Photo by Richard Parizeau.
Columns
2024 Columns
That Hound of Time
Before diving into this week’s column, I want to clarify that the observations expressed are directed toward ideal solutions. We have only to contemplate the situations of others elsewhere on our shared planet, as well as many of our sisters and brothers among us, to understand the inequalities that exist.
Our formative years are frequently referred to as the carefree days of childhood. Except for fear of the dark, there is little to concern in preadolescence. Consider a few hypothetical situations that become the foundation of who we will become.
Children absorb much of what they learn through interacting with their peers at play, observing and inculcating the habits of their caregivers and modifying their behaviour to adjust to societal norms. In that process, we develop our unique personalities. During these formative years, we are blissfully unaware that the Hound of Time has already begun to pursue us.
As we become older, throughout our teens and into our twenties, we prepare our future paths. Formal education presents the disciplines that still direct us toward our goals. Yet, well we know there exists that human desire and need to find respite from challenges that arise. We need time to relax, to recreate, to socialize. There are those times that we become so engrossed in pleasurable activities that we revert to those carefree days of our childhood much to the chagrin of others around us. During that period of our lives we are aware of the Hound of Time that pursues us, yet we seldom reflect upon it. We rationalize: after all, we only live once; we might as well enjoy it while we are able.
Mid-life approaches, that Hound of Time still in pursuit makes us ever aware that we are now responsible for others as well as our own whims of fortune. Although we may, or may not, prefer the directions that our offspring choose, we realize that they, just as we, have their rights to choose the paths that they will follow. We accept, love and embrace them on their journey of uniqueness, just as we were acknowledged on our own journey.
During our middle years we become much more aware of the Hound of Time. We become more conscious of it but, simultaneously, we improvise ways of keeping that Hound at bay. Through healthy lifestyles, proper diet, exercise and rest, we try to create that proper balance in our work and in our relationships. We also keep that Hound of Time at bay through various disguises. We tint our hair to give us a more youthful appearance. If we have no hair there are wigs and toupees. There are various cosmetics to smooth our appearances, to make us feel more vibrant as we coast along.
That old Hound of Time is beginning to catch up to us, however. Retirement morphs into our years of consolidation, of fond memories and, yes, that Hound of Time has finally caught up with us. Now comes the greatest revelation of all. That Hound of Time was never to be feared at all. It never pursued us to take us down. It was just a lonely old hound seeking companionship. It now walks beside us every day. We embrace it every morning and every night.
Our life’s story, the roads that we have taken, now crisscross our faces. There are roads of laughter, roads of tears, roads of joy and roads of sorrow, roads of pain and roads of pleasure. It is only now that we come to realize that we no longer need disguises or to fear the Hound of Time. It is now time, just as in our childhood days, to live in the present, to be thankful for our gifts of life, and for all our sisters and brothers of different walks of life that surround us every day.
The Blame Game
Here are two scenarios of a caregiver and a child:
In the first, the child is seated at the kitchen table drawing and colouring a picture of children at play. Enter the caregiver, who notices muddy footprints across the floor. With a stern expression and elevated voice, the caregiver exclaims: “Are those your footprints that I’m looking at? Haven’t you been told to remove your shoes at the door before entering?”
The child’s flight from fright syndrome is instantaneous. Looking up at the caregiver’s angry expression, the child stammers a lengthy explanation, concluding with: “It must have been my friend’s footprints when he came into the house.”
The caregiver accuses the child of stretching the truth, hands him a mop with a command to ‘wipe those footprints off the floor!’
A different scenario involving the same characters might evolve quite differently. The caregiver, noticing the footprints, approaches the child, placing a hand upon his/her shoulder: “That’s a lovely drawing that you’re colouring. Tell me a little about it.”
The child, pleased with the caregiver’s words, smiles as (s)he tells the caregiver that ‘it’s my friends and me playing outside after the storm.’ A colourful rainbow highlights the drawing.
The caregiver then mentions the footprints that ‘someone’ left on the kitchen floor, and asks, “Would you get the mop and we’ll wipe those footprints away?”
You will notice that in the first scenario, the child’s immediate, knee-jerk response was denial and to blame it on another, in order to avoid the consequences of his or her misdeed. Tears, feelings of guilt and lowered self-esteem would inevitably follow.
In the second instance, the caregiver shows that s(he) values the child by placing a hand on the child’s shoulder. The caregiver’s kind words about the drawing elicits a positive response. Would it surprise you if that child were to blurt out: ‘It was me who left the footprints’ as s(he) was wiping them up? The child might even add that s(he) was sorry for forgetting to remove shoes at the door. The caregiver might even suggest that ‘you might want to draw and colour a sign that we can tape to the door to remind us all to do the same.’
You and I have all done things in our lives that affected others around us. Deflecting blame on others, or scapegoating, is a way of avoiding embarrassment. It becomes someone else’s fault, not our own. The psychological definition of this behaviour is called projection. As adults, a little introspection might uncover what we don’t want to admit.
