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Essay Type: publishing
Essay Date: 2011
[Hungarian-born book designer, photographer and mechanical engineer Kal Opré first joined the board of directors of the Alcuin Society in 1970, but he was active as a book designer since the 1950s. Here he recalls the pioneering period that led to the formation of the Association of Book Publishers of British Columbia.]
I often remember the fateful morning when I spent several hours in the lobby of the Bayshore Inn waiting for Jack McClelland, the bigwig publisher from back east, to finally honour his commitment to see me.
I was on the cusp of a career as a professional publisher. I had a major book planned on the history of the RCMP and McClelland had agreed to talk to me about it. I had been advised that I would need his partnership if I was going to undertake a national project from B.C.
In those days, books with Canadian content were mostly published by a few publishing houses in Ontario, or else by British houses active on the Canadian market. Any noteworthy B.C. authors—such as the humourist Eric Nicol—were usually published ‘back east.’
I was determined to join the wave of newcomers who were hoping to slowly change all that but I also was aware that, in the 1960s and ’70s, when the publishing industry of Canada was in its infancy, the city of Budapest, with its population of under two million people, had twice the number of bookstores than Canada had with its eighteen million people.
***
In the years leading up to 1971, as British Columbia prepared to celebrate the 100th anniversary of joining Confederation of Canada, preparations by governments, institutions, committees, historical societies and the private sector were percolating a new awareness of history.
All levels of governments, including the Canada Council, were set to loosen their purse strings and sponsor and commission events, works of art, and other projects in the public and private sectors. Words like Heritage, History, the Past, Pioneers, Pathfinders, the Forefathers, the Goldrush and the Cariboo became buzzwords for politicians and media.
As someone raised in Hungary, I watched this rare Canadian phenomenon with some amusement because, for me, the knowledge and love of the history of Patria Mea had always seemed as natural as breathing.
Suddenly several magazines and soft-cover publications appeared with western historical themes. They seemed more like curiosity items than regular publications, for one saw them on racks and counters in drugstores, gas stations and on magazine stands in the odd hotel, rather than in regular book stores. Their authors often published their own works and served as researchers, photographers, artists, designers and distributors.
It seemed to me that most of these neophyte book producers lived in the Interior of British Columbia and on Vancouver Island. The few who owned printing shops had it easier than those who didn’t. Print runs were modest, in the hundreds. The author/publisher shouldered all the risks, and they considered themselves lucky if they recovered their printing costs.
These were basically Ma and Pa operations, driven more by the love of the country, or by a newly awakened sense of history, than by the desire to get rich. To survive, this grass-root movement badly needed the support of governments, which, due to the Canada Council’s narrow definition of a publisher, rarely materialized.
The “pros”, the Eastern publishing establishments, stayed away from historical themes and, naturally, their western representatives would not touch the manuscripts or the publications of “unprofessionals.” That left B.C. publishing open for development by a relatively small and mostly unheralded coterie of literary pioneers: A. Patterson; the Grays, and the Hancocks on Vancouver Island; the Lindsays, Fred and Florence, in Lumby; Garnett Basque in Langley; Art Downs in Cloverdale; Bill Barlee in Summerland; and Bill Bryan in Vancouver.
I found the intent of this informal social movement profound, and the unselfish efforts of its people appealing. Their goal of bringing to life the past of my adopted country seemed to me a noble and exciting undertaking. And so I decided to somehow get involved in the movement.
Toward the end of 1970, as my employers at Coast Color Reproductions Ltd. (CCR) steadily pressured me to increase the profit margin of the company, I repeatedly told them that without changing the present structure of the company (it was essentially a two-men operation) and without a healthy infusion of capital, this was impossible. So I resigned.
With Ralph Harding, the partner/manager of Studio One, (the first professional sound recording company in Vancouver), and Jack Allison, a veteran printing salesman, we incorporated a new company called IDEX Ltd. We met frequently, we talked a lot, we bolstered each other’s egos and we desperately looked for venture capital because neither one of us was willing to second-mortgage our homes.
We did not find any believers in our schemes. IDEX dissolved after 4 months. So in 1971 I incorporated Trendex Products Ltd., more confident than ever that I should be able to create and publish new books about Canada. I never bothered to ask anybody for their opinions. Since 1951 I had worked as a graphic artist, lithographer, color reproduction specialist and photographer in Vancouver; I was thoroughly familiar with all aspects of the western Canadian printing industry, and enjoyed an outstanding reputation within the trade.
