintaining a healthy, open relationship with our country. My purpose in these encounters was to spread the word among both opinion leaders and the general public on our countries’ relationship and the national values we shared. I would begin my visit by discussing any current bilateral issues on the table, explaining Canada’s position before

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moving on to deliver hard facts that invariably surprised and impressed my audience. The biggest revelation was my news that Canada was the number one exporter to the United States of oil, natural gas, electricity, and uranium – in other words, every energy source their country relied upon. Discovering that Saudi Arabia was no longer their primary source of offshore oil startled almost everyone and, I suspect, shifted their views towards Canada in a positive way. US dependence on Canadian products and resources was just the beginning of my message. I would go on to explain that we were each the largest single investor in the other’s country, and that more Canadians visited the US as tourists than citizens of any other nation. We were also in the forefront to assist in many natural disasters occurring in the US, sending specialists and supplies where needed and without hesitation. The embassy had gathered statistics on these subjects, and I made a point of arriving at each governor’s office with figures for that state. Education is often a two-way street, with the teacher – if I may use that term here – often gaining as much knowledge as the students. Speaking on Canadian–American relations at the City Club of Cleveland, I focused my talk on Canada’s commitment to maintaining border security without jeopardizing the smooth flow of people, goods, and services. I was looking for wide media coverage on the issue, which I considered important, and after my speech I commented to my media adviser with some disappointment that the press coverage seemed pretty thin. He responded by pointing to the back of the room. “See the fellow with the earphones on?” he said. “He just sent your speech live to more than 600 public radio stations all across the country.” I suddenly grasped the scope and power of media coverage in the US. And I set aside my mild complaint. Of all the incidents that occurred during my years as ambassador, none surpassed the financial and economic crisis of 2008–9 in terms of earth-shaking impact and alarm.

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By late 2007, it was apparent that US banks were under serious pressure. Julian Karaguesian, an economic officer at the embassy, did a great job tracking developments on the subject. He and I met regularly to discuss the impending problems and pass the information on to Ottawa. No one in Washington, however, seemed to share our concern or even bothered to examine the clues closely. Speaking to one well-known and highly placed American financier, I sought his views on the subprime mortgage situation that was beginning to attract attention and eventually triggered the financial and economic collapse. “How big is it?” I asked. He shrugged and replied, “Oh, maybe two hundred, three hundred billion dollars.” Only in the hyper environment of US finance could that much money be mentioned almost in passing. Surprisingly, I may have been the first to ask him this question because later he called me back. This time his voice lacked any hint of indifference; this time it was pitched a little higher and had a noticeable waver. “I realized I wasn’t satisfied with my answer,” he said. “So I made a few inquiries and, uh …” He paused either for effect or to gather himself. “Apparently it’s more like one-point-three trillion.” When speculation became reality, all we could do at the embassy was watch the disaster unfold and keep reporting to Ottawa. Things reached a climax in September 2008 with the bankruptcy of Lehman Brothers, the $182-billion bailout of AIG, the demise of various banks and investment firms, the near-collapse of General Motors and Chrysler, and assorted other events that seemed unlikely and even implausible just a few months earlier. Our embassy was kept busy on a number of fronts during the crisis, but most notably with the bailouts of GM and Chrysler. This was a source of controversy in some quarters of the US, where cries of “Let ’em go broke!” resounded, but we saw the situation as far more than a simple bailout of two companies. These were broadly based companies whose demise would create ripple effects all through the extensive cross-border supply-chain

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operation between Canada and the US, not to mention the investment and financial markets. The US banking system itself threatened to topple. Only extensive government intervention and the acquisition of weak firms by stronger players prevented a disaster of unfathomable proportions. With the exception of a handful of giants such as JPMorgan Chase, Bank of America, and C ­ itibank, much of the US banking system consists of small regional operations, often owned by local business people. This set-up compounded the blow of bank failures to communities because the effects literally dropped into the residents’ backyards. In a conversation with the president of the Federal Reserve Bank in Atlanta, he explained the ripple effect to me. “It’s the most difficult part of my job,” he said. “These people who own the regional banks suffer the immediate financial cost, and the ripple effect extends to other businesses they own and operate in the community. Many of them fail in turn because their loans are called during the bankruptcy process. The repercussions continue, inflicting serious widespread damage.” Things were different in Canada, a situation that did not pass unnoticed in and around Washington. No Canadian banks needed bailing out, although the federal government provided some liquidity support. Our banks came through the crisis a little bloodied but suffering no mortal wounds. As the crisis unfolded, I was asked to make a few speeches on our banking system. With banks and financial institutions across the world on wobbly legs, people within and outside of the US government wanted to know how our banks were escaping damage. I explained that during the 1980s the Mulroney government had responded to two bank failures and the absorption of three other banks by tightening our regulatory system. We also benefited from a small oversight committee consisting of senior federal officials who assessed changing circumstances in the financial system and responded with solutions.2 In contrast, the Americans employed a variety of regulators with conflicting mandates to supervise thousands of banks across the country and lacked a formal oversight committee. Apparently

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impressed with Canada’s approach, the US soon established a similar system. Considering the size and diversity of the US financial system, and the lack of an oversight committee to provide stability, I suspect it did not prove as nimble and responsive as the Americans hoped. Besides the differences in our regulatory systems, the inherent conservatism of Canada’s banking system, especially when it came to loan policies, helped us better resist the deeper effects of the crisis. For instance, our banks are mandated to maintain a twenty-to-one leverage multiple of liabilities, much tighter than leverage limits in the mid-to-high twenties for the US and the low-to-high thirties for Europe. Being venturesome and entrepreneurial is a virtue, but so is being prudent and slightly frugal, especially when a banking crisis materializes. I expected socializing would become a large part of my job as ambassador and it did, but most of the receptions and dinners Margie and I hosted were business oriented. We chose to avoid the wider whirl of Washington’s busy social scene. We had our share of dinners, hosting anywhere from ten to twenty guests. I found lunches served in a smaller dining room seating eight people especially productive and enjoyable. I would invite people like Senator John McCain, former Federal Reserve chairman Alan Greenspan, his successor Ben Bernanke, Henry Kissinger (who really didn’t need a title, former or current), and well-known columnists and reporters from major newspapers. The sessions were always interesting and often animated, enabling me to have frank discussions on current affairs related to Canada’s concerns, and they became the source of useful reports back to Ottawa. I conducted most dinners in a manner acquired from a book on Winston Churchill. Following his lead, I would consult with embassy staff to choose a current policy or political theme, select guests with qualified views on the subject, then lead an appropriate table conversation on it following the main course. One such dinner evolved while Stephen Harper was visiting Washington, and the guest of honour was Vice-President Dick

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Cheney. Several other senior members of the George W. Bush administration were seated at the table that night including Karl Rove, senior political adviser to the President; General Peter Pace, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; John Bolton, Bush’s white-moustached chief of staff; and Fran Townsend, senior adviser to the President on homeland security. The conversation, as anticipated, was sometimes high-spirited. I hadn’t pulled any punches on the preferred topics. They included the softwood lumber issue, border management, national security matters, and the war in Afghanistan. Prior to the dinner I had discussed my plans with David Wilkins, the US ambassador to Ottawa at the time. He winced at the proposal and cautiously observed it was “a risky approach.” Maybe so. But no dishes were thrown, few curses were uttered, and at the end of the evening many of the guests complimented me on the dinner. I assumed they meant more than the cuisine. In fact, my conversation with Fran Townsend took me aback somewhat. When I thanked her for coming, she offered sincere thanks for inviting her. “I learned a lot sitting at the table tonight, listening to the conversation,” she said. This was remarkable to hear from someone working within the White House daily. It made me realize that each guest was a specialized practitioner in his or her area of responsibility, and they focused attention almost exclusively on these specialized subjects while in the White House. Steered towards a topic that wasn’t front and centre with them, they would feel constrained about offering their own opinion. Whichever way it unfolded, I continued the practice of guiding discussions of Canadian-connected issues and the role we played in at least some aspects of Washington decision-making. On that note, I decided to disregard Ambassador Wilkins’s caution and continued to host such dinners all through my stint at the embassy.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Security and Personalities

for years one of the most popular board games in the US was Fortress America. In it, players planned an invasion of an isolated US, beset on all sides by enemies. As a game, it’s paperback fiction in a different format. But as an example of reality, the title reflected to some degree America’s view of the world in the aftermath of September 11, 2001. That view hardened over the years, and during my time as ambassador it presented more than a few challenges. Soon after my arrival in Washington, tighter rules on entry into the US were put in place. Beginning in mid-January 2007, all air passengers who crossed in and out of the US were required to carry passports. By year-end, the same rules had been applied to land crossings. This marked a major change in US–Canada relationships at the grassroots level, creating a sticky point that remained through my years in Washington. Most of the problem concerned the effects on cross-border trade, which was far more important to us than to the Americans. Demanding that cross-border travellers carry passports is hardly unusual in most of the world, but from the outset it proved a problem where Canada and the US were concerned. Canadians and Americans had trekked back and forth across our shared border for generations. Most of the screening consisted of asking travellers their place of birth and if they had anything to declare. Few American travellers carried passports, and the hassle of obtaining one before visiting Canada dampened tourism.

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Similarly, Canadian snowbirds woke up to the need for a passport before venturing south for their mid-winter break, something most had never even considered before. As soon as we were informed of the new requirement for Americans travelling north, we predicted a passport office bottleneck would develop and warned the Americans about it, but they paid scant attention. A few US sources reportedly thought the warning was a ruse on our part to distract from the US policy objective. Later, some officials admitted to me that they regretted ignoring our advice when their backlog grew severe. Passport requirements were one thing. Growing paranoia among some Americans about the existence of anti-US terrorist cells in Canada was quite another. In some sectors, our border with the US was perceived as “porous,” and our wilderness areas were suspected of concealing Islamic armies preparing to cross into the US and perpetrate further attacks. From time to time, American border officials would decide to inspect every vehicle crossing at a particular entry point, their decision based, we could only assume, on some hint of an impending invasion. The suspicion was fuelled in part by rumours circulating after 9/11 that the teams of terrorists who hijacked the aircraft had entered the US from Canada. The US Attorney General publicly stated that the rumours were false, but the damage was done and the fantasies continued to resonate. Five years after the event, when I arrived in Washington, I was obliged to write letters and include statements in my speeches to correct comments made by senior members of Congress and various state governors who persisted in naming Canada as the source of the 9/11 attackers. Nothing appeared to dispel the American distrust of our security standards. In June 2006, a fine example of successful RCMP anti-terrorist policies led to the arrest of seventeen suspected terrorists in Toronto. Tracking every move the putative terrorist group made, the Mounties managed to replace the large quantity of nitrogen-based fertilizer they planned to use as an explosive component with flour before culminating their solid intelligence work with arrests and convictions.

