Tony Peyton possesses an uninhibited imagination. He uses it to tell stories.
He writes historical fiction, restrained only by the discipline of historical fact.
He writes children’s books, restrained only by the limits of his imagination, and his ability to speak ‘dog’.
He writes blog posts, restrained only by the limits of – actually, his blogs are unrestrained and have absolutely no limits.
“I love him.” His four children, all of them in their time, have said that about him.
“I love him.” His wife Mac, who asked not to be quoted, has said that about him.
“Just say ‘hello’, he’ll fill in the rest.” Most of his friends and most anybody who meets him, have said that.
“Tony Peyton, Good Lord, what a bloviating blowhard!” No one has admitted saying this about him, but they have.
Tony Peyton is a Canadian author, who came to writing later in his life. He arrived in British Columbia in 1958, emigrating with his very English parents, to Kelowna, a small town in the Okanagan Valley nestled in the hinterland of Canada’s most western province.
To this day he has no idea why he wasn’t included in that particular decision. No biggy, it was just the most consequential decision ever made. It changed everything. He lost his cute English freckles, his even cuter English accent and his whole life turned on his head!
At the time he was not asked his opinion about all of this, not once. Critics have noted that was the last time Tony would not have an opinion about, well about everything.
The rest of my life has informed everything I write about. The proverbial ‘Tinker, Taylor, Soldier, Spy’, I have experienced many incarnations. I was a prison guard at Oakalla in Burnaby BC, an awful gothic prison, that could well have been the bleak setting for a Steven King horror story.
I served as a police officer in Vancouver and Victoria. I graduated from UBC Law School in 1974 and set off on my path to becoming a great criminal lawyer. Didn’t quite make it as it turns out, although I did a credible job mimicking the defence lawyer protagonist in John Grisham novels. It was a vivid chapter in my journey.
Along that path I came to see myself clearly and understand that job title aside, what I really am is a communicator.
Where I have succeeded in my life it has been when I remembered that. It is what brought me to radio. Out of nowhere I was offered an opportunity to join a morning show, something I had never thought about and something for which I had no training whatsoever.
Predictably, I was awful and that station’s listeners spared no effort in letting me know. By every sensible measure, I should have cut and run, taken my wounded psyche and found another occupation. Trouble was, I loved it, as I had loved no other work.
Ten years later I was, with my co-hosts, the British Columbia Association of Broadcasters Entertainer of the Year. I may have felt just a wee bit smug, although that would have been a petty indulgence and beneath me, on that we can agree.
I’m sure there were some lessons to be learned along the way, but overall I am left with a deep sense of satisfaction and a thousand happy memories of my days in morning show radio. I would recommend it to anyone, although given the passage of time that would be a recommendation to drive down a dead end road. Radio’s Best Before date has been stamped.
I could go on (and on and on…) but I won’t and lest you think I talk too much about myself, well I do. That said, I am surrounded by many others who do a fine job of keeping me grounded. I am a blessed man. I am devoted to my wife Mac, the greatest friend a man could ever hope for.
I have four adult children each of whom has made their own footprints in the snow and I now have six grandchildren, somewhere along the path earning the very grandfatherly nickname ‘Bumpy’.
My life is rich and full and I have never been happier.
And now that I’m not working anymore, I have lots of time to write.
“Oh, lucky us” said no one ever.