As an employee, I had conceptualized, designed, photographed, reproduced, and marketed four coffee table books, but had not shared in the profits, nor received any bonuses. Now I wanted desperately to be my own boss. Blinded by my confidence to be able to perform all aspects of producing a book, I drifted in the ego-nourishing stream of independence.
In the spring of 1972, Trendex joined the publishing venture of B.C...Affairs, the first business magazine in B.C. Basically Malcolm Parry, now Vancouver Sun columnist, played his part as editor and photographer, Al Bueckert ran after the advertisers and I looked after the design, reproduction and printing.
The hands-on production of the magazine went smoothly; however, collecting the advertising fees was always problematic. But those were good times. Due to a client’s default of payment for a major advertising campaign, (Paul Norcott’s “Home Ranch Experience” scam), I remember the three of us once flew up to the famous ranch in the Chilcotin, north of Anaheim Lake, and spent a weekend there.
Our flight in a Piper Cub was hairy. Hank, a pilot of WW II vintage, resplendent in his goggles, leather helmet and scarf, scared the shit out of us by flying “on the deck” in the Fraser Canyon. But the country was magnificent and meeting the legendary “Pan” Phillips, the hero of his former partner’s, Hobson’s book Grass Beyond the Mountain was a bonus. Sitting down to dinner with Ed, the gay top hand of the ranch, was icing on the cake. Our return flight almost ended in a tragedy as our compass directed the pilot east toward the Rockies. Fortunately we found the sun and got our bearings.
In September 1972, as representatives of Affairs, my two partners and I attended a conference of Western Canadian publishers that was sponsored by the Canada Council. This conference, mostly generated by UBC Librarian Basil Stuart-Stubbs, was the first of its kind in the West. This event surprised everybody with the number of books on display, and, most importantly, with the depth of publishing in Western Canada. It inspired further meetings (one of them in the boudoir of Cherie Smith, who published numerous titles with her November House imprint) and resulted in the formation of the Western Canadian Publishers Association, WCPA.
After that, Basil Stuart-Stubbs requested that I write and deliver a paper on behalf of the WCPA at the Conference on the State of Canadian Publishing, at Dalhousie University in Halifax, March 2-4, 1973. I wrote the paper in two days and nights without sleep, and was rewarded with pins and needles shooting from the top of my head to my knees. Twitching and itching, I delivered my paper in the Library School at Dalhousie on March 3, entitled “The West Looks East and South.” Equally memorable, my Halifax host, one of the Dalhousie professors, drove me around the city, and to the famous Pier 2 where my ship from Europe had dropped me off in 1949.
That Halifax Conference was a great success, an eye-opener for all, especially the Canada Council. It did not anticipate the depth of regional publishing, nor the energy released by the gathering. The abstract of its summary stated: small regional publishers, anywhere in Canada, feel isolated—they resent the richly subsidized Eastern publishers houses monopolizing the market— their publishing efforts are an important part of Canadian culture— they all need help.
The Halifax Conference not only facilitated the foundation of several regional publishing organizations, it gave me some exposure and self-confidence as a public speaker. I was pleased to discover I could think while on my feet, and that extemporization was easy for me. Upon my return to Vancouver I continued to build on the empathy I shared with some of the westerns I had met in Halifax. This included:
-- Robin Skelton, the poet, author, UVic professor and editor of Malahat Review
-- Peter Hay, the talented Hungarian expatriate, poet, author and co-founder of Talonbooks
-- Tony Blique, manager of UBC Press
-- Gray Campbell and his son from Gray’s Publishing in Sidney
-- Basil Stuart-Stubbs, Head of UBC Library.
These people became personal friends, and some of them partners in my future projects. I also corresponded with Robin Ingles of the Canada Council, and Luis Vagianos and Bonnie Boyd of Dalhousie University, several years after the Conference. And I met Jim Douglas, the principle of J.J. Douglas Ltd, as well as Scott McIntyre of Douglas Agencies in Vancouver. At this time, Jim was very uncooperative and concerned about the WCPA, this unprofessional horde, because the great unwashed threatened his livelihood.
