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Sit back, relax and grant me the distinct pleasure and honour of telling you the story of a life driven by dreams, favoured by angels, flummoxed by bureaucratic someones, moved by faith (with a nod in the direction of St. Francis and Thomas Merton) and -- always, always -- restored by the words, works and worth of writers, myself included. IOW? It's public, it's personal; but, above all else? It's passionate and it commences November 1969.

That unforgettable year now stands as the pinnacle of The Autumn of Inevitable Attraction and Unwavering Conviction, especially for Windsor's C. H. (Marty) Gervais, the truly unique and intransigently himself individual who decided 40 memorable years ago today that small-press publishing in Canada desperately required a better way.

Love . . . Love! I fell hopelessly in love in 1968 with a girl at the corner of University and Ouellette Avenues in Windsor. I was wearing a green corduroy suit and she was standing there wrapped in a black coat wearing white tights and those long long legs . . . Her hair, her beautiful blonde hair, a halo of light . . . Oh, she was beautiful . . . She was beautiful and she was standing there and then she was looking right at me . . . She smiled in my direction . . . I knew! I said, "I'm not letting you go by me, you're not going past me until we have coffee and talk . . .":

She didn't hesitate. She didn't play coy. She just agreed and we fell in love right there and then, a couple coffees and a few words and we both knew. So, I quit my newspaper job and Donna and I went to Toronto and found a home in High Park Gardens and those days, those wonderful days . . . We simply sat in a big porcelain bathtub with cups of tea and books. Always, books. Oh, it was lovely and we talked about everything and our conversation came around to starting a magazine and publishing writers we were meeting or we already knew . . . Ted Plantos, David Donnell, Earle Birney, George Bowering, bp Nichol, Milton Acorn . . . and we knew we would do it and worked to do it but it didn't happen till a year later . . .

We'd returned to Windsor and were living in an attic apartment on Dougall Avenue . . . I bought a battered old A. B. Dick mimeograph machine out of which I cranked first the magazine and then Dillinger Poems by Eugene McNamara, the very first Black Moss book . . . Donna and I would jump into her Austin Healey Sprite with its bald tires and make the mad dash to Toronto, the whole time worried sick no one would take us seriously . . . but, some did, surprisingly, some really did take us seriously . . . Especially Nikki Dramboulis . . . Nikki Dramboulis! Nikki placed our smudged mag next to the dildos, the Spanish fly, the French ticklers . . .

Oh, some others didn't take us all that seriously and they sent us back to the street; but, we kept at it, usually pocketing enough money for gas and a couple burgers . . . We had no money really; and, really we still don't -- we didn't care about it back then -- we were burning up with our belief we could and we would make a difference -- we believed we WERE making a difference . . . We KNEW it and we knew we could do it and we were doing what had to be done and we crazily believed it and we were in love and it was a done deal . . . We knew poetry mattered . . . We believed! Deep down, all these decades later, we still believe, we never stopped (even though it made no sense and still makes no financial sense at ALL . . . but, we KNEW, we were in love and we BELIEVED)!

"Whoa . . . Marty. Forty years ago, Black Moss Press was born, the same day Sesame Street came to life with the Count and Cookie Monster . . . Now? Almost two-million buckeroos and nearly five-hundred titles later . . . OMGadzooks :) . . . Over to you, Dear Friend, Steadfast Supporter, Living Treasure and Brilliant IMPAC Fictionalist, Dr. Alistair MacLeod:

On the 40th anniversary of Black Moss Press, it is a fitting time to pay tribute to both the press and its founder, Marty Gervais. It is no coincidence that the two are so closely linked, as they both share the same address and are united in that unique bond that exists between a father and his child. It is not too far-fetched to think of Marty Gervais as the father of Black Moss. As his "child" grows older, so does Marty. He possesses a memory bank that contains images of the child's first steps, the growing pains of adolescence and the complicated quandaries that accompany adult advancement.

And then, suddenly, the child is 40 years old. It is sometimes something of a shock to realize that if the child is 40, as many years must also have passed in the life of the man who gave the child life. Such a father, at such a stage, may only hope that he did the right thing. In the case of Marty Gervais there is no need to worry. It is a tribute to him that the child continues to live at home and seems quite content to do so. They get along well.