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I began a round of calls to senior intelligence and policing officials in the US and reviewed the RCMP’s success at infiltrating and arresting the suspects as an illustration of our ability to deal with terrorist threats. Some were laudatory in their response. Others saw the event as proof of their suspicion, saying, “See? We’ve been telling you all along that you’ve got a bunch of terrorists up there, and this proves it!” At one point a California congresswoman waved a finger in my face and threatened, “You just wait! As soon as we get our southern border issues resolved, we’re going to hit you next!” This was, I should add, some years before the rise of Donald Trump. Whatever issue we raised never exceeded, in American eyes, their need for adequate homeland security. Addressing it remained a major part of my responsibilities through those years in Washington, and I took steps to maintain my appreciation for their concerns. Setting aside a quiet room in the embassy, I met regularly with security staff members for briefings on secret issues to be discussed with US officials or relayed to our own security experts in Canada. The material shared with us by American sources was detailed and sometimes shocking. One of the video presentations opened with an aerial view of five men standing together in a desert setting. Suddenly the men broke away and began running in different directions. Within a second or two the area where they had gathered became a cloud of sand, leaving only a massive crater in the ground. Nothing visible remained of the men who had stood talking just seconds earlier. We were informed they had been leaders of an Al-Qaeda group, targeted by a drone-mounted weapon controlled by military personnel several hundred miles away. My initial impression was that I had watched a scene from a movie, and the images were not real but generated by computers or filmed in a Hollywood studio. No, they were not, I was informed. The men were real, and I had witnessed the instant annihilation of five human beings. Despite such sophisticated technology, mistakes were made. At one point our security people in Canada maintained three highly suspicious

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individuals under surveillance. Without legal grounds to arrest and charge them, we monitored their moves and discovered they planned to enter the US. At that point our people alerted American authorities, advising that if the individuals presented themselves at the border they should be interrogated and kept under watch. Homeland Security thanked us for the warning and lauded the quality of our bilateral approach to security. Later we learned the three had in fact entered the US without challenge, and their whereabouts were never discovered. Support for maintaining security between our two countries grew steadily over my time in Washington. During my first year at the embassy, I noted the preference for the George W. Bush administration to assume unilateral action when addressing US national security concerns. Over time this attitude evolved into a realization that the US risked overextending itself and should seek appropriate partnerships. Two senior officials, Tom Pickering and John Negroponte, Bush’s director of national intelligence, shared this view with me privately before proposing it as a White House policy. The Obama administration solidified the concept, fuelling the acceptance that countries such as ours will have to collaborate on mutual security matters even more as time passes. When an opportunity arose to observe first-hand how the US dealt with border security, I jumped at the chance. It involved spending a night with Border Patrol officials near Laredo, Texas. Waiting silently in dark woods next to a truck equipped with night-vision equipment, we watched a TV monitor showing a riverbank location perhaps a hundred metres away. When six small circles appeared on the screen, a border official identified them as illegal entrants clambering up the embankment separating the US from Mexico. The commanding Border Patrol officer began whispering into a microphone, “Twenty-five yards … fifteen yards …” The images kept approaching. “Ten yards … five … Now!” From out of the woods a half-dozen armed officers leapt at the immigrants, roughly pinning five to the ground. The sixth member, who had

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been hanging back, letting the others advance first, escaped. We were told he had been the leader, the coyote. Seeing the immigrants up close in a jail, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for them, despite their illegal efforts. They were simple people seeking a better life, some having travelled all the way from Guatemala and Honduras escaping poverty and brutality. They had paid as much as $10,000 each to criminals who transported them to the border and sheltered them in a safe house before leading them to the US and the promise of employment. We followed the captured group into holding cells, and I monitored the interrogations conducted by the Border Patrol. One young woman explained that she had been a waitress in Guadalajara, about 700 kilometres to the south, and had given the coyotes her life’s savings to get her across the border. Once in the US, she hoped to find work and send money home to her family. When the authorities asked if she had any valuables to be held until she was released, she handed over a cheap pair of earrings and a US$10 bill. They were her only possessions. I asked a border officer what would happen to her. He replied she would be escorted the following day to the middle of the bridge linking the two countries across the Rio Grande and told to find her way home from there. It was a heartbreaking tragedy repeated over and over all along the border, day after day. Some nights the coyotes would direct unaccompanied immigrants into the US, telling them to cross at specific locations. When the US Border Patrol descended on them, other points were left unprotected, enabling drug carriers or “mules” to enter the US in relative safety. During a conversation with a senior member of the Bush administration, I asked again about his country’s deep suspicion that Canada represented a severe risk to US border security. Without hesitation he said, “It’s because of your poor immigration system, and the large Muslim population you’ve got up there.” I reminded him that all nineteen of the 9/11 terrorists had breached their borders, not ours, adding that we had improved our system, which

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required every person entering Canada as an immigrant to pass a security test. Any suspicions arising from the primary test would initiate a secondary in-depth check for the individual to undergo. “So 100 per cent of immigrants, refugees or not, face security checks with us,” I pointed out. He brushed my words aside, clearly unimpressed. I wasn’t finished and addressed the Muslim question next. Both of our countries, I pointed out, had significant Islamic populations, adding that they were predominantly peace-loving people. “The proportion of Muslims to the population in each of our countries is roughly the same,” I noted. “Which means that you have about ten times as many Muslims in your country than in mine. So why are you fixating on Muslims from Canada?” “Because,” he said, brimming with confidence, “we Americans know where our dangerous Muslims are. You guys don’t.” Another source, a retiring member of US Homeland Security, informed me that his personal mission was to devote the rest of his life to effectively closing the Canada–US border in order to keep Canadian terrorists out of America. “Shut it solid,” he said with determination. Things changed with the arrival of the Obama administration following the 2008 election. The new secretary of Homeland Security, former Arizona Governor Janet Napolitano, had experience in a border state and a better understanding of the issues involved. She and her colleagues were no pushovers, but they brought a more objective and realistic understanding to concerns about the Canada–US border, leading to better management. I soon began to see improvement with time. The multi-agency Integrated Border Enforcement Team (IBET) combined police and immigration representatives from both countries to share information and strategy.1 They proved very productive at intercepting cross-border criminal activity and were tightly unified. Sitting in on one meeting, I couldn’t distinguish between American and Canadian team members unless I listened closely to their accents.

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It’s important to point out that opinions such as those held by senior officials of the Bush administration did not represent a majority. Raymond Kelly, the long-serving and highly respected New York City chief of police, spoke highly to me of the degree of cooperation between American and Canadian security operations. His was an important voice. Under his leadership the New York City police department built strong security teams following 9/11, drawing from the horrific experience that had unfolded within their own city limits. We also initiated a security program for the Great Lakes. A lot of smuggling – drugs, guns, and people – had been happening on the waters for some time, travelling in both directions. The smugglers had high-speed boats equipped with GPS systems and knew precisely where the border lay. Once crossing it, they would slow their boats and give the finger to pursuing Coast Guard vessels. The program labelled “Shiprider” brought a simple solution to the problem: Each Coast Guard vessel on the lakes had a law enforcement officer from the other country on board. A Canadian officer, for example, would cruise lake waters aboard a US Coast Guard boat, prepared to authorize the US vessel to enter Canadian waters where the smugglers would be subject to arrest. It has proved extremely effective and remains in place. Despite the success of Shiprider to promote joint action on terrorism and illegal immigration, the trauma of 9/11 continued to colour the views of senior officials at the Bush White House. Many opportunities to unify the efforts of Canadian officials with their American counterparts generated no response from the US. Things improved dramatically during the Obama administration. In February 2011, President Obama and Prime Minister Stephen Harper issued a joint declaration of their vision for a cooperative management agreement titled “Beyond the Border.” It functioned well, dealing with key issues such as regulatory harmonization. I suspect that things have changed markedly since then, however, with the Trump administration swinging sharply away from the Obama point of view on a wide range of subjects.

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My relationship with Ottawa over those three and a half years in Washington was for the most part agreeable and productive. I received support from various government ministers and senior public servants. Many came to Washington and met with their American counterparts to exchange views on shared issues. Prime Minister Harper, facing the challenge of dealing with a minority government, had less time to visit the US capital than he might have wanted. His relationships with Presidents Bush and Obama were cordial, but nowhere as warm as the rapport that Brian Mulroney developed with Reagan or Bush Sr. I encountered only two significant difficulties while in Washington, all related to communications. The first was ongoing and marked a contrast between Ottawa and Washington when dealing with the news media. Nowhere in the world, I suspect, does the media cycle spin faster than in Washington, DC. It’s measured in minutes, which means if you don’t react to an opportunity or an issue almost immediately, you lose the chance to make your point. The lightspeed aspect of Washington’s media cycle was merely a symptom of its environment. Things didn’t just move quickly; they moved in complex paths, leading one British diplomat to describe the city as “London on steroids.” Whenever a story broke that was linked to a serious concern for C ­ anada and demanded a Canadian perspective or response, we would draft a response and forward it to Ottawa for approval before release. We often asked for a fast turnaround to catch media deadlines, but it rarely came. In a minority position in Parliament, the Harper government remained focused on domestic matters and grew very cautious about making any external statements lest they serve as fodder for the Opposition. Surprises were to be avoided at all costs, which meant responses to our proposed communiqués usually arrived too late and were too long and too cautious. Constantly assured that our requests had received special attention, we nevertheless lost precious opportunities to insert the Canadian perspective on matters of common interest between us and the Americans.

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Many topics needed views from more than one ministry in Ottawa. With good representation and strong relationships in a dozen or so departments in Washington, we had the capacity to pull together policy positions in a number of areas in a dramatically short period of time. What we lacked was someone in Ottawa who could review and approve our points whenever we faced a complex issue that required multilateral types of decisions. Lacking this coordination cost us dearly on many occasions when we failed to make key points in Canada’s favour. My frustration at these lost opportunities built up until, during a visit with members of the Privy Council Office in Ottawa to discuss the subject, I demanded, “Who’s the boss around here? Who can draw the decision points together and get me a response on a timely basis? I can’t do it from Washington. Somebody has to take charge and get me faster answers!” My irritation got us nowhere. I received no answer from the meeting, and we faced the same problem over the balance of my time in Washington. Much more vexing was a kerfuffle that had the Opposition shouting for my resignation. Things began to unravel during the media lock-up in February 2008 when Minister of Finance Jim Flaherty was presenting the federal budget. The US presidential campaign had shifted into high gear, with Democratic Party leaders Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama thrashing things out in the primaries. During the budget lock-up, Ian Brodie, Stephen Harper’s chief of staff, chatted casually with a CTV reporter, who brought up the subject of NAFTA. Both Democrat candidates had criticized NAFTA, suggesting that, should they win the presidency, the agreement would be examined with a critical eye. All three countries were benefiting from the deal, but grass-roots opposition remained in some quarters, especially in Ohio and Michigan, which had seen manufacturing firms shift out of state and often out of the country. The Canadian reporter – Brodie to this day claims not to remember the actual conversation – raised the spectre of a Democratic President cancelling or at least seriously crippling NAFTA, and reportedly identified

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Barack Obama as the source. Brodie responded by suggesting reporters not take the story seriously, describing it as the kind of empty rhetoric often tossed around during a political campaign. He was wrong about the source. The root of the tale had been a comment made not by Obama but by Austan Goolsbee, Obama’s chief economic adviser, while speaking to a Canadian consulate official in Chicago. Obama’s criticism of NAFTA, Goolsbee had proposed, was “political posturing” and should be “taken with a grain of salt.” The next day Tom Clark, heading CTV’s Washington news bureau, called me for comments on the story. He was preparing material that would highlight Hillary Clinton’s apparent dislike of NAFTA, along with possible consequences should she win the nomination and eventually the presidency. He had a few things wrong, beginning with the source. I suggested I could help him get things straight but what I was about to tell him would be for background only, helping him avoid embarrassment that might arise from attributing comments to the wrong candidate. “This has to be off the record,” I emphasized, “just to keep you from going down the wrong track.” “Absolutely off the record,” Clark replied. I explained things to him as a means of correcting his facts, and he thanked me for being helpful. “And off the record,” I repeated. “Yes, off the record,” Clark said. I moved on to other things, but Clark apparently came under pressure and prepared a story built around many of the “off the record” points I had provided. When Clark revealed that much of the story had evolved from a conversation between the two of us, and I acknowledged that we indeed had shared a private conversation, a flurry of outrage erupted on both sides of the border. Following the media’s search for titles to hang on political scandals, the story was labelled “NAFTA-gate.” The Clinton campaign, building on the “grain of salt” comment, cashed in on the windfall, citing the “political posturing” comments as proof that voters could not trust

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Obama to speak the truth to them. This may have carried some weight; Clinton, who had been expected to lose the Ohio primary to Obama, scored an upset by winning the state with a 10 per cent margin. Back in Ottawa the walls of the House were shaking with demands for my resignation. “Will the Prime Minister confirm that Ian Brodie and Michael Wilson are under investigation and that they have stepped aside?” Liberal MP Navdeep Bains shouted. NDP justice critic Joe Comartin went even further, insisting that the RCMP investigate me and others on the matter.2 To say that I was furious at Tom Clark and CTV comes nowhere near my true feelings. A bond of trust links politicians and journalists; each must rely upon the other to be fair and honest about information exchanged between them. Journalists rightly expect to hear truth from politicians and politicians, in turn, expect journalists to respect the protocol that follows when each side depends on the other’s honesty and credibility.3 Things eventually calmed down, but damage had been done. The next time I spoke to Clark I told him I could never talk to him again because I didn’t trust him. How could I? I believe he got my point. No matter what your job responsibilities, it’s necessary to deal with others who, as contrasting as they may be with your personality and values, are just as human, just as ambitious, and just as vulnerable as you. This included those I met in Washington who played major roles at the apex of the most powerful country in the world. All were memorable if only due to their celebrity status, and many surprised me with aspects of their personality I hadn’t expected. Washington, of course, is a unique cauldron of heat, pressure, and partisan conspiracy. Working within the political arena there generates demands on your life, public and private, which are almost unimaginable beyond the District of Columbia. It was and remains a measure of Darwinian ethics, where survival depends on your ability to endure stress.