Other contacts included Mel Hurtig of Edmonton, originator of the Canadian Encyclopedia, Jan Walter of Hurtig Books (Edmonton), Mary Scorer of Peguis Press (Winnipeg), George Amabile of the Far Point (Winnipeg), Rusty MacDonald, of Prairie Books (Saskatoon) and Jon Whyte of Summerthought (Banff).
Such was the background of my venture into publishing. As the sole owner and factotum of Trendex, I was free to choose the direction and products of the company. Because of my interest in BC’s history, and because of the approaching Centennial Year, I decided to produce books, posters, records, whatever, based on the historical theme. Being self employed, the lack of cash-flow posed a constant problem.
In order to generate some income, I took on the odd promotion projects, did some design and photography, and consulted for printers and publishers. Jack McCracken, the vice president of Evergreen Press Ltd. a good friend, helped in getting these assignments. My free time I devoted to collecting data, materials and contacts, to expand the resource base of my venture.
I soon realized that I was a babe in the merciless swamp of free enterprise. Publishing requires venture capital, which I did not have, nor was it forthcoming in the foreseeable future, and I was not willing to put our house on Lions Avenue on the block to fund my passion. In hindsight, maybe I should have gambled, but the welfare of my family was sacrosanct.
The Canada Council kept turning down my application for assistance but by 1974 I had managed to publish a few items and develop a list of potentially viable projects. The books include Mike Crammond’s The Bear Behind (TPL), illustrated by Helmuth Hirnschall; and Patricia Johnson’s Nanaimo: Short History (TPL & Western Heritage/City of Nanaimo).
I recall the origins of that Nanaimo book. Bill Bryan, a former shoe salesman, now a distributor of Canadiana, was approached by the author to publish her manuscript as a modest, soft-cover edition. I came up with the idea of the limited edition. I designed a dummy and we presented it to Frank Ney, the colorful mayor of the city, and the father of the Nanaimo Bathtub Race. Ney was a sharp dresser, so Bill complimented him on his shoes. The flattered mayor bought our proposal and commissioned our dynamic duo with a down payment. The book looked great, and one day before its delivery we sent Ms. Johnson her complimentary copy. She phoned me at 9 p.m. to say there was a typo in the title of the last chapter: NANIAMO instead of NANAIMO.
All of us felt sick.
I had the single page reprinted, equipped myself with a package of razor blades and bottles of glue, lined up the 600 books on the bindery tables of a friendly printer in Langley, and cut and replaced the guilty page with the corrected one. It took me two days to complete the task. Aside from Ms. Johnson, Bill Bryan, myself, and my wife, nobody learned of the mishap.
***
The list of manuscripts that didn’t get published is, I think, more interesting. There is a different story for each as to why they never appeared under my imprint.
For instance, financing was secured for Robin Skelton’s Historical Mile Houses and Churches of B.C., and the 110 drawings by Peter Ewart were almost competed, but then Skelton informed me that his main publisher, Sono Nis Press, would not publish his book on witchcraft unless they could publish his Cariboo manuscript. I was devastated. Sono Nis published that book, without the drawings, under the title They Call It The Cariboo. In the preface, Skelton wrote, “This book would not have been possible without the work and assistance of Kal Opre.”
As a gesture of his regret, Skelton mailed me an inscribed copy of all his books as soon as they came off the press. Those books, and a few of the original pencil drawings by Ewart, are still in my collection.
And then there was the time I almost published a book, edited by W.P. Kinsella, to be called To Where They Is To Where They Ain’t.
Back in the 60s and ‘70s, Fred W. Lindsay was a pioneering newspaper man in the Cariboo who later owned and operated the Siska Lodge & Cafe in the Fraser Canyon, south of Lytton. He retired to Lumby with his wife Florence, and the two of them published a series of soft-cover books and pamphlets with stories about the Cariboo and B.C.
I had met the Lindsays back in 1969 when they wanted me to modernize the format of their publications. I visited them several times in Lumby, once with my son John, and we forged a lasting bond of friendship. After Florence’s death, Fred lost his will to live, and in the Vernon hospital, shortly before his death, he handed me a bundle of pages and pictures in a shoebox, saying: “You have been bugging me long enough to put these things down on paper, well, here they are. I hope you’ll like them,”
Fred had described his early years on the boardwalks of Vancouver, and his experiences in logging camps, as a blacksmith’s helper, and as a whistle punk. It was a great narrative, and funny, I loved all his stories. Uncertain of their sequence, I gave them to Robin Skelton to read. He suggested a major editing job and recommended Bill Kinsella who was doing some post-graduate work at U Vic at that time. That manuscript, as well as the Kinsella edit, are still in my possession, along with the photographs.
