about Eugene Whalen 

It was in the early eighties and I was in Ottawa with my friend Ann Brennan.  I was assisting Ann in research for her book which was to be published as the Real Klondike Kate; http://www.amazon.com/Real-Klondike-Kate-Ann-Brennan/dp/0864921349.  The research was exciting as we were some of the last people to be able to handle the actual historical documents before they were microfilmed and sealed from the public.  But Klondike Kate is another story, let’s get on to Whelan. 

Ann and her husband Raymond Brennan, at that time were very active in the provincial Library party. Since the archives are housed in the parliament buildings and we were already “on the hill”   Ann had invitations to a number of events.  For me the most memorable was the party in Whalen’s office.   We arrived while the work day was still in full swing; I found a chair in a corner and watched the machinations while attempting to keep my jaw from hitting the floor.  Phones were ringing, staff was running, Whalen was barking orders.  Ann had disappeared.   Then at some unheard signal, all work stopped. Most of the staff disappeared, Whalen took off his suit jacket, donned a suede, fringed jacket, cowboy boots and a 10 gallon hat.  I did not remember that hat to be green, in fact in my memeory it was white! Food and drink appeared and a new crowd of people,  and there was Ann in the fray.

Whalen in recent years
 

Early on I had a conversation with Whalen; he was a big man in every way; size, voice and personality.  When he discovered I came from rural New Brunswick and had worked for McCain’s we had a bit of a conversation. Whalen moved on and I was left to find a drink and mingle. 

An aide found me nursing a gin and tonic and advised me the only way to survive this party was to “water” the plants and switch to ice water. Somewhere around midnight Ann was ready to leave, I must say I envied her ease and knowledge of this political crowd!  However, I played the trump card.

When we had come to the hill earlier in the day Ann had parked the car in the large underground parking lot that occupies several blocks just down from the Hill.  Now it was dark and the area seemed abandoned. Ann wondered how we would find the car, and if we would be safe in the parkade.  I noticed a cab just by the steps so pulling a piece of paper from my pocket; I had written down the level and section; I handed it over to the cab driver with the words “Take us to our car”.  He did.

And no one ever asked me if I had met Eugene Whalen.


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