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With few exceptions, however, I never felt that the individuals encountered during my term as ambassador were overwhelmed by their jobs. It seemed that everyone knew the rules of the game and how to cope with them. I assume, Darwin aside, that this reflected the wide opportunities for Americans to enter the political arena at an early stage, giving them time to acclimate themselves with the demands and grow a thick skin. It also, of course, could have been the result of selection of the fittest when it came to enduring the pressurized environment. Or, to paraphrase a cliché, those who couldn’t stand the heat got the hell out of the kitchen. I’m unsure about the situation under Donald Trump, who ignored and broke most of the established rules in tailoring his administration. Instead of moving through an introductory process giving them insights into Washington’s milieu, appointees such as former ExxonMobil CEO Rex Tillerson were chosen based exclusively on achievements in the private sector. Some people saw this as a fresh approach to governing the country, an opinion not unusual in parliamentary democracies such as Canada. But as I noted earlier, parliamentary systems involve teams of experienced bureaucrats whose loyalty is to the nation rather than partisan interests. These deputy ministers and their staffs provide stability and continuity to elected representatives, a critical factor in the first year or two of service for the successful candidates. The US system lacks this source of continuity. Democrats within the bureaucracy often find themselves unemployed when the government is being run by Republicans, and vice versa. Federal appointees unfamiliar with the purpose and nuances of their positions may feel their primary chore is to protect both their personal and their party’s position, leaving the nation’s interests set aside. This, in my view, is a valid depiction of the Trump administration. Democracies are, by nature and structure, arenas of conflict between parties with differing views of policies and issues. Under ideal conditions this divergence of opinions creates a balance unheard of and generally unwelcomed in totalitarian regimes, and this balance remains essential to the

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democratic process. The challenge facing every democracy is the need to foster open disagreements without degenerating into hostility in debates and during partisan appeals to the electorate. During our years in Opposition, I represented the Progressive ­Conservative Party in a bit of an ad hoc international political group composed of representatives from Canada and the US. Members of the Senate and the House in both countries qualified for membership as long as they were not federal ministers in Canada or their equals in the presidential administration. This was my introduction to partisan personalities, and I  marvelled how well the Americans dealt with cross-border activities. They were clearly better at it than we were. Over the years, this changed dramatically. Perhaps reflecting mounting levels of bitterness between Republicans and Democrats, we Canadians now seem to get along better than Americans in Parliament and on bilateral issues even though little, I suspect, has changed on our side of the border. This degeneration must end. Somewhere, sometime, and somehow, both countries need to find a more civil way of working together. Beyond this concern, the personalities I encountered and dealt with in Washington during my tenure at the embassy were endlessly interesting and stimulating. By any measure, Barack Obama differed from every US President who preceded him. I admired him and his wife Michelle enormously. Shortly after Obama’s inauguration, I attended the White House Correspondents’ dinner and found myself seated next to the First Lady. She was both totally charming and highly intelligent, and we chatted amiably until, during a break between speakers, well-wishers came to speak with her. To give her privacy I stood and turned to see the President standing alone behind the podium. I approached him, introduced myself, and we stood and talked about the excitement of his recent inauguration, assessed some of the speakers we’d heard during the dinner, and shared other topics of conversation until the next speaker was prepared. There was no artifice

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to the man, no sense that he was playing a role or filling some kind of expectation. We shook hands, I thanked him for his time, and the rest of the evening unfolded. About two weeks later, following a long tradition, President Obama made Ottawa his first destination as President, and I flew to join the official greeters welcoming him at the Ottawa airport. With perhaps twenty-five or thirty people ahead of me, I watched the President descend from Air Force One and work his way along the reception line. He was obviously meeting people for the first time and, as forthcoming as he was, much of the conversation was as awkward and stilted as you might expect when two strangers meet in formal circumstances. Reaching the end of the line he turned and spotted me. His eyes lit up, his smile widened, and with a laugh he extended his hand and said, “Finally – somebody I know!” It was a fine demonstration of his ability to relate to people, a friendly, gregarious, interested, curious guy who many people, including me, liked immediately and yearned to see succeed under enormous pressure. It also should be said that I liked John McCain, the man Obama defeated to win the presidency, and I saw him frequently. McCain enjoyed visiting the Canadian embassy at least partly because it offered the best view of the US Capitol Building from any location in the city. He also admired Canada and knew a great deal about it, and his visits were always welcomed and anticipated. No Canada–US issue arose without John McCain’s understanding and his unwavering support of our point of view. While minister of finance in Ottawa I had spoken frequently with Alan Greenspan. I admired the man’s intellect and grasp of issues involving financial matters in a constantly changing and challenging environment. During those meetings he mentioned on several occasions how impressed he was with Canada’s monetary policy and our handling of financial issues. He especially admired the regular sessions that took place between the

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finance minister and the governor of the Bank of Canada. The prospect that a serious conflict between the minister and the governor would result in the governor’s resignation struck him as eminently correct. Greenspan was held in such high regard for so long that I was shocked to hear he had been dispatched abruptly from his position as chair of the Federal Reserve in 2006, a position he had held for almost twenty years. His sudden dismissal from the job occurred just prior to my posting in Washington, and when things at the embassy grew settled I invited him to drop by for lunch, and he enthusiastically agreed. I had expected to commiserate with him to some degree, in light of the disapproval of his performance carried in the media. Many US sources were aggressively pinning the blame for the 2007–8 recession on policies he had initiated during his last years on the job. I knew he was not the kind of person to feel sorry for himself, but I suspected he might be somewhat down in the dumps from all the negative assessment he suffered, much of it conveyed with a heavy dose of vitriol. Big surprise – he virtually bounded into my office upon arriving, his hand outstretched and a wide smile on his face. “How are you, Mike?” he said. “Nice to see you again!” The lunch unfolded with an interesting exchange of views between us, none delivered with any hint of bitterness or regret on his part. His wisdom was sufficiently deep to accept the truism that you can’t please everyone – you can only do your best and hope somewhere down the line you would be admired for it, a lesson for anyone who chooses to enter public life. I found it interesting that Alan had played saxophone as a young man. He’d had sufficient talent to play with jazz greats like Stan Getz and Woody Herman. Did this musical activity provide him with a more placid approach to the challenges he faced in public life? I regret not asking his opinion, wondering if more of us should launch our careers with music lessons. Alan Greenspan’s replacement Ben Bernanke had the qualifications for the job, but he was much more withdrawn and cautious than his

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predecessor. This may have been wise for the sake of survival in the glare of his position, but it made him a much less interesting individual. I liked Henry Kissinger. In fact, it was difficult to dislike him in a oneon-one encounter. I met him first briefly at one event whose significance I cannot recall. Sometime later I met him again, this time at his office. I gave him my name and position as ambassador and, almost before I finished speaking, he smiled and said, “Yes, we’ve met before. I always remember people I like.” He was a charmer for sure. To no surprise he had a brilliant understanding of the world and the unfolding of global events, with much to say about developments in the Middle East and the territorial ambitions of Russia. He adamantly declined, however, to express his thoughts on any subject related to international geopolitics. Don’t ask Kissinger about economics or climate change, even if it’s merely off-the-cuff observations. Whenever such topics arose, he replied, “I would prefer not to comment on it.” I quickly gathered that he had acquired this attitude as a result of having occupied the media spotlight for such a very long time, and he recognized the danger of making even the smallest misstep on a subject he was not wholly qualified to comment upon. Brent Scowcroft, who served as national security adviser under George H.W. Bush, was one of the first people I contacted in Washington. He and I had shared thoughts previously and we remained in tune on many subjects. Colin Powell proved an interesting guy, as was General Jim Jones, who filled a security adviser’s position in the Obama administration. I also found many of the Washington-based journalists to be first-rate, including Martin Wolf of the Financial Times and David Ignatius with the Washington Post. Washington, of course, is overflowing with larger-than-life personalities whose views and personal achievements cover every range of the spectrum. Some were impressively generous with their time and wholly compatible

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with the values and philosophies we wanted to project from Canada. Others were less forthcoming and hostile to many of our views, especially on social issues, trade policies, and international relations. My encounters with them were not always warm and fuzzy, but they were rarely less than stimulating. With the exception of the myth suggesting the 9/11 terrorists entered from Canada and periodic trade disputes, the relationship between Canada and the US generally remains in harmony. This should be no surprise. We have similar interests, an integrated economy, and widely shared values. The primary criticism of the relationship expressed by Canadians is that the US tends to either ignore us or take us for granted. That’s the public perception. The reality is different. Speaking generally, Canada is not taken for granted in Washington.4 We are considered in most quarters of state and federal government a reliable source of advice, guidance, and even criticism. With few exceptions, the many senators, congressional members, and governors whom I met received me warmly and with respect, leading to fully engaging discussions on a variety of topics. National security continues to be of paramount importance to Americans. Where their actions are compatible with our own, we should respond positively and make our views known at the highest levels. The more we do in that area, the more receptive Americans will be on issues of a lower profile but of importance to us. Our involvement in Afghanistan, for instance, led to a positive outcome on border issues I raised with them. Whatever may be occurring between the two countries as you read this, we should take pride in the rapport we generally enjoy with the US. Many of my ambassador colleagues from other nations expressed both respect and envy for it. One aspect of our relationship that I suggest we monitor more carefully concerns the personality we want associated with us as a nation. The concept of Canadians as “nice” people dwelling in a “nice” country may give

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us a warm and fuzzy feeling, but it can be carried too far, especially in the era of the Trump presidency and its continuing influence. Yes, we are nice people, but let’s not try to be too nice. We can, after all, be both pleasant and strong, especially when it comes to expressing our view of the rest of the world. The emphasis on niceness represents a danger, it seems to me, of the Justin Trudeau government’s approach to international relations. We’re not here to build a nice country. We’re here to build a strong country – strong in our values, our economy, our technical achievements, and our influence in the world. You can’t build a strong country by just working to be nice to people. We have to step out in front and play a leadership role in matters where mid-sized countries can exert influence, and you do this not with geopolitical machinations or foreign involvement but by addressing important subjects that involve both a wide impact and long duration. We are well positioned to take leadership in matters of the environment, for example. Given our size, our resources, and our consumption of energy, we stand poised at the forefront of dealing with environmental protection and climate change. No, we cannot do it alone. We can, however, function as a model and a frontrunner in making practical and effective changes while encouraging other countries to come aboard. We can create a story to tell to ourselves and to those beyond our borders, one they can absorb, understand, and act upon. The biggest audience for that story, of course, is the US. We need to say, We are here. We are the second largest country in the world. We have a role to play in preserving the world for our descendants. So have you. And if you do not play up to that role, we will put you on the spot. There is angst to all of this stuff. As our experience with President Trump revealed, our point could trigger harsh words, silly tariffs, or any of a dozen other unsuitable measures. So we can take this measure only when we sit at the cutting edge of technology needed to deal with these issues. We can’t be shouting, “Somebody needs to do something!” without having the means to do it ourselves.

