The man I’m about to tell you about was a giant—though he stood shorter than most.
His name was Greg Clark. Before the world got loud and digital, Greg was the voice of Canada. Back in the day, he was more famous than the Prime Minister, and for good reason. The editorial director of Weekend Magazine, once described Clark as “a man so Canadian that no other land could possibly have produced him.”
He started out as a bit of a rebel—failed out of the University of Toronto twice—before landing at the Toronto Star in 1911 where his old man was an editor. But the real world came calling in 1916. Greg went over to the mud and blood of the Great War. He survived three years in the trenches, winning the Military Cross for bravery at Vimy Ridge.
When he came home a Major, he wrote a story that still haunts the neighbourhood in Toronto. It’s called “One Block of Howland Avenue.” You see, every single young man on his block died in that war, except for Greg and his brother. When they finally came home from the war their father met them at the beginning of the street and begged them to take the long way around—to go through the back alleys—so the grieving neighbours wouldn’t have to see two sons coming home when theirs never would.
Greg carried that heart into his writing. In the ’20s, he sat across from a “tall young squirt” named Ernest Hemingway at the Toronto Star. Greg actually told the kid to give up on fiction and stick to reporting! He laughed about that later, of course, once Hemingway became… well, Hemingway.
Through the 30’s, Greg was the man people turned to. He covered the big stuff—the Lindbergh trial, the forming of the UN, the coronation of a King—but his greatest moment was at the Moose River Mine. When every other reporter packed up and gave up on the trapped miners, Greg stayed. He was there, in the silence of the woods, when the first faint tap-tap-tap came from the earth. He got the scoop because he had the patience to wait.
Though he was too old to fight in the second war, he went back as a correspondent. He saw the Blitz, Dunkirk, and the front lines in Italy. He lost his own son to that war, a blow that would’ve broken a lesser man. But Greg kept writing. He moved to the Montreal Standard and Weekend Magazine, sharing tales in his column, “The Packsack,” that felt like a warm letter from an old friend.
He won everything—the Order of Canada, the Leacock Medal, honorary doctorates. But if you asked him? He’d probably tell you his proudest moment was being inducted into the Canadian Fishing Hall of Fame.
He died in ’77, and most of his nineteen books have slipped out of print, which is a damn shame. He knew how to find the “human touch” in the darkest of times. He lived through the horrors of war and the heartbreak of losing his son and wife, yet he still wrote with a rhythm and a grace that made you feel like the world was going to be alright.
So, next time you’re in a dusty old bookstore, look for his name. Scour the shelves for a bit of Greg Clark. We could all use a little more of his integrity and his humour in our own lives today.
REFLECTIONS OF A SWAMPER 