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IBBY AWARDS

First of all, I want to thank Brian for his words and his tux, which he only wears on rare occasions. And Catherine Mitchell's committee and IBBY Canada for having chosen me for this great honour. And Dennis Johnson for personally funding this event on behalf of Red Deer Press.

I never met Claude Aubry, but I know he was a writer of a number of books for young readers and that he translated some English language children's books into French including Brian's You Can Pick Me Up at Peggy's Cove. He was the chief librarian for the city of Ottawa as well. And if you will forgive me a real tangent, I recently came across an article about a community in Eastern Ontario who had, during the 1960s, pleaded with Mr. Aubry — at that time a director of the regional library system as well — for help in setting up a new library in that town. In the report I read, it was said that: One township Councillor was quoted as stating only lazy people read books. Gives everybody here something to ponder.

When Catherine asked me where I'd like to have this celebration, this place sprung to mind, because my father was once a member here. His name was Humphrey Carver and he arrived in Union Station in 1930. He was a young English architect, aged 28, come to seek his fortune in a country where he had no connections, no roots at all. Strolling around the streets of Toronto, he somehow came across The Arts and Letters Club. My father appreciated the arts and culture, and so The Arts and Letters Club seemed to be a good place for a newly arrived immigrant to attach himself to. And it didn't take him long to meet a painter he was introduced to as Alec (A.Y.) Jackson, and a musician known as Ernest Macmillan. Toronto was a small city then, Canada was a small country, and my father's determination to become a significant figure in this emerging nation met with considerable success over the next 65 years. He became a distinguished landscape architect, town planner, thinker, writer and a pretty good watercolourist.

So, though Humphrey Carver died 12 years ago, I like to think that his spirit is moseying around these rooms this evening, noticing his son receiving this award, musing that, at last, Peter has amounted to something. Being the son of a distinguished personage, all six and a half feet of him, means you have to measure up, physically and metaphorically.

Soon after graduating from Carleton University's Journalism Faculty, I was enticed by the prospect of working on a daily newspaper. But when it seemed I might settle in Winnipeg and work for the Winnipeg Free Press, my father was shocked. He never said these words to me, but I know he thought of Winnipeg as a provincial backwater, from which he had rescued my mother years before. So he suggested I should perhaps first see the world, even sow some wild oats. He staked me to a trip to England, where I stayed rather longer than he expected. Then he was mystified that I would settle in a land from which he had fled because he was frustrated by the stultifying class-ridden atmosphere in which one knew one's place and knew better than to try to push the limits.

While in London, though, I had been bitten by a new aspiration the idea of becoming a teacher. I did some supply teaching there — which, as anyone who has done it knows, is a futile activity. Back in Canada, I got my credentials and settled into what promised to be a satisfying career as a high school English teacher. It was doubly delightful because I ended up working in the same school as my old university friend Brian Doyle. Together we vanquished some of the dragons of tired old educational methodology, and breathed new life into the tradition-ridden halls of Ottawa's Glebe Collegiate. My father accommodated himself to the idea that I would be a lifelong educator. He probably imagined that I would achieve some sort of distinction as a principal, or a consultant, or some other more rarefied position.

But then, everything changed. I left teaching and I left the city I'd been living in for some time and I even left my family, which was the worst wrench of all. I came back to Toronto where I had been born, and tried to figure out some useful role for myself. It was a desperate moment, and I was lucky enough to be befriended by my cousin Alison Gordon who was to be here this evening but for a prior commitment: the annual meeting of PEN Canada where she is a board member. I was also taken under the wings of Peter and Carol Martin who thought I might be able to edit an anthology for reluctant junior high readers for their publishing company. That was just about 30 years ago and at the time I would never have dreamed that my grasping at this straw was going to lead to what's happening this evening.