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Which leads to the key element of this concept. We cannot and must not ignore the fact that the world’s shift towards dealing with climate change and environmental protection will demand new thinking, new technology and – most notably – new opportunities for the countries and companies that successfully respond to it. The needs to be met exist on a grand scale – cutting carbon emissions, expanding renewable energy sources, eliminating unrecyclable waste, protecting rain forests, and so on. All through history when a perceived need grew strong enough, a solution to meet that need was found. And a new industry was born. Why can’t we look at our environmental challenges in that manner – as an opportunity to create and develop solutions on a commercial basis? It is possible to be both noble and profitable, after all. Governments can play an important role in fostering these kinds of things. They can begin by especially bankrolling developments that pay off down the road. For this, we’ll need shrewd minds prepared to take calculated risks and the determination to deal with anticipated and often misled criticism. With enough will and critical investment, we can do it. I expect it’s clear by now that I enjoyed my three and a half years as ambassador immensely. This was due, in part, to my experience in the private sector, which provided me with in-depth knowledge of the US economy, and my years in federal government, where I acquired and often exploited contacts in Washington and various state capitals. It all made things relatively easy for me, which in turn made the total experience enjoyable. I returned to Canada in October 2009. At age seventy-two I had achieved far more in my personal and professional life than I might have expected during my adolescence. I had faced, in the words of Churchill, tragedy and triumph, and no one would have been surprised if I had chosen to step aside from the private and public sectors in favour of playing more golf and spending more time with Margie, and with Geoff and Lara and their children.

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No one except me, that is. The experience in Washington had been energizing. I had dealt with challenging issues and met fascinating people. My learning curve about the way the world works was still rising. Everything I learned seemed to open a door to new interests I believed were worth pursuing. And I did. Why not? Physically, I wasn’t slowing down at all. My physician described my health as “pristine,” called me an epigenetic phenomenon, and said my blood pressure was that of a teenager. Others in my cohort had retired at sixty-five; I went to Washington at sixty-eight. I hadn’t packed it in then, nor did I feel like doing it when I returned. I decided that age would not force me into something I didn’t want to do. My mantra became, “Don’t watch the clock – listen to the body!”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Platinum Years

back in toronto i gave a good deal of thought to the next stage of my life. Most of my career decisions to that point had been made according to instinct. If it sounded good at the time, if my interest level was high enough, and if my instincts were positive, I assumed a “Why not?” attitude and went ahead with it. Good luck and good instincts can achieve far more than almost any other quality you possess. This time, however, I wanted to be more deliberate than lucky, and I began by identifying things that were important to me so that I might focus all my energy and attention on them. I came up with four. Whatever I chose to do, it had to leave time for family and personal life. That was number one. Business still interested me, and I wanted to resume my involvement in all the aspects of being a successful business person – the assessments, the logic, the risk and reward balance, the personalities. Business became second in line. Number three was an intention to remain active in the not-for-profit sector, the other side of the business coin. I believed that the same qualities responsible for the success of business people – especially the ones associated with material gain – can and should be shared by groups and organizations that can make those talents work as effectively for public good as for private profit. Finally, I wanted to resume my involvement in public policy activities. My experience in the ministerial positions under Mulroney and as an

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observer/participant in Washington crystallized my views on certain issues. On my return to Toronto I found myself deliberating these views, often in response to public speaking requests, which had increased in frequency compared to the days prior to my posting in Washington. So I had four quadrants to build my life upon as I moved towards my mid-seventies. I wanted to put them together in a methodical manner without making them appear overly organized and mechanical. I just wanted to get it right, and waste little time reassessing and rethinking things. You get that way with age. Up to your fifties and sixties there’s always time, it seems, to do things over, to tell yourself This time I’ll get it right. That period had passed. I wanted it right the first time. The strategy came together. I decided, for example, that if I could get a good business position I would not accept any requests to serve on corporate boards. This would avoid potential conflicts of interest and help me satisfy other parts of the quadrants I valued, especially the one about having time for my family and personal life. And so I set out. I encountered a few false steps along the way. Joining forces with Bruce Rothney and Michael Norris, two good friends from RBC Capital Markets, we explored an entrepreneurial venture that would have involved significant activity with China. When a few other people came aboard we launched negotiations with representatives of a Chinese investment operation. The business plan was solid and the prospects were good. Unfortunately, problems arose regarding the decision-making process, the kind that too often get overlooked in the flurry of getting started. It came down to Who would decide what and how? Unable to reach agreement, we reluctantly abandoned the idea in the spring of 2010. During this time, I had been talking to potential employers associated with the investment industry. One of them, Barclays of Canada, approached both Bruce and me about coming aboard, Bruce as CEO and me as the active chair. I enjoyed working with Bruce at RBC, where he had been head of media, telecommunications, and technology investment

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banking. With our China-based venture on the rocks, the opportunity for the two of us teaming up again was too good to pass up. Our timing couldn’t have been better. Barclays had left Canada some years earlier, but with its 2008 acquisition of Lehman Brothers in hand, it was seeking to re-enter Canada and establish itself as a strong presence in the market. The combination of Barclays fixed income, foreign exchange, and commodity business, blended with Lehman’s strength in equities and mergers/acquisitions in the US, was a natural fit. Even the geographic factor was a plus: Barclays’s strength was in the UK and Europe, while ­Lehman managed to retain a strong presence in the US.1 This dual presence delivered a powerful base on which to build business throughout the world, including Asia and Africa. My agreement to join as chair included a great deal of flexibility, allowing me to keep my hand in the other sectors of my life while reliving the building experience that Bruce and I had enjoyed at RBC in the 1990s. Not many people my age were fortunate to secure a full-time job with both great responsibility and great potential achievement. And the perks didn’t stop there. I continued to travel frequently to the US, London, Europe, China, and India, working alongside many people who were the age of my children or younger. It was a perk that kept me active, alert, and informed on technological, cultural, and social developments. All very well, but the proof was in the performance. We managed to double the business, increasing our rank in the Canadian market to be rated among the top three or four in mergers and acquisitions, all within a very short period. I like to think that my experience in the investment industry, plus my political savvy and ambassadorial background, afforded an advantage when dealing with clients and assisting my partners. Barclays enthusiastically supported both my not-for-profit activities and my speech-making schedule, believing both enhanced the public profile of the firm in Canada and contributed to its growth. As time passed, invitations to speak on international finance and trade, as well as mental health concerns, began arriving from locations within and well beyond Canada.

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Two years after joining Barclays, an unexpected honour arrived when the University of Toronto appointed me chancellor. The most visible role of the chancellor is to confer degrees upon university graduates, a task in which I took great delight. Sharing the excitement of young men and women as they celebrate one of the milestones of their lives is exhilarating, and I made a point of briefly chatting with each as they came forward, inspired to hear of the wide range of career choices they had made. The ceremonies attracted prominent world leaders in various fields to accept honorary degrees, and their addresses to convocation were, without fail, motivating not only to the graduates but to me as well. An ongoing debate gathered momentum during my years as chancellor. It concerned the question of a university’s key function. Should it prepare students for specific professions and pursuits, which they can use to build their chosen career upon? Or should it teach them how to learn, how to think for themselves, and how to respond to situations they may encounter in their lives? I chose the latter. Whenever the topic arose, I encouraged graduates to view their time at university as the launch of a lifetime of learning. My own career encompassed several shifts in duties, responsibilities, titles, and tasks over the years. With each of them, my learning curve rose markedly, and I profited in many ways. The chancellor position wasn’t exclusively ceremonial. It brought opportunity to work with faculty and staff on a number of activities as well. U of T is a very large and prestigious school, and my involvement in duties such as chairing the honorary degree committee, hosting alumni events, and attending receptions and celebrations brought the realization that my education was being broadened as much as that of the undergraduates. I also served as vice-chair of the Canadian Institutes of Health Research (CIHR), a federal government agency created in 2000 that provides about a billion dollars of research funding annually. Its mandate covers basic and clinical research across a broad category of subjects ranging from neuroscience, cancer, and diabetes to aging, gender, Indigenous, and population health.

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Holding senior positions in both organizations – one dedicated to higher education and the other to improving the health of our citizens – opened my eyes to the strength of our capabilities in Canada and the manner in which we measure up to other countries. We continue to find multiple ways of combining two sources of wisdom and capability, in this case the blending of mind and body. The University of Toronto, for example, is a central player in medical research and technology, with nine partner hospitals in close proximity. Six of them, it should be pointed out, are research facilities. Together they qualify as the third-largest biomedical cluster in North America. Blending universities and medical facilities is hardly new or exclusive to Canada, but I happen to believe, based on my experience, that we manage to do it as well as or better than any other place in the world. In 2015, six years after my return from Washington, I was asked to serve as chair of the Mental Health Commission of Canada, a position I accepted gladly. The Commission, created in 2007 following recommendations in a Senate Committee study on the country’s approach to mental health and mental illness, included a program to diminish the stigma associated with mental illness. This, of course, was a goal very near to my heart, and Margie’s as well. I continued my activities with the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health and the Brain Canada Foundation, assisting in fundraising campaigns for both organizations. I chaired a study on international business with the C.D. Howe Research Institute and participated in both the Trilateral Commission and the North American Forum. Both of these latter groups offered valuable insight into topics linked to my tasks at Barclays on behalf of our clients. In the midst of all these goings-on, I served as a member of the Calgary-based Max Bell Foundation, a successful philanthropic organization supporting education, health, and environmental issues. That sounds like a lot of undertakings, and it was. But there is an old maxim that advises young people to discover a career they enjoy so much

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that each day of their employment they never feel as though they are working, fulfilling tasks they would accept without any recompense beyond the gratification it brings. This explains, I suppose, my positive response when invitations arrived asking me to fill these and other positions. Their objectives meant enough for me to accept and work towards, and the satisfaction I felt was all the recompense I needed. Time was a factor. It always is. We grow to accept that a limited supply exists for each of us. But at no point did I feel stretched too far. I continued to honour the goal of having sufficient time for family, friends, and golf, and I believe I achieved it. Nor did I fulfil these duties on my own. Far from it. None of my personal achievements would have been possible without the direct involvement of so many others who gave of their time and expertise. Every organization had a board of directors or governing council composed of volunteers who brought wisdom, experience, creativity, energy, and a host of other skills and assets with them. They contributed more than their time; they brought commitment and value with them, and gave both generously to the cause they believed in. My repeated reference to time is significant. Most people think of contributing money to charitable organizations they support. All well and good, of course. Yet in many ways volunteered contributions of time are at least as essential to success as funds. Maybe more so. Direct involvement by volunteers gives charitable organizations the priceless benefit of skills brought from other endeavours, along with the benefits of networks cultivated in the private sector. Money cannot buy that. Here’s a bit of counsel I pulled out of that observation: Anyone who honestly and perhaps passionately believes in a cause, a movement, an activity with wide benefits for society in general should not write a cheque as their sole means of expressing support. They should add a commitment to serve in whatever capacity is available to them.