Every one of us has to learn to be able to recognize, even laugh, at our faults without dismissing them. We have to realize that none of us is perfect. Empathy goes a long way in knowing how the accused must feel or in understanding how the victim feels.
Those with strong narcissistic personalities tend to turn the blame on others. Their feeling of entitlement leads to manipulation of others. They may lie a lot, and have a hard time apologizing for leaving their footprints on others.
Here’s a little poem to summarize:
Was it you who left the footprints in the hallway?
Was it you who did it last night again?
Was it you who left your window wide open
And let in the cold and the rain?
Was it you who arranged those books on a high shelf?
Was it you who left them unread?
Was it your foot that pushed crumbs under the table?
You should have picked them up instead.
Was it you who greeted that late-morning hour
With a loud profanity, I swear?
You murmured about a lunch-hour meeting
With less than an hour to spare.
Was it you who committed all those transgressions?
Then there’s one thing that I want you to see:
Upon introspection, I beg your forgiveness
For I found that the culprit was...
Me.
Of Picnics and Fishing
The Ode to Newfoundland begins with these words:
“When sun-rays crown thy pine-clad hills
And Summer spreads her hand
When silvern voices tune thy rills
We love thee, smiling land.”
Of course, the ode describes the other seasons as well. Like all of us, Newfoundlanders live with the whims of Mother Nature, although perhaps to a greater extent than we do. What unites them are the same circumstances that unite us all and the weather is just one of these.
As I become older, I am increasingly intrigued that around the longest, darkest, coldest nights of the year, we merrily sing out: ‘Tis the season to be jolly. If there is a more apt time of the year to be jolly, it is precisely that time “when sunrays crown thy pine-clad hills.” Summer is the season of colour, of warmth, of freedom and sunshine. Here, in the northern hemisphere, the festivals and camaraderie give ample testimony to our joy of living and of being together. Part of that community spirit will be on full display in a little corner of our beloved West Quebec on Sunday, July 21st, between the hours of 3 and 5 pm.
We are all cordially invited to an event billed as a Rock ‘N Roll Picnic at the Long Lake Pavilion Grounds, located at the corner of Route 315 and Daly Road. This is the only concert sponsored by Our Lady of Light Cultural Centre this year, due to a planned purchase of the former church that was the venue for past concerts. We’re encouraged to come early and mingle before the concert begins – the grounds open at 2 pm. We are further asked to bring a picnic lunch, munchies and beverages of choice to enjoy and share with neighbours and friends. Oh yes, and bring your chair and a sunny smile.
It’s a Rock N Roll Picnic featuring The Carey Brothers, by popular demand. Although I am not familiar with The Carey Brothers, I am only assuming that their rock style will not be that screaming style with decibels that will rock the animal kingdom from Derry to Buckingham. Personally, I am looking forward to that afternoon to be with friends and neighbours and to have a jolly good time.
The price of admission for adults is $10. Today, it’s hard to find a hamburger and fries for that price. Tickets are available from Brenda Miller (phone 819-986-7358 or email Brenda.Miller@me.com) or from Sandra Maloney (phone 819-664-8555 or email SMaloney888@gmail.com).
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From my late mother, Ethel’s, collection
Recently, my sister Mary, found this gem called ‘Fishermen of Few Words.’ It is about the few words of a couple of fishermen while practicing the art of angling:
“Hiyamack!” “Lobuddy” “Binerlong?” “Cuplahours.” “Kettchenenny?” “Goddafew.” “Kindarthay?” “BassenCarp”
“Ennysizetoom?” “Couplapoun” “Wittinaide?” “Socdalite” “Watchoozin?” “Gobbawurms.” “Fishanonaboddum?” “Rydonnaboddum.” “Igoddago.” “Toobad.” “Sayaroun” “Yeahtakideezy” “Guluk.”
Here’s hoping to “Seeyasoon” at that Rock N Roll Picnic.
Musk Makes Ends Meet
Elon Musk recently pulled off an annual pay packet of $56 billion. That’s right, billion. For some reason, this obscene contract has garnered little general interest, certainly not the outrage that it merits. To better understand the vastness of this settlement, It may compare it to income figures for countries. We will look at Gross National Product figures.
Gross National Product, or GNP, is the total value of all goods and services produced by a country’s businesses and residents, regardless of where production takes place. For example, in 2022 the GNP for Bolivia was $25.6 billion; Nepal, $40.8 billion; Jamaica, 17.1 billion.
Clearly, no one, not even Elon Musk, is worth $56 billion a year. But let’s take the matter further. What about other CEO’s (Chief Executive Officers)? The CEO of Broadcom pulls in $162 million; of Apple, $63.2 million; of Netflix, $49.8 million.
I believe that no one is worth $56 billion a year, nor $162 million, nor $63.2 million, nor $49.8 million. No one could possibly spend such sums on personal consumption during a lifetime. Going a step further, no one is worth a million dollars a year.