Unfortunately I didn’t have the capital, or the heart, to proceed. All of which brings me back to my hotel room encounter with Jack McClelland in the hopes of publishing my magnum opus, One Hundred Years: A History of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, complete with a 12” LP record in a sleeve in the back cover.
The project was looking good, very good. I had received permission to visit the RCMP headquarters in Regina, and to conduct interviews and research. And the RCMP Veterans Association had pledged some sponsorship. Jack McCracken of Evergreen Press was standing by with moral support and technical assistance. George Loverock, of CBC Vancouver, was interested in producing the LP with the RCMP Band and Chorus doing O Canada, The Maple Leaf Forever and The Musical Ride theme.
To share my financial burden and to see the book printed, McCracken suggested a partnership with McClelland & Stewart, The Establishment of Canadian publishing. He phoned Jack McClelland, told him about the idea, and set up a meeting for me during McClelland’s next visit to Vancouver. Ron Foche, the Evergreen salesman, who serviced the McClelland account, would accompany me.
Jack McClelland arrived in Vancouver and for three days Foche kept making arrangements for dinners, lunches and breakfasts that never happened. McClelland never showed. On his night in town, Foche managed to talk to him and McClelland asked us to meet him for breakfast at his hotel, the Bayshore Inn. That morning the two of us waited for over one hour. Finally McClelland answered one of several calls made by Foche and asked us to come up to his suite.
We found the darling of Canada Council, the pillar of Upper Canada’s Establishment, the hero of Canadian publishing, sitting on the edge of his bed, in his underwear, picking his toes, never looking up at us, not uttering a word. He did not offer his hand. The room was in shambles, bottles everywhere, and the man was obviously hungover. Even the hard-nosed Foche was embarrassed, and stumbled and mumbled a few words about the project after he introduced me.
I cannot quote the exchange verbatim, but I very well remember the gist of it: “Oh... yeh.... yeh... OK.... OK.... OK.... turn me on about the RCMP,” McClelland croaked at us. At this point, as the saying goes, I lost it:
“You want ME... a f...ing immigrant to turn YOU on about the RCMP? Turn YOU on about YOUR OWN history? YOU, the wonder boy of Canadian publishing... the darling of Canada Council, the recipient of millions of tax dollars to publish Canadian books? I feel sorry for you! You humiliated me, us, with your rudeness and inexcusable attitude! I refuse to turn you on to tell you about MY book, to kiss your ass, to beg you for your participation! I refuse to be humiliated any further by an asshole! Shame on you!”
But this was no triumphant moment. To the contrary, I was heartbroken. I knew my RCMP book wouldn’t be published. I was shaking. Foche stood there with his mouth open. I turned and stormed out. Foche caught up with me at the elevator, and asked me to calm down, and to come back. I refused. Later in the day McCracken wanted to hear my version of what had happened; he did not blame me (at least not to my face). Because he was a friend, I’d like to think that his sympathy for me was greater than his grief over the loss of a lucrative printing job.
Later somebody else published a book for the Centennial of the RCMP; I remember turning its uninspiring pages, its spirit and its contents were far removed from the book I had I envisioned for the occasion. I still regret that my beautiful comprehensive dummy has been lost somewhere.
***
My last publishing idea was a encyclopaedic directory of venues and events in the Greater Vancouver region. After two months of collecting data and writing with Toni Strachan, I abandoned the project because I could not support it financially any longer. The directory would have preceded Chuck Davis’ The Greater Vancouver Book, An Urban Encyclopedia by 23 years.
In 1973 I came to my senses and ended my four-year venture in publishing. It took less than five minutes to terminate my career as an independent western Canadian publisher. I filed a few pieces of correspondence, put the books and pictures in a box, and I didn’t reach for the phone.
I felt frustrated by the series of setbacks beyond my control, by the lack of funds, and by my inability to realize my ideas. But on the positive side, I had met scores of literati, dilettantes and other eccentrics, and a few of them have remained friends. And I still love books.