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That’s not only the best method of contributing to an organization’s success; it is also an effective way of exploring talents and abilities that each of us may have minimized or were not aware of possessing. We just might discover something within ourselves that inspires our participation and satisfaction in a manner we had never anticipated. I often felt that the rewards I gained from my contributions in time and effort at least equalled the positive impact they made on the organization. My involvement qualified me, I discovered, for the designation “tri-­ sector athlete,” a phrase coined by Joseph Nye, former dean of the Harvard Kennedy School. He used the label to portray individuals who assume leadership positions in three sectors: private, public, and not-for-profit. Anyone deeply engaged in all three sectors while seeking to influence positive change meets his criterion. Encountering Joe’s designation, and my qualifications to claim it, was something of a surprise to me. I earned the tri-sector label by following instincts within me related to my experience, my personal interests and, to some degree, my family legacy. The legacy component was easiest to identify; it had led me to a career in finance and investment. My father’s success in the industry, bolstered by summer jobs I held plus university courses on the subjects, established my dedication to the private sector. But participation on its own matters little; the critical component is leadership. Around every leader, a small group – perhaps three to five people – shapes the leadership and influences major decisions affecting the organization’s goals and achievements. Achieving this status while deeply engaged in the public policy aspect of the private sector can prove difficult for some to navigate. They see the relationship between the sectors not as a unified effort to improve things but as a tug-of-war between opposing sides. That’s not a tri-sector mindset. It’s true that the primary interest of private sector leadership is the viability and growth of one’s company while the primary responsibility of government is the protection of the public interest. But where is the conflict between the two? The benefits of generating

280  |  Something within Me

and implementing productive policies on health care, ­education, research, and national security are bestowed not only on individuals but organizations as well, and with equal impact. We don’t need warriors on either side defending their perceived turf; we need capable and dedicated people on both sides who acknowledge the overlap between the two sectors and set out to bridge the gap between them. This describes my motivation to a large degree. I had a growing family and an established career in the private sector, which is enough for most people. But growing aware in the 1970s that the country needed a change in direction, I wanted to be a part of it. This was what drove me into politics. It certainly was no desire to participate in the rough-and-tumble of political struggles and intrigue. Nor was it any ego-driven dream of basking in the limelight of celebrity. It was simply the idea that Canada would benefit from viewpoints and values compatible with and favourable to both private and public sectors. So there I was with two out of three of Joseph Nye’s criteria. My involvement in not-for-profit projects represented the third, and it had been launched with the deaths of my two high school friends to cancer. Their tragedies impelled me to respond when asked to perform volunteer work on behalf of the Canadian Cancer Society, and my growing involvement in the Society over the years was a means for me to memorialize the deaths of my friends. It culminated in my selection to serve as president of the Ontario chapter, an honour I had to turn down when the 1979 federal election intervened. Later, of course, I became active in other organizations, primarily the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (CAMH). I grew to understand that not-for-profit leaders serve as the conduit or, perhaps more accurately, the glue between the private and public sectors. This is especially true for health care, social issues, research activities, education, and the delivery of services that are typically a government responsibility. Without the conduit identifying each sector’s shared values and goals, without the glue that unites the sectors when dealing with issues critical to the success of both, we are not at our best. We can never be at

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our best when dealing with these things alone. We need not-for-profit organizations that contribute substantially to all. And here’s the revelation, the Aha! moment as it was once called, that I encountered during my tri-sector activities: The most important effect of tri-sector activities is the softening of the edges among all three sectors. With broader and deeper engagement comes greater understanding, leading to a more sensitive and widespread set of values in all three sectors that, in turn, breeds a stronger sense of community within the country.2 There is no denying the importance of funding social organizations working for the greater good. It is especially effective when alerting children to the importance of activities in the public sector. This is why I began the annual custom of giving each of my grandchildren a cheque for a fixed amount signed by me but with the payee’s name blank, leaving them to determine the organization they wished to support. I wanted them to look around the community, identify the organization they related to most, and send the funds off to it. I was planting the seeds of a tradition here. If all goes well the seeds will blossom in the years ahead, and each of my grandchildren will become active in supporting organizations they feel deliver the most needed benefits to the most deserving recipients. I mention my grandchildren because they are in many ways my reason for writing this book. Among the manner in which I managed my time and energy since returning from Washington, I am most proud of my success at often being in their company. Grandparents, I discovered, find many ways to describe the delight they feel in the presence of their grandchildren. I’m no different, although at least some of my pleasure is linked to their discovery of my career in and out of public life. It often surprises them, leading to questions that can be difficult to answer well. Thomas approached me one day to say that the mother of one of his friends had told him she admired me very much. Her words had confused

282  |  Something within Me

him. How did she know about his grandfather, and what had the old guy done to inspire such admiration in her? He needed an explanation. Kalin insisted I attend her grade four class to explain what an ambassador did and why I once had the job. And when Patrick attended Upper Canada College, he was required to select a charity to support during his years there. His first instinct was to approach me for guidance, along with my rationale for the recommendation. Thoughts of preparing a memoir of my years in the private and public sector had long crossed my mind, but I feared it might smack of self-­ indulgence. It still may, I suppose. Framing this book as a means of letting my grandchildren know of my origins, which are theirs to share as well, provided a different motive, one that addresses their future as well as my past. This book offers answers, I hope, to the questions they have asked in the past and those they are likely to raise in the future. I want to add one final anecdote for them, and perhaps for you to grasp and value. Earlier, I referred to the wisdom I absorbed during my time as chancellor of the University of Toronto. One wondrous and unforgettable pearl was delivered at a convocation ceremony by an honorary graduate, who reminded students of the Golden Rule, the one about doing unto others as you would have them do unto you. Very good, he said, and always worth remembering. But he hoped the students, standing as they were on the cusp of their adult lives and preparing to apply their skills in guiding the world, would consider another rule to abide by. He called it the Platinum Rule. Following its guidance, he suggested, meant committing themselves to improve on every situation or project in which they participated, with the goal of leaving it in better condition than when they began. I hadn’t known of the Platinum Rule through all the years spent in the private and public sectors. I believe, however, that guided by the influences of parents, educators, friends, colleagues, and many others I unknowingly

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absorbed the rule’s principles, and I permitted them to steer me through my actions and decisions. My grandchildren may discover the roots of the Platinum Rule filed under other slogans – Make the World a Better Place and Always Do Your Best. Whatever the label, the wisdom applies and the rewards are consistent: personal satisfaction, and a well-deserved sense of fulfilment. May they enjoy both to the utmost.

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Afterword

Michael began crafting this book himself as a means of portraying his life to his grandchildren. I believe he wished them to understand and share his standards, and the merit of working on behalf of others – qualities that marked the measure of the man. After drafting over 50,000 words, Michael arrived at two conclusions. One was that the book could represent something of value beyond the literary legacy he had planned for his family’s consumption. The other was that he needed assistance to shape his story for a wider audience. I was privileged to have him select me for this task. In the beginning, we appeared as an odd couple indeed – him, a tall, somewhat patrician, life-long Conservative, son of a trust company president, and me, a dedicated Liberal who grew up in a dysfunctional, middleclass family living among a forest of smoke-belching industries. We did, however, share the experience of spending our earliest years in the city of Hamilton, where we perhaps shared its practical, down-to-earth approach to life. Whatever the link, we hit it off immediately. Our first interview sessions in his office at Barclays Bank were marked with laughter and periodic references to our contrasting childhoods. Michael never perceived politics as a contact sport nor approached it with a kill-or-be-killed attitude. When I mentioned a former Liberal cabinet minister whom I considered a friend, Michael laughed and said, “We’d

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fight like crazy on the floor of the House, and later go out for a couple of games of pool.” Then, with a twinkle in his eye he added, “And I usually beat him.” In March 2018, Michael revealed to me that he had been diagnosed with cancer, and his regimen of treatment would end our face-to-face meetings. From that point on our contact was limited to telephone discussions, many marked by Michael’s difficulty in speaking for lengths of time. I grieved for the suffering he was experiencing. Upon his death, I grew determined to complete a narrative that captured all the facets of the man’s character. I regret not being able to hear him comment on the finished product, which I hope would have been to say, “Nice job,” delivered in that fine baritone voice. And I wish he would have been available to comment on some of the illustrative tales and insights that marked his unique and multifaceted life – the midnight party for Mick Jagger, wrestling with the White House and the US Congress to negotiate NAFTA, witnessing the response of Gorbachev and Yeltsin as the Soviet Union collapsed around them and, of course, grappling with and responding to the tragedy of his son Cameron’s death. It was with quiet determination that he achieved his work on behalf of the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health to vanquish the stigma associated with mental illness, and I believe it was this work of which he had been most proud. Someone said that the passing of Michael Wilson left Canada somehow smaller. They were entirely correct. Thanks to those who enabled me to shape Michael’s story, including Michael’s wife Margie, their son Geoff and daughter Lara, and my agents Michael Levine and Hilary McMahon. John Lawrence Reynolds June 2021

Notes

2. Lessons in Life, Home and Abroad 1 “When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life”; delivered in a 1777 conversation with James Boswell. 2 In a bit of fascinating historical trivia, in 1939 Sir Edward was asked to recommend a personal assistant for Admiral John Henry Godfrey, head of British Naval Intelligence. He located and recruited Ian Fleming, who used his experience as a basis for his novels featuring James Bond, also known as Agent 007. 3 The labyrinthine structure was replaced in 1981 by a new high-rise building that offered far more in efficiency but considerably less in character and historical interest. Unfortunately, Barings and its people had only a few years to bask in the glory of its new headquarters before succumbing to bankruptcy in 1995. 4 For the record, her name is pronounced with a hard “g,” as in “Margaret.” 3. Dollars, Discretion, and Life on the Farm 1 Canada’s emotional efforts to update the flag were mirrored fifty years later when Australia and New Zealand attempted to redesign their national flags, banishing the Union Jack from their designs. After extended emotional exchanges similar to those that had characterized our own flag debate, both countries chose to put the project on the back burner and allow a cooling-off period. 2 I found it interesting that Dominion Securities had been founded in 1901 by George ­Albertus Cox and Edward Rogers Wood who, three years earlier, had launched my father’s lifelong employer National Trust. 4. The Power of a Challenging Question 1 One more Gillespie story: He and I were regular skiers at the same ski club, and one day in the winter while we were awaiting the election writ he was blindsided by a snowboarder. Alastair hit the ground hard, breaking his shoulder, and while he lay writhing in pain he looked up at the snowboarder, who had returned to help, and said, “Why the f*** didn’t you do that to Wilson?” Even in such dire pain, Alastair kept his sense of humour.