And I have to tell you that my father was by now completely perplexed. Journalism my father understood, and high school teaching he could respect. But when I ended up working for The Canadian Children's Book Centre and organizing the Book Week touring program and then freelancing as an editor for various publishers and doing some book reviewing, and running workshops for people who wanted to write for children and writing something called the Freedom to Read kit ... he was mystified. How to make sense of all these disparate activities? I have said my father was a writer, and towards the end of his life, in his early 90s, he wrote an autobiography. It remains unpublished but Kathy and I assisted him by giving editorial advice. In the final pages he sketched out the characters of his three children — my two sisters and me. When it came to me, he described a photo taken of me one weekend when I had visited Halifax to see my elder daughter graduate from Mount St. Vincent University. Several of us had driven down to Prospect Point, a lovely village by the sea near Halifax. We had taken photos there, on what turned out to be one of those glowing foggy days in June when the view is invisible but the ambience is vivid.

Peter is discovered in a bit of a fog. my father wrote of this photo of me and he went on to shake his head, so to speak, about the difficult circumstances in which he imagined I had found myself professionally. Somehow I seemed to have missed the boat, had taken wrong turns — in fact had probably lost my way.

Such is often the complex course navigated by fathers and sons.

I think he was looking for some coherence in my professional wanderings, and had difficulty pinning that down. Sometimes we ourselves don't recognize the significance of a career as we launch into it. This award tells me that there has been a sort of coherence to this sequence of events, that it has made a kind of sense, after all.

At the core of these past 30 years has been my real excitement at being associated with the growth of a national children's literature. Thirty years ago the idea of a thriving national literature for young readers was a pot just starting to percolate. It was immensely satisfying at the Book Centre to meet the authors who created the stories, the illustrators who imagined the pictures, the vigorous new publishers who took the risk of putting these stories and pictures into print and throwing them out on the market. It was invigorating to draw on my teaching skills to organize workshops where new writers could test out their ideas and hone their craft in a safe and stimulating atmosphere. Eventually the most persistent of these writers saw their work translate into books — a great thrill for any creative person. Finally, it has been an incomparable piece of good fortune to have spent the past 11 years helping to design a publishing program for young readers with such a distinguished imprint as Red Deer Press.

Some of you will know that shortly I will be leaving the position of children's editor at Red Deer Press. Catherine has reassured me that this award is given to someone in mid-career. I'm relieved to hear that. In some ways I feel I've used up my nine lives — in fact my departure from Red Deer may be the ninth or tenth shift in my publishing career in 30 years. Its a volatile industry, to be sure.

What I've learned, though, is that as one moves from one piece of life to the next, the circle of friends and associates grows larger and larger, and each new relationship has potentially great rewards. Now I have been warned of the pitfalls of giving my own version of the Oscar acceptance speech in which I thank my hairdresser and my chiropractor. But I do have to mention a few who have contributed significantly to this career. Peter and Carol Martin who in many ways helped establish a Canadian children's literature. Jim Lorimer who employed me in developing a reading series for very young children. Annabel Slaight and Sheba Meland, joyful OWL people for whom I worked on several freelance projects. Virginia Davis who says frequently that she created me when she hired me to work at the Book Centre — she is somewhat like God, isn't she? Kathy Lowinger who made it possible for me to begin my 20 years of teaching the Writing for Children courses for George Brown College. Peggy Needham, my very special and excellent mentor at George Brown. Eleanor Lefave, who enthusiastically opened the doors of her bookstore Mabel's Fables to the George Brown classes. Nancy Fleming who drew me into the campaign that became known as Freedom to Read Week more than 25 years ago. And finally Dennis Johnson with whom I have worked at Red Deer for more than a decade.

If you'll bear with me, I have a couple more thankyous and acknowledgments. First to Blair Kerrigan, friend for 20 years and gifted graphic designer who created the most magnificent of Red Deer's picture books.

I'd like to thank my daughter Katy for being here — she flew back from a family holiday in Nova Scotia to join us this evening. Thank you as well to my sister Jenny Carver and her husband Jim Martin, both of whom will have been taking careful note of my comments about our father. And thanks to my stepdaughter Kelly Stinson, my stepson Matthew Stinson and his wife Antonella, and to my father-in-law Doug Powell.

Most of all I want to thank Kathy, my partner in life who has given my career and my personal life richer dimensions than I ever knew, colours and lights that have made these years more rewarding than they would have been without her. Especially in the past three years, during some difficult medical adventures, Kathy has been a constantly loving support. Besides being a famous author, she's a fine editor, an excellent teacher — and an absolutely devilish winner at all word games.

Finally, thank all of you for being here.

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