***
[Kal Opré, also an accomplished painter, went onto a very successful career as a mining engineer, undertaking projects around the world. He now lives in West Vancouver.—Ed.]
I often remember the fateful morning when I spent several hours in the lobby of the Bayshore Inn waiting for Jack McClelland, the bigwig publisher from back east, to finally honour his commitment to see me.
I was on the cusp of a career as a professional publisher. I had a major book planned on the history of the RCMP and McClelland had agreed to talk to me about it. I had been advised that I would need his partnership if I was going to undertake a national project from B.C.
In those days, books with Canadian content were mostly published by a few publishing houses in Ontario, or else by British houses active on the Canadian market. Any noteworthy B.C. authors—such as the humourist Eric Nicol—were usually published ‘back east.’
I was determined to join the wave of newcomers who were hoping to slowly change all that but I also was aware that, in the 1960s and ’70s, when the publishing industry of Canada was in its infancy, the city of Budapest, with its population of under two million people, had twice the number of bookstores than Canada had with its eighteen million people.
***
In the years leading up to 1971, as British Columbia prepared to celebrate the 100th anniversary of joining Confederation of Canada, preparations by governments, institutions, committees, historical societies and the private sector were percolating a new awareness of history.
All levels of governments, including the Canada Council, were set to loosen their purse strings and sponsor and commission events, works of art, and other projects in the public and private sectors. Words like Heritage, History, the Past, Pioneers, Pathfinders, the Forefathers, the Goldrush and the Cariboo became buzzwords for politicians and media.
As someone raised in Hungary, I watched this rare Canadian phenomenon with some amusement because, for me, the knowledge and love of the history of Patria Mea had always seemed as natural as breathing.
Suddenly several magazines and soft-cover publications appeared with western historical themes. They seemed more like curiosity items than regular publications, for one saw them on racks and counters in drugstores, gas stations and on magazine stands in the odd hotel, rather than in regular book stores. Their authors often published their own works and served as researchers, photographers, artists, designers and distributors.
It seemed to me that most of these neophyte book producers lived in the Interior of British Columbia and on Vancouver Island. The few who owned printing shops had it easier than those who didn’t. Print runs were modest, in the hundreds. The author/publisher shouldered all the risks, and they considered themselves lucky if they recovered their printing costs.
These were basically Ma and Pa operations, driven more by the love of the country, or by a newly awakened sense of history, than by the desire to get rich. To survive, this grass-root movement badly needed the support of governments, which, due to the Canada Council’s narrow definition of a publisher, rarely materialized.
The “pros”, the Eastern publishing establishments, stayed away from historical themes and, naturally, their western representatives would not touch the manuscripts or the publications of “unprofessionals.” That left B.C. publishing open for development by a relatively small and mostly unheralded coterie of literary pioneers: A. Patterson; the Grays, and the Hancocks on Vancouver Island; the Lindsays, Fred and Florence, in Lumby; Garnett Basque in Langley; Art Downs in Cloverdale; Bill Barlee in Summerland; and Bill Bryan in Vancouver.
I found the intent of this informal social movement profound, and the unselfish efforts of its people appealing. Their goal of bringing to life the past of my adopted country seemed to me a noble and exciting undertaking. And so I decided to somehow get involved in the movement.
Toward the end of 1970, as my employers at Coast Color Reproductions Ltd. (CCR) steadily pressured me to increase the profit margin of the company, I repeatedly told them that without changing the present structure of the company (it was essentially a two-men operation) and without a healthy infusion of capital, this was impossible. So I resigned.
With Ralph Harding, the partner/manager of Studio One, (the first professional sound recording company in Vancouver), and Jack Allison, a veteran printing salesman, we incorporated a new company called IDEX Ltd. We met frequently, we talked a lot, we bolstered each other’s egos and we desperately looked for venture capital because neither one of us was willing to second-mortgage our homes.
We did not find any believers in our schemes. IDEX dissolved after 4 months. So in 1971 I incorporated Trendex Products Ltd., more confident than ever that I should be able to create and publish new books about Canada. I never bothered to ask anybody for their opinions. Since 1951 I had worked as a graphic artist, lithographer, color reproduction specialist and photographer in Vancouver; I was thoroughly familiar with all aspects of the western Canadian printing industry, and enjoyed an outstanding reputation within the trade.