288  |  Notes to pages 85–213 5. Who Will Lead the Way? 1 At a 1987 reception at Rideau Hall, Prince Charles reportedly greeted Joe Clark in the receiving line by asking, “Why wasn’t two thirds enough?” 2 In 1984 the Conservatives took 211 seats versus 40 for the Liberals and 30 for the NDP. 3 With the exception of Turner being caught on camera patting the posterior of Liberal Party President Iona Campagnolo. Turner called it a friendly gesture; most women saw it as a sexist, condescending act. 4 He had even been a serious paramour of Princess Margaret, who wrote, several years later, that she “nearly married him.” Aside from other issues, Turner’s Roman Catholicism would have removed the princess from her position as heir to the throne. 6. A Platform on Four Pillars 1 Brian Mulroney, Memoirs (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 2007), 381. 7. Tearing Down Tariff Walls 1 Brian Mulroney, Memoirs (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 2007), 567. 2 John Ibbitson, “After 25 Years, Free-Trade Deal with U.S. Has Helped Canada Grow Up,” Globe and Mail, Sept. 29, 2012. 3 “Exports of Goods and Services (% of GDP),” The World Bank, accessed Feb. 21, 2018, https://data.worldbank.org. 8. NAFTA Tales 1 Leonhard Schmitz, “Vectigalia,” in A Dictionary of Greek and Roman Antiquities, ed. William Smith (London: John Murray, 1875), 1184. 2 Introduced in 1932, at the depths of the Great Depression, the Glass–Steagall Act prohibited banks from dealing in non-governmental securities for customers, investing in non-investment grade securities for themselves, underwriting or distributing non-governmental securities, and affiliating (or sharing employees) with companies involved in such activities. It was effectively repealed in 1999. 3 Quoted in Lawrence Martin, Pledge of Allegiance: The Americanization of Canada in the Mulroney Years (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1993), 101. 4 Carla’s name, plus the name of the President who had delegated her, presented John Crosbie with a quip he couldn’t resist. “The chief difficulty in the relations between Mexico and Canada,” Crosbie belted out in his characteristic Newfoundland delivery, “is that there are too many ‘bushes and hills’ between them.” 5 In 2004, a European Union representative warned about “a giant sucking sound” from Eastern Europe pulling jobs and production from the EU, and in 2005, a New York Times columnist, discussing lost airline jobs in the US, headlined his column “That Giant Sucking Sound.” 12. Cameron 1 Margaret applied her phenomenal optimism and determination to rise above her challenges and become a successful physician and head of endocrinology at the Children’s Hospital of Eastern Ontario in Ottawa. She travels abroad to address audiences all over the world, and

Notes to pages 223–81  | 289 with her husband Jonathan adopted two wonderful girls from China, enjoying a fulfilling professional and family life. 2 As disturbing as these estimates may be, it should be noted that the 2015 Truth and Reconciliation Report estimated that rates of sexual abuse among Indigenous children in Canada’s residential schools were even higher – as much as twice as high. 13. Embassy Life 1 And I did, accepting the privilege of serving as honorary chairman of the Brain Canada Foundation. 2 The committee, which met monthly, was composed of the deputy minister of finance; the governor of the Bank of Canada; the superintendent of financial institutions; the president of the Canada Deposit Insurance Corporation; and the head of the Consumer Protection Board. 14. Security and Personalities 1 The team includes the Royal Canadian Mounted Police; the Canada Border Services Agency; the US Coast Guard; US Customs and Border Protection/Border Patrol; and US Immigration and Customs Enforcement. 2 Campbell Clark, “Envoy Faces Call to Resign in NAFTA Leak Probe,” Globe and Mail, Mar. 11, 2008. 3 Ten years later, Brodie revealed his side of the story: Mike Blanchfield, “Former Harper Aide Brodie Recalls ‘NAFTA-gate’ Scandal as Canada Navigates Trump,” Canadian Press, May 2, 2018. 4 Under the Trump administration things changed to some degree. Beyond events or comments linked directly to the White House, however, the rule continued to apply. 15. The Platinum Years 1 Lehman Brothers represented the largest bankruptcy resulting from the 2008–9 global financial crisis. In mid-September 2008, Barclays paid US$1.75 billion to purchase the core business of Lehman’s North American investment banking and capital markets business, saving an estimated 10,000 jobs on Wall Street. 2 Joe Nye’s promotion of the tri-sector athlete concept inspired the search by his followers to define the ideal qualities for participants. Here are six ideal qualities proposed by two of Nye’s students (from Nick Lovegrove and Matthew Thomas, “Why the World Needs Tri-Sector Leaders,” Harvard Business Review, Feb. 13, 2013): 1 Balanced motivations. A desire to create public value no matter where they work, combining their motivations to wield influence (often in government), have social impact (often in non-profits), and generate wealth (often in business). 2 Transferable skills. A set of distinctive skills valued across sectors, such as quantitative analytics, strategic planning, and stakeholder management. 3 Contextual intelligence. A deep empathy of the differences within and between sectors, especially those of language, culture and key performance indicators. 4 Integrated networks. A set of relationships across sectors to draw on when advancing their careers, building top teams, or convening decision-makers on a particular issue. 5 Prepared mind. A willingness to pursue an unconventional career that zigzags across sectors, and the financial readiness to take potential pay cuts as needed. 6 Intellectual thread. Holistic subject matter expertise on a particular tri-sector issue by understanding it from the perspective of each sector.

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Index

Abu Dhabi, 171–2 Acid Rain Treaty, 180 Adair, Red, 169 addictions, 228–31. See also Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (CAMH) A.E. Ames, 196 Afghanistan, 239, 242, 269 Agenda for Economic Renewal (1984), 103–7, 109, 117–18, 130, 143 Ahmad, Mohamed Basir, 174–5 Air Canada, 82, 106, 144 Amoco, 197 Anderson, Rod, 26 Association of the Seven Captive Nations, 157 Aziz, Rafidah. See Rafidah Aziz Bains, Navdeep, 263 Baker, Jim, 122–6 Balsillie, Jim, 210 Baltic states: independence, 158–61, 165 Banff, AB, 20 Bank Act, 138 banking: after Second World War, 9–10; international, 138–41; in London, UK, 28–9; Royal Commission on, 138; US

compared to Canadian, 250–1; US Federal Reserve, 267 Bank of Canada, 107–9, 140–2, 267, 289n2 (chap. 13) Barclays of Canada, 274, 277, 289n1 (chap. 15) Baring, Peter, 30 Baring Brothers, 28–30, 32, 37, 220, 287n3 (chap. 2) Barker, Jonathan, 102, 288–9n1 (chap. 12) Barton, Eric, 193 Bass, David, 14–15 Bassett, Doug, 187 Bassett, Sue, 187 Beatty, David, 206, 209–10, 212 Beigie, Carl, 88 Bell, Michael Richard, 161 Bell Canada: Let’s Talk campaign, 231 Bequia, 188 Bergson, Paul, 244 Berlin, 35 Bernanke, Ben, 251, 267–8 “Beyond the Border” agreement, 259 BlackBerry. See Research in Motion Blakeney, Allan, 55 Blanchard, Jim, 238 Blenkarn, Don, 132–3

292  | Index Bloc Québécois, 187 Bolles, Richard Nelson: What Color Is Your Parachute?, 193 Bolton, John, 252 Bosley, John, 111–12 Bosley, Mrs., 112 Boswell, James, 287n1 (chap. 2) Bouchard, Lucien, 187 Bouey, Gerald, 107–9, 140–1 Bowie, David, 189 BP Amoco, 197 BP plc, 203 Brain Canada Foundation, 236, 277, 289n1 (chap. 13) brain studies, 236 Brinckman, Roderick (later Sir Roderick), 24 Brinckman, Sir Roderick Napoleon, 24 Broadbent, Ed, 121 Brodie, Ian, 261–3, 289n3 (chap. 14) budgets, federal, 110–12, 143–6 Bulloch, John, 130 Burney, Derek, 123, 235 Burning Tree Club, 244 Burns, Nick, 238–9 Bush, George H.W., 117, 122, 150–1, 260, 268; friendship with Brian Mulroney, 180–1 Bush, George W., 239–41, 252, 256, 259–60 Cader, Arnie, 217 Cameron Parker Holcombe Wilson Chair in Depression Studies, 233 Campagnola, Iona, 288n3 (chap. 5) Campbell, Kim, 149, 185–7 Canada Border Services Agency, 289n1 (chap. 14) Canada Deposit Insurance Corporation, 289n2 (chap. 13) Canadair, 82, 106

Canada Life, 27 Canada Pension Plan (CPP), 142–3 Canada–United States Free Trade Agreement (CUSFTA), 74, 106, 120–8, 132–3, 135, 149–50, 153, 180, 211, 247–8 Canadian Coalition for Good Governance (CCGG), 205–10, 236 Canadian Council for Public-Private Partnerships (CCPPP), 211–12 Canadian Federation of Independent Business, 130 Canadian Institutes of Health Research (CIHR), 236, 276–7 Canadian National Railway, 106 Canadian Pacific Investments (CPI), 48 Carnegie, Andrew, 16–17 Carney, Pat, 121, 123, 150 Carr, Shirley, 148 Carriere, Claude, 240 C.D. Howe Research Institute, 277 Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (CAMH), 216, 218, 221, 224–6, 228, 231–3, 236, 277, 280, 286 Centre for International Governance Innovation, 210 Challenger jet, 109–10, 159 Charles, Prince, 197–8, 288n1 (chap. 5) Cheney, Dick, 251–2 China, 274 Chisholm, Tim, 190–1 Chrétien, Jean, 77, 187; 1993 election, 147, 149, 154 Churchill, Winston, 16, 89, 251, 271 Clark, Joe, 73–4, 79, 83; 1984 leadership convention, 89–92; leadership issues, 84–7, 288n1 (chap. 5); secretary of state for external affairs, 107; support in Quebec, 88 Clark, Tom, 262–3

Index  | 293 Clarke Institute of Psychiatry. See Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (CAMH) Clinton, Bill, 154, 238 Clinton, Hillary, 261–3 Cohen, Mickey, 106 Comartin, Joe, 263 Commonwealth, 98–9, 188 Con, Aunt, 34 Confederation Bridge, 19–20 Conservative Party, 187, 235 constitutional reform, 137 Consumer Protection Board, 289n2 (chap. 13) Cope, George, 231 Cox, George Albertus, 287n2 (chap. 3) Crombie, David, 90–1 Crosbie, John, 73, 79, 86–8, 92, 150; 1984 leadership convention, 90–1 Crow, John, 142 Crown corporations, 82, 88, 106, 144 Cuba, 247 D’Alessandro, Domenic, 197 D’Alessandro, Pearl, 197 Davies, Grandmother, 5 Davies, Griff, 33 Davies, Mary, 33–4 Davies, Meurig, 5–7 Davis, Bill, 66, 74 debt, 135–7, 144, 147 de Cotret, Bob, 74 De Havilland, 82, 106 Delaney, Ian, 247 Denis, Solange, 110–11 Department of Finance, 39, 45–6 Dickenson, Larry, 169–70 Diefenbaker, John, 46 Dodge, David, 106, 159, 161, 172 Dodig, Victor, 202–3 Dominion Securities. See RBC Dominion Securities (DS)

Douglas, Roger, 107 Drouin, Marie-Josée, 148 Eckenhoff, Ed, 244–5 Eckenhoff, Judy, 244 Eisenhower, Dwight, 61 Elizabeth, Queen Mother, 103 Elizabeth II, 100–2 Enron, 205 environmental issues, 169, 176, 180, 246; climate change, 270–1 Estey, Bud, 138 Estey, Jim, 203 Etobicoke Centre federal riding, 66, 68 European Union (EU), 288n5 (chap. 8) farm, the, 56–8 Fell, Tony, 49–51, 196, 199 Fieldhouse, John, 165 Fielding, William, 148 flag debate, 46–7, 287n1 (chap. 3) Flaherty, Jim, 261 Fleming, Donald, 61 Fleming, Gord, 27 Fleming, Ian, 287n2 (chap. 2) Foreign Investment Review Agency (FIRA), 82–3, 88, 106, 138 Francophonie, La, 180 Fraser, Neil, 90 Fraser, Nort, 56 free trade, 117–19. See also Canada– United States Free Trade Agreement (CUSFTA) Free Trade Agreement (FTA). See Canada– United States Free Trade Agreement (CUSFTA) Frost, Robert, xv Fung, Bob, 51–2 G7 summit meetings, 113–14 Gagarin, Yuri, 176