Marty Gervais and Black Moss Press have given the literary world much to celebrate. They have encouraged new writers and sustained the careers of many of the more established. They have discovered writers in "their own back yard" and reached out to those who live farther afield. They have been loyal to certain authors and that loyalty has been largely reciprocated. They have established Windsor and its surrounding-area family upon the literary map of Canada (and beyond).

It is not every relationship that endures for 40 years. In the case of literary presses the endurance rate is much lower. People move, disagreements surface, financial problems scuttle dreams. We should all be grateful for the presence of Marty Gervais and Black Moss Press and the longevity of both. As we are appreciative of the past, we look forward, hopefully, to the future. We say this in the present of our time. All good wishes and thanks.

I second that. Indeedly, I most assuredly do. Throughout this post, you will hear person-to-personally from but a small fraction of the writers and artists who call the award-winning poet, editor, photographer, humanitarian, baseballogist, publisher, husband, father of five (with Donna Gervais), business partner (with Brian Fox) and stalwart Catholic grandpa their literary saviour, in the finest and firmest secular sense of that word, myself included.

This story, then, one I am privileged to relate to you, Dear IOW Readers, is as much about this utterly incredible small press (that, to date, boasts nearly 500 titles in its past and current catalogues), as it is about the fact it continues to exist and make such a difference in the lives of so very many readers and writers. How is it possible 40 years crept by us, almost unnoticed, while Windsor's Black Moss Press solidified in a young man's fantasies, really, when Gervais turned 13 and, while playing table-top hockey with his brothers, saw that youngster symbolically embark upon his publishing career laying out a make-believe newspaper to keep track of the siblings' scores and, yes, dreaming of transforming himself into the next Ernest Hemingway . . .

"Dear Marty: Your 40th-Anniversary Celebration at BookFest Windsor was a grand tribute to you and Donna. I never knew! I really did not know that Dillinger Poems was the first book Black Moss published. You never told me. Thank you! I am proud to be part of the start of your incredible history. How . . . how did you manage to live and prosper for so long? How, Marty? If it weren't for presses like yours, we'd all be singing in the dark . . . You know, Marty . . . I think it was love" (Eugene McNamara).

At 22, Charles Henry Gervais had already aced pride-of-place space in The Canadian Forum, The Windsor Review, Canadian Poetry Magazine and, among others, The Fiddlehead, too. His dreams -- and the dreams of countless others -- had started to look a little more tangible, tough but, ultimately, worth whatever hardship or dearth that still, inexplicably, haunts one of our perennially shamefully underfunded most excellent enterprises.

Hold on . . . There's something so important I must relate to you. We all know Gwendolyn MacEwen's story -- tragedy and triumph in equal parts -- but, near the end of her life, when I served as poetry editor for Black Moss Press and Gwen was down to several degrees below zip-zilcho-zero in the financial department? Oh, it must've been a year or two before she left us, I asked Marty for permission to approach her with an idea I'd had: Could Gwen write a children's book for us? It would give her a small advance -- $500 at the most? -- and, more importantly, preserve her dignity and provide her legions of fans young, younger and youngest with new work?

"Gwen MacEwen will give *us* -- *our* Black Moss Press -- a children's book?" That's what Marty said. "Here's the cheque and the contract. Go for it. We've been blessed with an incredible gift. Blessed. I don't care what she writes. I know it will be the best. She is the best."

That gift? Dragon Sandwiches. It helped. It helped Black Moss; it helped Gwen; and, it made me very happy to see her working and being so productive.

We now bring you word from points elsewhere:

(JSYK, I could've written this in the third-person and made it objective, I bet, if I tried; but, y'know what? I don't wanna. It *is* personal. It cannot be anything but personal. I loved her. I love her work. I am so deeply grateful to call her friend. I will never forget her, her diamond-droll brilliance, her near-prudish language, her incredible pragmatism, her fragile conviction things simply couldn't get any worse. By then, of course, we had both seen some of the squares on our map at the end of our lives lived better electrically; but, in a way, for Marty and me, it signalled the beginning of something touchingly sweet, charged, beautiful . . . beyond compare.)

