I met Ron Rodwell when he was 95. He was making his yearly pilgrimage to the CNE and invited me along. He was a colourful, self-aware character, the kind of person who makes a reporter’s job easy. After shaking my hand, he reached into his cargo pants pocket, past the $7 in change he always kept for good luck, and handed me his resumé. It was a thoughtful gesture, meant to save time, so we could focus on the real story: the magic of the CNE.