294  | Index Garfinkel, Paul, 221 Gates, Bill, 46 Getz, Stan, 267 Gibbons, Sam, 126 Gillespie, Alastair, 73, 287n1 (chap. 4) Glass-Steagall Act (USA), 139, 288n2 (chap. 8) Global Business and Economic Roundtable on Addiction and Mental Health, 229–31 Godfrey, John Henry, 287n2 (chap. 2) Goods and Services Tax (GST), 106, 130–4, 144, 155, 180, 189, 191 Goolsbee, Austan, 262 Gorbachev, Mikhail, 158–9, 161–6, 286 Gorbet, Fred, 106 Gotlieb, Alan, 238 Graburn, Lloyd, 192 Grant, Doug, 26 Gray, Gordon, 203 Greenspan, Alan, 251, 266–7 Grey, Herb, 82–3 Griffith, David, 5 Guaranteed Income Supplement, 110–11 Gulf War, 166–71 Hanna, John, 14–15 Hardy, Hagood, 191 Hare, Rita, 68–9 Harper, Stephen, 235, 237–41, 251, 259–61 Harris, Bill Jr., 38, 47, 49–50 Harris, William C., 37–8, 49 Harris & Partners, 37–8, 47–50, 52–3, 63 Hartt, Stanley, 106 Harvard Business School, 38–9 Helms-Burton Act (US), 247 Herman, Woody, 267 Herold, Cas, 70 Hills, Carla, 151–3, 268n4 (chap. 8)

Hitler, Adolf, 32–4 Hong Kong, 64–5, 197–8 Hood, Bill, 27 Huntsman, Jon Jr., 247 Hussein, Saddam, 168–70, 180 Ignatius, David, 268 Income Tax Act, 133–4 Indigenous people, 276, 289n2 (chap. 12) Integrated Border Enforcement Team (IBET), 258, 289n1 (chap. 14) International Monetary Fund, 99 Investment Canada, 138 Iraq, 237, 242 Irving, Jim Sr., 195–6 Jaber, Sheikh, 169–70 Jackman, Hal, 66–7 Jagger, Mick, 188–92, 286 Jarislowsky, Stephen, 206 Jasper, AB, 20–1 Jawad, Said, 242–3 Jennings, John, 25, 41, 43 Jennings, Nonnie, 43 Jimmy (caddie), 31–2 Johannsen, Herman “Jackrabbit,” 13 Johnson, Dick, 36 Johnson, Samuel, 27, 287n1 (chap. 2) Jones, Jim, 268 Joyce, James, xi Kappa Alpha Society, 24–6 Karaguesian, Julian, 249 Keating, Paul, 107 Kelly, Raymond, 259 Kennedy, Jim, 232 Kennedy, Sid, 233 Kenney, Jack, 26, 103 Khrushchev, Nikita, 176 Kissinger, Henry, 251, 268

Index  | 295 Kuwait, 166–71 Kyoto, 172–3 Lalonde, Marc, 150 Lamoureux, Claude, 206 Landsbergis, Vytautas, 159–60 Laurier, Wilfrid, 117, 148 Lawrence, Harding, 188–9 Lawson, Doug, 57, 88, 224 Lawson, Margaret, 100, 102, 213, 288– 9n1 (chap. 12) Lawson, Richard, 213–14 Lawson, Wendy, 7, 57, 224 Lehman Brothers, 138–9, 275, 289n1 (chap. 15) Lévesque, René, 53 Levitan, Robert, 233 Lightfoot, Gordon, 191 Lister, Bruce, 46 London, UK, 37 London House, 33 London School of Economics, 188–9 Lopes, Ana, 218 Lyons, Julie, 66–7, 69 MacBeth, John, 70–1 Macdonald, Donald, 62–3, 118, 210–11 MacDonald, Flora, 77–8 Macdonald, Ruth, 62–3, 211 Macdonald report. See Royal Commission on the Economic Union and Development Prospects for Canada (1982) MacIntosh, Gordy, 78 MacKenzie, Denyse, 195 Mackenzie King, William Lyon, 148 MacPherson, Hamish, 77–8 Magna International, 209 Malépart, Jean-Paul, 110 Manufacturers’ Sales Tax (MST), 131–2, 134

Manulife Financial, 197, 203 Margaret, Princess, 288n4 (chap. 5) Martin, Paul, 137, 147, 235 Max Bell Foundation, 277 Mazankowski, Dan, 147 McCain, John, 251, 266 McCamus, David, 148 McDougall, Barbara, 138 McElwain, John, 70 McKenna, Frank, 240 McKeough, Darcy, 66–7 McTeer, Maureen, 85 Medland, Ted, 27 Mendenhall, Jim, 240 Mental Health Commission of Canada, 277 mental illness, xvi, 14, 17, 215–16, 221–2; cost factor, 229–30; fundraising, 231–2; research and medication, 232–3; stigma, xiii, xvii‒xviii, 214, 217–18, 225–8; treatment facilities, 232. See also Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (CAMH) Mexico: trade deal with US, 151 Michael Wilson International (MWI), 194, 198 Millar, Sandy, 70, 88, 157, 165 Mitchell, Sir James Fitz-Allen “Son,” 188 Mitterand, François, 180 Morden, John, 26 Morgan, J.P., 16 Morgan Grenfell, 30, 37 Morgan Guaranty, 35–6 Moscow, 175–7 Mukherjee, Pranab, 98–9 Mulock Cup, 26–7 Mulroney, Brian, 55, 83–4, 86–7, 235, 237–8, 250, 273; 1984 federal election mantra: Jobs, jobs, jobs!, 118; 1984 federal election put-down of

296  | Index Turner, 94–5, 133; 1984 government, 97–8; 1984 leadership convention, 89–92; accomplishments, 180–1, 194; dedication to change, 180; free trade agreement with US, 119–20, 123–5; friendships with Reagan and Bush, 181; last telephone conversation with Michael Wilson, x; meetings with President Reagan, 99–100; NAFTA negotiations, 151; personal attack: “Goodbye Charlie Brown!”, 110–11; political instincts, 134–5, 179; press coverage, 179; recognition of Baltic states’ independence, 161, 165; refuses Michael Wilson’s resignation, 146; relationship builder, xv; retirement from party leadership, 184; support for debt reduction, 136–7, 147; support in Quebec, 88; team management skills, 183; trust for Ronald Reagan, 116–17 Mulroney, Mila, 91 Muspratt, Rudolph, 7, 33 Mustique, 188 Mutual Life, 145–6 Napolitano, Janet, 258 National Energy Program (NEP), 81–2, 88, 95, 106, 137 National Rehabilitation Hospital (US), 245 National Trust, 221, 287n2 (chap. 3) Negroponte, John, 256 Nelson, Byron, 22 Neufeld, Ed, 27 NeuroScience Canada. See Brain Canada Foundation New York, 37 Nicklaus, Jack, 23, 129–30 9/11, 253–4, 257, 259, 269 Noonan, Ross, 70 Norris, Michael, 274

North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA), xiv‒xv, 74, 106, 135, 149–50, 180; “NAFTA-gate” scandal, 261–3, 289n3 (chap. 14); negotiations, 151–3, 286; opposition, 154–5 Nye, Joseph: tri-sector athlete concept, 279–80, 289n2 (chap. 15) Obama, Barack, 247, 256, 258–9, 261–3, 265–6, 268 Obama, Michelle, 265 O’Brien, Ciara, 239–40 O’Brien, Eamon, 214 O’Brien, Kalin, 239–40, 282 O’Brien, Lara. See Wilson, Lara O’Brien, Sean, 214 Old Age Security (OAS), 110–11, 142 O’Neill, Tip, 245–6 Ontario Securities Commission (OSC), 199, 201 Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development (OCED), 107 Organization of American States, 180 Otter, Clement Leroy, 246–7 Ozaki Mamoru, 172 Pace, Peter, 252 Palmer, Arnold, 23 Parizeau, Jacques, 187 Parti Québécois, 187 Patten, Chris, 197–8 Peacock, Sir Edward, 28, 30–2, 287n2 (chap. 2) Pearson, Lester B., ix, 46 Peatch, Jane, 211 Pemberton Securities, 196 Pension Adjustment (PA), 143 Perot, Ross, 154 Petro-Canada, 82 Petroleum and Natural Gas Royalty Tax (PGRT), 138

Index  | 297 Philip, Prince, 100–2, 213 Pickering, Tom, 256 Pitblado, Jim, 195 Pitfield, Michael, 75–6 Pitfield MacKay Ross, 51–3, 196 Platinum Rule, 282–3 Player, Gary, 23 Plumptre, Wynne, 45 Pocklington, Peter, 90–1 Popovich, Pavel, 175–7 Porter Commission, 38 Positron Emission Technology (PET), 233 Potter, Frank, 195 Powell, Colin, 242, 268 Price, Tim, 229–30 Prince Edward Island, 19 Progressive Conservative Party, 68–9, 73; 1979 federal election, 74; 1984 federal election, 93, 95, 97, 288n2 (chap. 5); 1984 leadership convention, 89–90; 1988 federal election, 133; 1993 federal election, 147, 187; 1993 leadership preferences, 185–6; amalgamation of Reform and PCs into Conservative Party, 187. See also Conservative Party; Reform Party Prosperity Initiative, 148–9 Public-Private Partnership (P3), 211–12 Quebec: 1995 sovereignty referendum, 180; changes to constitution, 180 Rae, Bob, 79 Rafidah Aziz, 173–5 Raife, Tim, 85–6 Ralph, Elizabeth, 214–15 RBC Capital Markets, 50 RBC Dominion Securities (DS), 28, 48–50, 52–3, 70–1, 196, 198–200, 287n2 (chap. 3) RBC Wealth Management, 201

Reagan, Ronald, 99–100, 115; free trade agreement with Canada, 125–6; friendship with Brian Mulroney, 180–1; sensitivity to politics in Canada, 119–20; trust for Brian Mulroney, 116–17 Reesor, Berne, 88 Reform Party, 187 Regan, Donald, 115–17, 122 Registered Retirement Income Funds (RRIFs), 143 Registered Retirement Savings Plans (RRSPs), 142–3 Reisman, Simon, 121 Research in Motion (later BlackBerry), 199, 210 residential schools, 289n2 (chap. 12) Richards, Keith, 188, 192 Richardson Greenshields, 196 Rio Algom Mines, 197, 203 Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, 54 Robson, Doug, 70, 88 Rolling Stones, The, 188–90 Ross, Judy, 39 Ross, Nick, 35 Rostenkowski, Dan, 126 Rothney, Bruce, 198, 274 Rove, Karl, 252 Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP), 230, 254–5, 263, 289n1 (chap. 14) Royal Commission on banking, 138 Royal Commission on the Economic Union and Development Prospects for Canada (1982), 118 RT Capital, 199–202 Rumsfeld, Donald, 242 Russia: cosmonauts, 175–6 sales or consumption tax, 130–1. See also Goods and Services Tax (GST) Salinas de Gortari, Carlos, 150–1

298  | Index Salterrae, 25 Sawchuk, Arthur, 197, 203 Sawchuk, Mary, 197 Schwab, Susan, 240–1 Schwarzenegger, Arnold, 245–6 Scowcroft, Brent, 268 Seagram, John, 12 Segal, Zindel, 233 separatism, 53, 187 Serra Puche, Jaime, 151–2 sexual abuse, 222–3, 289n2 (chap. 12) Shannon, Gerry, 106 Sharp, Mitchell, 61 Shawbridge, QC, 12–14 Shaw’s Hotel, 19 Shiprider program, 259 Sillcox, Bob, 195 Small, Doug, 144–6 Smellie, Margie. See Wilson, Margie Smellie, Peggy, 40–1, 213 Smellie, Tom, 40–1 Smith, Georgette, 33 Smith, Pat, 33 Smith, Rupert, 33 softwood lumber, 237, 240–1 South Africa: apartheid, 180 Soviet Union. See Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) Spoons, The, 89 Stanfield, Robert, 74 Stronach, Frank, 209 suicide, xvi, 214, 217–18, 227 Sutherland, Peter, 203 Tapscott, Don, 218 Technology, Trade, Investment, and Training program (TTI&T), 83, 106, 149 Telesat, 82, 106 Thatcher, Margaret, 180, 211 Thiessen, Gordon, 142