Yep, I know. That which does not kill moi only makes me . . . stranger; that plus, of course, several individuals, one-of-a-kinds, guys solid as Marty and Donna. If I'd known . . . Prolly the best work-mates I shall ever encounter. Tolerant. Positive. One of the most articulate bitchers I've ever heard. Marty, that is. One morning during my year writin' in rez at the University of Windsor, we went to Detroit to see our beloved Tigers in the fresh. We know heaven. We parked our bedraggled arses in a great set of seats just a balk away from first base. He's got connections, you know? He also knows talent when it stares him down. Great editor. Fine friend. What more did I need? I mean, really. He trusted my hunches and I drooled over his. S'Way it was. The near-whispered "GwenBook" oozed talent. We were both thrilled to be part of that project, to watch it take shape -- right then, right there -- highly doubt any other publisher would've wanted to tell her how many miles to the gallon to Babylon.

"Congratulations to Marty on 40 years in the publishing business. He has been a literary giant in this community for years. Besides being a fine writer, he is an avid sports fan. Even though I am a faded-away ball player, Marty sees fit to resurrect my baseball career every few years. I appreciate what he has done for me (and also his friendship throughout the years). Thanks, Marty" (Reno Bertoia).

Love. All you need is love? Not quite. It takes a community and mucho moolah to make a small press thrive beyond survival. From the beginning, Black Moss -- the outfit named after an image its owner recalled from visits to Northern Ontario, "moss in the shadows . . . glimmering" -- beat the odds; and, from the beginning, it showcased writers -- in either its magazine or its ensuing publishing programmes -- the calibre of Hugh Hood, Al Purdy, David W. McFadden, Margaret Atwood, Charles Bukowski, James Reaney, Dorothy Livesay, David Donnell, Joe Rosenblatt, Gwendolyn MacEwen, John B. Lee and Colleen Thibodeau; and now, still, it continues to release top-flight volumes of prose and verse that regularly garner awards and accolades, each in its own bright light, rightfully so.

"Marty's a miner, a prospector, immensely curious and intuitive. He digs down deep and magically locates the poems you didn't even know were there; then, he polishes and shapes them, just enough, never too much. The Black Moss vaults are stacked with such strange gems -- unique, compellingly attractive, shining, valuable. We can't afford to lose a publisher with such a passionate heart, inquisitive nose and digger's intuition." (Susan McMaster).

That intuitive policy, always, revolves around one welcoming open-24-hours door. How long and high can one press soar? How far can one press go? Thankfully, we still don't know; but, we remain convinced, when it comes to Windsor's Black Moss Press, the sky's no limit. For example? Scan the horizon and you'll spot the delightfully successful and wickedly popular Pickles: Street Dog of Windsor bounding alongside the best-selling Scary Poems for Rotten Kids (from Sean O'Huigin). Look closely. There floats Five New Facts About Giorgioni or Everything in Winnipeg Begins in a Car or Sky Fishing or I Want to Be the Poet of Your Kneecaps or . . . (Time to Go-a-G'Ogling?)

Naturellement, I ask the hard question, the one about the tough treatment heaped upon Black Moss Press right around the annual word concerning the wholly inadequate funding stingily flung its way, about why the reduction and such coming down from the PTB. Simply? What do Donna and Marty think of all the time, money, energy and effort invested in what now stands as this country's longest-running (and arguably most quietly respected) senior press, tragically, but one of an eclectic handful of small presses either dismissed or woefully shunned by the monied maniacs running the show?

"It's difficult and continues to be difficult for us and a curious handful of small-yet-literarily sound presses in Canada," responds he. "This never made sense to me. Without our Indie musicians feeding the major record companies, we'd not have the flourishing world-class music scene we now proudly boast. Same goes for small presses. Think of some of our finest writers -- both still among us and sadly gone from us -- who got their foot in the door with a small press willing to take a chance on their words and sometimes over-the-top-notch works: bp Nichol, Michael Ondaatje, Maxine Gadd, Dennis Lee, Margaret Atwood, Gerry Gilbert, yourself, George Bowering, Ayanna Black, Roy Kiyooka, Daphne Marlatt, Paul Dutton, Gay Allison, Fred Wah, Nicole Brossard, Geoff Hancock . . . It's definitely worth it; it's an integral part of our lives.

"It would be easier for us to stop breathing for half an hour than it would be for us to quit. I'm not kidding. It's a need, a desire, a near-obsession; and, it has changed us, especially me, as an individual. I'd rather cut off an arm than give this up, I really would. I don't know that Donna would give an entire arm, per se (because we have five wonderful children; and, now, our grandchildren, and her hands are full with all of that so she needs all the arms she can keep :) . . .).