As an employee, I had conceptualized, designed, photographed, reproduced, and marketed four coffee table books, but had not shared in the profits, nor received any bonuses. Now I wanted desperately to be my own boss. Blinded by my confidence to be able to perform all aspects of producing a book, I drifted in the ego-nourishing stream of independence.
In the spring of 1972, Trendex joined the publishing venture of B.C...Affairs, the first business magazine in B.C. Basically Malcolm Parry, now Vancouver Sun columnist, played his part as editor and photographer, Al Bueckert ran after the advertisers and I looked after the design, reproduction and printing.
The hands-on production of the magazine went smoothly; however, collecting the advertising fees was always problematic. But those were good times. Due to a client’s default of payment for a major advertising campaign, (Paul Norcott’s “Home Ranch Experience” scam), I remember the three of us once flew up to the famous ranch in the Chilcotin, north of Anaheim Lake, and spent a weekend there.
Our flight in a Piper Cub was hairy. Hank, a pilot of WW II vintage, resplendent in his goggles, leather helmet and scarf, scared the shit out of us by flying “on the deck” in the Fraser Canyon. But the country was magnificent and meeting the legendary “Pan” Phillips, the hero of his former partner’s, Hobson’s book Grass Beyond the Mountain was a bonus. Sitting down to dinner with Ed, the gay top hand of the ranch, was icing on the cake. Our return flight almost ended in a tragedy as our compass directed the pilot east toward the Rockies. Fortunately we found the sun and got our bearings.
In September 1972, as representatives of Affairs, my two partners and I attended a conference of Western Canadian publishers that was sponsored by the Canada Council. This conference, mostly generated by UBC Librarian Basil Stuart-Stubbs, was the first of its kind in the West. This event surprised everybody with the number of books on display, and, most importantly, with the depth of publishing in Western Canada. It inspired further meetings (one of them in the boudoir of Cherie Smith, who published numerous titles with her November House imprint) and resulted in the formation of the Western Canadian Publishers Association, WCPA.
After that, Basil Stuart-Stubbs requested that I write and deliver a paper on behalf of the WCPA at the Conference on the State of Canadian Publishing, at Dalhousie University in Halifax, March 2-4, 1973. I wrote the paper in two days and nights without sleep, and was rewarded with pins and needles shooting from the top of my head to my knees. Twitching and itching, I delivered my paper in the Library School at Dalhousie on March 3, entitled “The West Looks East and South.” Equally memorable, my Halifax host, one of the Dalhousie professors, drove me around the city, and to the famous Pier 2 where my ship from Europe had dropped me off in 1949.
That Halifax Conference was a great success, an eye-opener for all, especially the Canada Council. It did not anticipate the depth of regional publishing, nor the energy released by the gathering. The abstract of its summary stated: small regional publishers, anywhere in Canada, feel isolated—they resent the richly subsidized Eastern publishers houses monopolizing the market— their publishing efforts are an important part of Canadian culture— they all need help.
The Halifax Conference not only facilitated the foundation of several regional publishing organizations, it gave me some exposure and self-confidence as a public speaker. I was pleased to discover I could think while on my feet, and that extemporization was easy for me. Upon my return to Vancouver I continued to build on the empathy I shared with some of the westerns I had met in Halifax. This included:
-- Robin Skelton, the poet, author, UVic professor and editor of Malahat Review
-- Peter Hay, the talented Hungarian expatriate, poet, author and co-founder of Talonbooks
-- Tony Blique, manager of UBC Press
-- Gray Campbell and his son from Gray’s Publishing in Sidney
-- Basil Stuart-Stubbs, Head of UBC Library.
These people became personal friends, and some of them partners in my future projects. I also corresponded with Robin Ingles of the Canada Council, and Luis Vagianos and Bonnie Boyd of Dalhousie University, several years after the Conference. And I met Jim Douglas, the principle of J.J. Douglas Ltd, as well as Scott McIntyre of Douglas Agencies in Vancouver. At this time, Jim was very uncooperative and concerned about the WCPA, this unprofessional horde, because the great unwashed threatened his livelihood.
Other contacts included Mel Hurtig of Edmonton, originator of the Canadian Encyclopedia, Jan Walter of Hurtig Books (Edmonton), Mary Scorer of Peguis Press (Winnipeg), George Amabile of the Far Point (Winnipeg), Rusty MacDonald, of Prairie Books (Saskatoon) and Jon Whyte of Summerthought (Banff).