Tillerson, Rex, 264 Tobin, Brian, 77 Toronto, 36 Toronto Lunatic Asylum, 232 Townsend, Fran, 252 Trinity College, 23, 25–7 Trudeau, Justin, 270 Trudeau, Pierre, 64, 72–6, 79, 84, 94–5, 116, 150; “Just watch me!” comment, 85; National Energy Program (NEP), 81; patronage appointments, 93–4 Trump, Donald, 154, 243, 255, 259, 264, 270, 289n4 (chap. 14) Truth and Reconciliation Report, 289n2 (chap. 12) Turner, John: 1984 federal election, 93–5; 1988 federal election, 133; opposition to FTA, 121; paramour of Princess Margaret, 288n4 (chap. 5); sexist act, 288n3 (chap. 5) Tyco, 205 UBS Global Asset Management in Canada, 202–3 Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR): dissolution, 158, 161, 286 United States-Mexico-Canada Agreement (USMCA), 154–5 University of Toronto (U of T), 23–4; chair in depression studies, 233; chancellor, 276–7, 282; ski team, 12 Upper Canada College, 10–11, 20–1, 23, 28, 282 US Coast Guard, 289n1 (chap. 14) US Customs and Border Protection/ Border Patrol, 289n1 (chap. 14) US Immigration and Customs Enforcement, 289n1 (chap. 14) value-added tax (UK), 129, 189, 191 Vasilkioti, Frank, 63–5

Index  | 299 Vera, Aunt, 61, 76 VIA Rail, 144 Vietnam, 173 Ward, Doug, 49 Watergate Hotel, 152 Weekes, John, 152 Wells, Bob, 69–70 Wells, Mary, 189 What Color Is Your Parachute? (Bolles), 193 White, Peter, 88 Wilder, Bill, 27 Wilkerson, Bill, 229–30 Wilkins, David, 252 Wilmot, Gwen, 101–2 Wilson, Cameron, 113, 185, 191; anger issues, 219–22; birth, 42; childhood, 57, 218–20; endowed chair in his name, 233; funeral, 227; mental illness, xiii, 214, 221, 223–6; sexual abuse, 222–3; shame about his illness, xvii, 214, 225; suicide, xvi, 214, 223, 227– 8, 232, 234, 286; suicide attempt, 225 Wilson, Connie, 2–3, 23, 56, 67, 112, 212, 216; death, 8; death of first husband, 7, 213; death of infant twins, 7, 213; mental illness, 14 Wilson, Geoffrey, 42–3, 113, 185, 191, 218–19, 221–2, 239, 271, 286 Wilson, Granny, 4–5 Wilson, Harry, 1–3, 7–8, 25, 28, 56, 67, 287n2 (chap. 3); career with National Trust, 10–11, 221; death of father, 213; eightieth birthday, 58–9; volunteerism, 212 Wilson, Lara, 42–3, 56–7, 77, 113, 185, 191, 214, 218–19, 221, 239, 271, 286 Wilson, Margie, 56–8, 69, 75, 77, 113, 191, 211, 271, 286; children, xiii‒xviii, 42, 69, 75, 77, 113, 185, 191, 214, 218–24, 226; desire for a “normal” life,

184–7; first home with Michael, 176; first meeting with Michael, 39–40; grandchildren, 214, 239–40, 271, 281–4; interest in mental health and illness, 277; marriage to Michael, 41; parents, 40–1, 213; personal qualities, 42; pronunciation of her name, 287n4 (chap. 2); skiing, 43; suicide of son, xvi, 214, 227–8, 232–4, 286; support for Michael’s political/ diplomatic career, 67, 236, 244, 251; travel with Michael, xiv, 166–8, 170–1, 173, 188–90, 197, 215–16 Wilson, Michael –  business and financial models: UK and USA banking reform, 139; UK governance rules, 208; UK publicprivate partnerships, 211; UK valueadded tax, 129, 189, 191 –  community service and volunteerism: Brain Canada Foundation, 277; Canadian Cancer Society, 15, 63, 216, 280; Canadian Coalition for Good Governance, 205–10; Canadian Council for Public-Private Partnerships, 211–12; Canadian Institutes of Health Research, 276–7; C.D. Howe Research Institute, 277; Centre for Addiction and Mental Health, 216, 218, 221, 224–6, 228, 231–3, 236, 277, 280, 286; chancellorship of U of T, 276–7, 282; importance and benefits of, 17, 204–5, 273, 275; Max Bell Foundation, 277; mental health and addiction awareness, xvi‒xviii, 215–18, 221, 228–31; Mental Health Commission of Canada, 277 –  education: childhood chores and jobs, 8–9; elementary and secondary school, 11, 13, 20; post-graduate, 15; student summer jobs, 20–1, 27–8; university, 12, 23

300  | Index –  family: aunts, 34, 61, 76; brothers-inlaw, 50, 57, 88, 213, 224; children, xiii‒xviii, 42, 69, 75, 77, 113, 185, 191, 214, 218–24, 226, 271, 286; godmother, 61, 76; grandchildren, 214, 239–40, 271, 281–4; grandparents, 4–7, 213; nephew, 213–14; niece, 100, 102, 213; parents, 1–2, 7–8, 25, 28, 40, 56, 67, 112, 213; parents-inlaw, 40–1, 213; primacy of, 273–4; sisters, 7, 22, 213, 224; son-in-law, 214; tragedies, xvi, 213–14, 227–8, 232–4, 286; UK relatives, 33–4; WASP ancestral background, 4; wife (see Wilson, Margie) –  insights into: advantages of music lessons, 267; aging, 274; alcoholism, 34; Brian Mulroney, 179–83; Canada’s leadership role, 269–71; Canada’s role in medical research, 277; Canada-US relationships, 181, 269; competitive approach in business and sports, 153; contrast between business and political life, 62, 183; death, 14–15; differences between Canadian and US politics, 243–4, 264–5; doing your best, 267; economics, 109; evaluating consequences, 55; the former Soviet Union, 164–5; gratification from employment, 277–8; Gulf War, 166–71; illegal immigration into the US, 256–7, 259; impact of Nazism on Jewish people, 35; international relations, 117; international travel, 54; living with physical challenges, 245; love of immigrants for their homelands, 166; media coverage in the US, 248, 260–1; mental illness, 14, 214–17, 221; Mick Jagger and not prejudging people, 192; newcomer Canadians, 68; Obama administration, 265; political

centre, 155; politics: “All politics is local,” 245; politics and translation, 71–2; racial stereotyping, 52; reaction of politicians to journalists, 113, 263; Second World War, 37; team building, 87; Trump administration, 264; US politics, 126, 246–7, 252; US security concerns, 253–9, 269; value of volunteerism and not-for-profit leadership, 68, 278–81; Washington personalities, 263–9 –  interest in: environmental issues, 169, 271; politics and public policy, 47, 61–5, 280; reading, 16 –  role models and mentors: Andrew Carnegie, 16; J.P. Morgan, 16; Meurig Davies (grandfather), 7; parents, 59, 212, 216, 279; Sir Edward Peacock, 28; Winston Churchill, 16, 251 –  significant events in business life: business development at Harris, 47; CEO of RT Capital, 200–1; CEO of UBS Canada, 203; chair of Barclays of Canada, 274–5; Department of Finance, 45–7; director of company boards, 196–7, 203–4; Harris/ Dominion Securities merger, 49–50; investments and banking positions, 27–36; launching his own company, 194–6 –  significant events in personal life: birth, 7; birth of children, 42; cancer diagnosis and death, 286; death of school friends, 14, 216, 280; interactions with Mick Jagger, 189–92, 286; last telephone conversation with Brian Mulroney, x; life review analysis, 193, 202, 273–4; marriage to Margie, 25, 40–1; move back to Toronto, 187; move to Ottawa, 75; regret for missing triple play at Camden Yards, 152;

Index  | 301 suicide of son, xvi, 214, 227–8, 232–4, 286; writing a memoir, 282, 285 –  significant events in political/ diplomatic life: ambassador to the US, 210, 235–72; banking reform and inflation control, 138–42; budget April 1989, 143–6; budget May 1985, 110–12; called a liar in the House and offers to resign, 146; candidate for PC leadership, 86–92; candidate in 1979 federal election, 61–3, 66–74, 92; constitutional reform, 137; contributions to Agenda Paper, 106; contributions to Canadian economy, ix‒x; decision not to seek re-election, 186–7; economic crisis of 2008–9, 249–51; economic development planning for PCs, 92–3; editorial cartoon of him, 107; fallout from 9/11 attacks, 253–9; finance and economic development critic, 83; finance minister, 95; Honorary Hungarian Freedom Fighter, 157; industry critic, 79–83; introduction of GST, 129–35; meetings with Gorbachev and Yeltsin, 161–3, 166, 286; meeting with President Reagan, 99; meeting with Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip, 101–2; meeting with Queen Mother, 103; minister for industry and trade, 148, 151; minister for international affairs, 74; “NAFTA-gate” scandal, 261–3, 289n3 (chap. 14); negotiation of free trade agreement with US, 117– 28, 135; negotiation of NAFTA, 151– 4, 286; pension plan reform, 142–3; reduction of national debt, 135–7, 144, 147; regret for national deficit, 146–7; representing Etobicoke Centre, 157; softwood lumber deal with US, 241; visit to Baltic states, 158–61, 165–6

–  skills and talents: board meeting tactics and timing, 204; competitive approach, 15, 17, 153; conciliation and mediation, 99, 153; dinner table diplomacy, 251–2; good luck and instincts, 273; interpersonal skills, 11, 182–3; overcoming fear of change and challenge, 183; Platinum Rule principles, 282–3; public speaking, 63, 67, 157, 274–5; relationship style, xv; sense of humour, 89; “tri-sector athlete” leadership motivation, 279–81, 289n2 (chap. 15) –  sports and games: 11; baseball, 152; billiards, 77; canoeing, 43; football, 26; golf, 21–3, 30–2, 129, 173–5, 244–5, 271; pool, 286; skiing, 12–14, 43, 287n1 (chap. 4) Wilson, Patrick, 239–40, 282 Wilson, Thomas, 239–40, 281–2 Wilson, Tricia. See Younger, Tricia Wilson, Wendy. See Lawson, Wendy Wise, Geoffrey, 29 Wolf, Martin, 268 women: exclusion from men-only clubs, 244; first female prime minister, 185– 6; parliamentarians in Malaysia, 175; role on company boards, 203; status in Kuwait, 170–1; status in Saudi Arabia, 166–7 Wood, Edward Rogers, 287n2 (chap. 3) Wood Gundy, 27 World Bank Group, 99 WorldCom, 205 World Economic Forum, 139 Yeltsin, Boris, 161–6, 286 Young, Trevor, 233 Younger, Robin, 50, 88, 213 Younger, Tricia, 7, 22, 50, 213 Zayed, Sheikh, 171

© CAMH

michael wilson was a Canadian businessman, politician, diplomat, and mental health advocate. As an investment banker, he held senior roles at the Royal Bank of Canada, UBS Canada, and Barclays Capital Canada. He was a member of Parliament from 1979 to 1993, serving as minister of finance and minister of international trade under Brian Mulroney. He also served as Canadian ambassador to the United States and chancellor of the University of Toronto, where he established the Cameron Parker Holcombe Wilson Chair in Depression Studies. He was a member and chair of numerous boards, including board chair of the Mental Health Commission of Canada, and a companion of the Order of Canada.