"But? I can't stress enough that Black Moss Press peaceably co-exists in an area -- one of the only areas -- of Canada that celebrates all forms, disciplines and genres of writing. Windsor's university is also one of the only universities in this country that supports a program where you can work directly with a professional editor and move onto a publisher as sturdy and welcoming as Black Moss. That's part of our mandate, our mission statement; and, naturally, our greatest hope, wish and prayer (founded upon those long-ago dreams) . . . Let's maintain and sustain the excitement, let's acknowledge and celebrate all the great writing out there. Let's see that excitement and enthusiasm and commitment drive each and all of us and continue to push us over the top because that's what we do and we are not going to stop!"

In the spring of 1989 I first met Marty Gervais, the man Canadian poet Al Purdy referred to as the nicest publisher in Canada. At the time I was teaching high-school English, Creative Writing and Dramatic Arts at a small rural school in Southwestern Ontario. I'd brought my OAC English students to Lynnwood Arts Centre in Simcoe to hear Marty Gervais and Joe Rosenblatt read poetry. I had the honour of having been asked to participate in the reading and did not realize at the time how fortuitous an occasion that first meeting would turn out to be. After the reading, I joined Marty and Joe for lunch. They had been friends for many years and so I did not have much to say during the meal. But afterwards, as we were crossing the street to return to our respective vehicles, Marty told me how much he had enjoyed my reading.

"Do you have a manuscript?" When he asked, I answered, "Of course!" Right then and there, I handed him the manuscript for what would become my first Black Moss Press book, The Bad Philosophy of Good Cows. That was just after noon on a Friday. That very same Friday, around 11 p.m., the phone rang. It was Marty Gervais. He offered to publish the book and he promised to fit it into a publishing slot vacated by a poet who had withdrawn her work. [Not me!] A few months later, at the Black Moss Press Twentieth-Anniversary Celebration at Harbourfront in Toronto, I held that very book in my hands and read from it as part of that celebration. [Me, too. I remember you :).] That evening? Marty offered me the rights of first-refusal on all my future publications as a poet. Little did either of us know that over the course of the next 20 years that would translate into the publication of 18 volumes (eight anthologies including a book of essays, a book on writing, a memoir, a book of children's verse and many poetry titles).

Now, Black Moss Press is celebrating its 40th anniversary and Marty is not only my publisher but -- I can boast without exaggeration -- one of my best friends in the world. He and his press have become a lifeline to poets in Ontario and across Canada. I count several fellow Black Moss Press authors among my friends and see in Black Moss and in Marty, Donna (as well as their publishing partner, Brian Fox), a dedication to poetry and poets that makes the world less lonely for those of us who toil in our craft or sullen art / for the common wages / of the most sacred heart.
-- Brantford's Poet Laureate John B. Lee

Apparently, Marty & Company made a resounding splash last week at BookFest Windsor's annual literary spectacular. The 40th-anniversary celebration honouring one of our finest presses will, according to those in the know afforded the opportunity to go, lives in their hearts and minds forever. That surprises me not at all. I have easily known Marty and Donna half my life, now; and, I can aver, without a bout of doubt, the pair's literally saved this life more than once since, all things considered, despite what T. S. Eliot -- one of Marty's heroes -- writes, April is but one of many cruel months in this country. Eugene McNamara touches upon Donna and Marty Gervais in tandem with Black Moss Press's inestimable contribution to Canadian literature and culture when he writes, "You know, I think it was love . . ."

Yeah? You think? Guess what, Eugene? I unconditionally agree: I abso-deffo know it was, is and always shall be . . . Love, Your Humble Scribe, Awe-Struck Dame, Co-Worker in Words, etc. etc. :).

(Hat tip, Janine Morris and Vanessa Shields.)

Photograph of Alistair MacLeod as well as Marty Gervais and Crew -- featuring, from left to right: Sheila Wisdom, Eugene McNamara, Karen Mulhallen, John Wing (obscured), Marty Gervais, Carlinda D'Alimonte, Marilyn Gear Pilling, Susan McMaster, Mary Ann Mulhern and Rosemary Sullivan -- at last week's BookFest Windsor © 2009 Steve Daigle. The typewriter-key illustration, "BLACK MOSS PRESS: Celebrating 40 Years," was conceived, designed and created by Mario Poirier. © 2009 Mario Poirier. All images used by grateful permission. All Rights Reserved.