Such was the background of my venture into publishing. As the sole owner and factotum of Trendex, I was free to choose the direction and products of the company. Because of my interest in BC’s history, and because of the approaching Centennial Year, I decided to produce books, posters, records, whatever, based on the historical theme. Being self employed, the lack of cash-flow posed a constant problem.
In order to generate some income, I took on the odd promotion projects, did some design and photography, and consulted for printers and publishers. Jack McCracken, the vice president of Evergreen Press Ltd. a good friend, helped in getting these assignments. My free time I devoted to collecting data, materials and contacts, to expand the resource base of my venture.
I soon realized that I was a babe in the merciless swamp of free enterprise. Publishing requires venture capital, which I did not have, nor was it forthcoming in the foreseeable future, and I was not willing to put our house on Lions Avenue on the block to fund my passion. In hindsight, maybe I should have gambled, but the welfare of my family was sacrosanct.
The Canada Council kept turning down my application for assistance but by 1974 I had managed to publish a few items and develop a list of potentially viable projects. The books include Mike Crammond’s The Bear Behind (TPL), illustrated by Helmuth Hirnschall; and Patricia Johnson’s Nanaimo: Short History (TPL & Western Heritage/City of Nanaimo).
I recall the origins of that Nanaimo book. Bill Bryan, a former shoe salesman, now a distributor of Canadiana, was approached by the author to publish her manuscript as a modest, soft-cover edition. I came up with the idea of the limited edition. I designed a dummy and we presented it to Frank Ney, the colorful mayor of the city, and the father of the Nanaimo Bathtub Race. Ney was a sharp dresser, so Bill complimented him on his shoes. The flattered mayor bought our proposal and commissioned our dynamic duo with a down payment. The book looked great, and one day before its delivery we sent Ms. Johnson her complimentary copy. She phoned me at 9 p.m. to say there was a typo in the title of the last chapter: NANIAMO instead of NANAIMO.
All of us felt sick.
I had the single page reprinted, equipped myself with a package of razor blades and bottles of glue, lined up the 600 books on the bindery tables of a friendly printer in Langley, and cut and replaced the guilty page with the corrected one. It took me two days to complete the task. Aside from Ms. Johnson, Bill Bryan, myself, and my wife, nobody learned of the mishap.
***
The list of manuscripts that didn’t get published is, I think, more interesting. There is a different story for each as to why they never appeared under my imprint.
For instance, financing was secured for Robin Skelton’s Historical Mile Houses and Churches of B.C., and the 110 drawings by Peter Ewart were almost competed, but then Skelton informed me that his main publisher, Sono Nis Press, would not publish his book on witchcraft unless they could publish his Cariboo manuscript. I was devastated. Sono Nis published that book, without the drawings, under the title They Call It The Cariboo. In the preface, Skelton wrote, “This book would not have been possible without the work and assistance of Kal Opre.”
As a gesture of his regret, Skelton mailed me an inscribed copy of all his books as soon as they came off the press. Those books, and a few of the original pencil drawings by Ewart, are still in my collection.
And then there was the time I almost published a book, edited by W.P. Kinsella, to be called To Where They Is To Where They Ain’t.
Back in the 60s and ‘70s, Fred W. Lindsay was a pioneering newspaper man in the Cariboo who later owned and operated the Siska Lodge & Cafe in the Fraser Canyon, south of Lytton. He retired to Lumby with his wife Florence, and the two of them published a series of soft-cover books and pamphlets with stories about the Cariboo and B.C.
I had met the Lindsays back in 1969 when they wanted me to modernize the format of their publications. I visited them several times in Lumby, once with my son John, and we forged a lasting bond of friendship. After Florence’s death, Fred lost his will to live, and in the Vernon hospital, shortly before his death, he handed me a bundle of pages and pictures in a shoebox, saying: “You have been bugging me long enough to put these things down on paper, well, here they are. I hope you’ll like them,”
Fred had described his early years on the boardwalks of Vancouver, and his experiences in logging camps, as a blacksmith’s helper, and as a whistle punk. It was a great narrative, and funny, I loved all his stories. Uncertain of their sequence, I gave them to Robin Skelton to read. He suggested a major editing job and recommended Bill Kinsella who was doing some post-graduate work at U Vic at that time. That manuscript, as well as the Kinsella edit, are still in my possession, along with the photographs.
