Tancock ignited Maggie O’Reilly’s love of history and politics

Hmm, how do I begin to describe Ken Tancock and the impact he had on my life? For starters, I must confess it is still difficult for me to call him Ken. At Laurier, we always called him Mr. Tancock or just Tancock, not out of disrespect but because it had a powerful, decisive ring to it, both of which he was. High school was not an easy time for me. I was self-conscious, an outsider to the Guildwood community and, overall, it was a lonely time for me. I did love to learn, however, so I clung to those who were serious about teaching and cared about their students. Thus I cannot overstate the importance

Ken Tancock played in my life. I remember him striding into the classroom, fairly bursting with energy, often sporting a dark turtleneck and desert boots, if I'm not mistaken, both of which I consequently still have a fondness for, whether in style or not. Though not a tall man, his forward momentum made him seem like a giant to me. Tancock would drop his large stack of materials with a flourishing thud on his desk, signaling the lesson had begun. I loved his energy, his wry grin and dry wit, his exuberant laughter, his passion for teaching and his obvious love for Canada. Perhaps it was this love of country that made him incapable of hiding his contempt for politicians who failed to do what needed to be done to fully realize Canada's great potential, both at home and in service to the world. Although he was not without a modicum of patience, there were instances in which he would not, could not suffer fools gladly. 

Although Tancock was as great a teacher as one could be in my estimation, he was thus because he was a master storyteller. While other teachers sounded like they were reading from a textbook, and some actually were, he would passionately weave together stories of history that made historical figures and events come to life. He was so animated, I could not take my eyes off him. I would sit, nodding my head as he spoke, until one day he turned to me and said, "Yes?" thinking I had something to add. I shrank back in embarrassment, so sorry I'd interrupted his flow, and finally found my voice to tell him I had nothing to add and was simply nodding with my assent. He laughed uproariously at the prospect, which left me beaming. Of course, Tancock really didn't need me to get him off track – he was also a master of digression. When something pertinent popped into his mind, he had a way of straying into the matter with marked intensity, which I enjoyed as much and sometimes more than the lesson plan on tap. Until, of course, a hand would go up from one of my more ruthless competitors for the top grade, and the owner of the hand would ask, "Will this be on the exam?" This utterly exasperated me, but Tancock's initial look of shock quickly transformed into an unreserved roar of laughter. 

Under his tutelage, my love for history and politics grew apace, leading me to a combined honours program in history and literature at Western the following September. I guess I can thank him in large part for a ridiculously overwhelming reading and essay-writing load, but the passion, joy and critical thinking skills he instilled also helped make it possible for me to graduate with honours, along with a gold medal for highest standing in my program. Moreover, I was lucky enough to enjoy a career in editing and speechwriting that his lessons in storytelling greatly enhanced. 

To my great delight, I was reunited with Ken Tancock almost two decades after high school ended by a guy I fell in love with in Grade 13, eventually married, and who remained my very dearest friend in the world – David Olive. We three had a few great debates solving all of the world's problems and inequities! I have cherished each and every visit to Port Hope I've had with Ken and always will. In summertime, he would show me around the grounds of historic 5 King Street. He also enjoyed giving tours of the beloved home which meant so much to him and of which he was so proud. I guess it was, in many ways, a reflection of himself – of his life with Babs, his memories and accomplishments, the family he loved and the sorrows he faced. He talked lovingly and with humour of his children. As he showed me photographs, he would beam with pride. And when he said Babs’s name, he said it cheerfully, yet there was a sense of longing and a kind of reverence even, which made it clear to me how great his capacity to love and be loved truly was. 

One of the last times I saw Ken, he had me over for lunch. He made an odd little fish dish with tomatoes that was so small, the plate on which he served my portion took on the countenance of a platter. I was so happy I don't happen to have a big appetite. Besides which, I wasn't there to eat but mainly to listen. Not that he didn't listen to me, too. Ken knew how to ask the right questions to find out how I was really doing rather than engaging in meaningless small talk, and he gave me the impression that any problems I was experiencing were also his. He was never without compassion, empathy and helpful advice, yet he always managed to cheer me up as I did him when difficulty breathing was getting him down. This is not, however, to suggest he didn't do most of the talking! Ken could talk and talk, like the storyteller he always was and would be. On that particular day, he took me on a trip in time to September 1949 and the tragic tale of the SS Noronic, the queen cruise ship of the Great Lakes, as well as his connection to it. In the picture he painted, I could see the majestic ship, then smell the acrid smoke, feel the soaring flames' heat, hear the panicked voices and screams of those trapped on board. I was also dumbfounded that I hadn't known the true extent of Toronto's greatest disaster and loss of human life in history. 

Ken never stopped teaching about love and life, about the history of us all and the politics of today, and I never wanted to stop soaking it all in. Yes, I loved Ken Tancock, am forever grateful to him for his friendship and the knowledge he imparted like a master weaver, and though I will miss him, his memory and his stories will live always in me and in the countless other lives he touched.