Unfortunately I didn’t have the capital, or the heart, to proceed. All of which brings me back to my hotel room encounter with Jack McClelland in the hopes of publishing my magnum opus, One Hundred Years: A History of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, complete with a 12” LP record in a sleeve in the back cover.
The project was looking good, very good. I had received permission to visit the RCMP headquarters in Regina, and to conduct interviews and research. And the RCMP Veterans Association had pledged some sponsorship. Jack McCracken of Evergreen Press was standing by with moral support and technical assistance. George Loverock, of CBC Vancouver, was interested in producing the LP with the RCMP Band and Chorus doing O Canada, The Maple Leaf Forever and The Musical Ride theme.
To share my financial burden and to see the book printed, McCracken suggested a partnership with McClelland & Stewart, The Establishment of Canadian publishing. He phoned Jack McClelland, told him about the idea, and set up a meeting for me during McClelland’s next visit to Vancouver. Ron Foche, the Evergreen salesman, who serviced the McClelland account, would accompany me.
Jack McClelland arrived in Vancouver and for three days Foche kept making arrangements for dinners, lunches and breakfasts that never happened. McClelland never showed. On his night in town, Foche managed to talk to him and McClelland asked us to meet him for breakfast at his hotel, the Bayshore Inn. That morning the two of us waited for over one hour. Finally McClelland answered one of several calls made by Foche and asked us to come up to his suite.
We found the darling of Canada Council, the pillar of Upper Canada’s Establishment, the hero of Canadian publishing, sitting on the edge of his bed, in his underwear, picking his toes, never looking up at us, not uttering a word. He did not offer his hand. The room was in shambles, bottles everywhere, and the man was obviously hungover. Even the hard-nosed Foche was embarrassed, and stumbled and mumbled a few words about the project after he introduced me.
I cannot quote the exchange verbatim, but I very well remember the gist of it: “Oh... yeh.... yeh... OK.... OK.... OK.... turn me on about the RCMP,” McClelland croaked at us. At this point, as the saying goes, I lost it:
“You want ME... a f...ing immigrant to turn YOU on about the RCMP? Turn YOU on about YOUR OWN history? YOU, the wonder boy of Canadian publishing... the darling of Canada Council, the recipient of millions of tax dollars to publish Canadian books? I feel sorry for you! You humiliated me, us, with your rudeness and inexcusable attitude! I refuse to turn you on to tell you about MY book, to kiss your ass, to beg you for your participation! I refuse to be humiliated any further by an asshole! Shame on you!”
But this was no triumphant moment. To the contrary, I was heartbroken. I knew my RCMP book wouldn’t be published. I was shaking. Foche stood there with his mouth open. I turned and stormed out. Foche caught up with me at the elevator, and asked me to calm down, and to come back. I refused. Later in the day McCracken wanted to hear my version of what had happened; he did not blame me (at least not to my face). Because he was a friend, I’d like to think that his sympathy for me was greater than his grief over the loss of a lucrative printing job.
Later somebody else published a book for the Centennial of the RCMP; I remember turning its uninspiring pages, its spirit and its contents were far removed from the book I had I envisioned for the occasion. I still regret that my beautiful comprehensive dummy has been lost somewhere.
***
My last publishing idea was a encyclopaedic directory of venues and events in the Greater Vancouver region. After two months of collecting data and writing with Toni Strachan, I abandoned the project because I could not support it financially any longer. The directory would have preceded Chuck Davis’ The Greater Vancouver Book, An Urban Encyclopedia by 23 years.
In 1973 I came to my senses and ended my four-year venture in publishing. It took less than five minutes to terminate my career as an independent western Canadian publisher. I filed a few pieces of correspondence, put the books and pictures in a box, and I didn’t reach for the phone.
I felt frustrated by the series of setbacks beyond my control, by the lack of funds, and by my inability to realize my ideas. But on the positive side, I had met scores of literati, dilettantes and other eccentrics, and a few of them have remained friends. And I still love books.
***
[Kal Opré, also an accomplished painter, went onto a very successful career as a mining engineer, undertaking projects around the world. He now lives in West Vancouver.—Ed.]