Then there is the matter of bonuses. The average Joe gets a paycheck for his work. Bonuses go only up the ladder, both in the corporate world and in government.
Many years ago I attended a Paul Robeson concert. Among the numbers he performed was a Yiddish piece about how the rich do things differently. We put butter on our potato. They put the potato in a cannon and fire it off into a vat of butter.
Elon Musk’s unbelievable heist gives reason for a broader look at just what people get paid. How do we as a society address the matter of wealth? Two observations come to mind. We begin with the Gospel of Mark.
“For what shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his soul?”
And then, Macolm Forbes. He who dies with the most toys wins.
Discrimination and Prejudice
The federal government appointed Amira Elghawaby as Canada’s Special Representative on Combatting Islamophobia. The Ottawa-Carleton District School Board decided this year to hire two people to support Palestinian, Muslim, Arab, and Arab-speaking students in the face of racism in the schools. Last year they decided to hire a “Jewish equity coach” to combat anti-semitism in the schools.
What is wrong with such moves? They do not focus on the issues and appear to be tokenism. Let me give a personal example. When I completed my master’s degree in social work, I was interviewed for a job with the Chicago Urban League, which is a social work agency addressing the situation of urban blacks. I am white but could have taken a position with the League. Another example. Roland de Corneille, an Anglican priest, served as National Director of the League for Human Rights of B’nai Brith. If Elghawaby is to serve to combat Islamophobia, why not have her address antisemitism as well? The role could also be expanded to include racism and prejudice and discrimination against gays.
Intergroup relations is a field of study and service. The idea of hiring someone as a specialist in the field on the basis of religion makes as much sense as hiring a surgeon for that reason.
Perhaps it would be appropriate at this point to spell out more about the field of intergroup relations. The Nature of Prejudice, by social psychologist Gordon Alport, is a pioneer work on the subject. This snippet from the book illustrates why it so important. Shoppers were interviewed on the way into a department store. Would they be willing to be served by a black clerk? One said no. He was followed into the store and was served by a black clerk. Situations can alter prejudiced behavior. The implication is that the person who says that his customers would not accept a black employee may need to be made aware that his fears may be overblown.
The situational approach in sociology is an important way of addressing prejudice and discrimination. It looks at four scenarios: a non-prejudiced person not discriminating, a non-prejudiced person discriminating, a prejudiced person not discriminating, and the prejudiced person discriminating. It’s the situation. Fear of the law may be a factor, or the direction from the boss.
Robin Williams Jr. was a sociologist whose Reduction of Intergroup Tensions spelled out various ways to control prejudice and discrimination. For example, he pointed to situations where people find themselves working with “the other” as equals. I can illustrate from my work in a Denver community centre. We had a social evening with some people playing cards. I paired a prejudiced white man with a light-skinned black man, a man who could “pass” as white. While the man was unaware of what I had done, his friends and relatives who were watching and giggling did, and I am sure they told him later.
While there is no single source of intergroup relations specialists, there are several. As in the example of the Urban League, some in the field are social workers. Others come from such academic fields as social psychology and sociology. As with de Corneille, some come from the ministry. Religious criteria are simply irrelevant. They simply muddy the waters.
Missteps in Ukraine
It is worse than a crime. It is a mistake. This admonition allegedly by Talleyrand certainly applies to Putin, who has been very surprised by the resistance being faced by his troops in Ukraine. However, that admonition applies much more broadly in the Ukrainian quagmire.
The saying applies to Ukrainian President Volodymir Zelenskyy, who foolishly chose to actively seek alignment with the West. That was like poking a stick in Putin's eye. Major powers do not like the control of their periphery disturbed, and are prepared to interfere in the affairs of their weaker neighbours when they feel provoked or concerned.
Thus, the United States has been prolific in interfering in the affairs of countries in the Caribbean and elsewhere in the Americas. In what may arguably have been the most serious challenge to international law since World War II, it refused to abide by a ruling of the International Court of Justice, which found against it for mining Nicaraguan harbors. Yet, the United States actively interfered in Ukraine to encourage its defiance of Russia.,
Zelenskyy was at one point saying that his country would not seek NATO membership. If that had been his position before he lost Crimea, he might not have lost it and might not be suffering a ruthless invasion. In any case, he now wants to join NATO.
As for Western powers, US encouragement of Ukrainian defiance of Russia means that it shares responsibility for what happened.
Pontiac Archives Hosts Kebaowek First Nation Nuclear “Coffeehouse”
Pontiac Archives, Shawville: On July 3 Verna Polson, Cultural Coordinator for Kebaowek First Nation and Mary-Lou Chevrier presented the Kebouak First Nations opposition to the NSDF (Near Surface Disposal Facility) which has been approved for development at Chalk River.
The event saw two “coffee-house round-table” presentations in the a.m. and p.m., where these two representatives greeted about forty Pontiac residents who participated, to support and learn more about the proposed nuclear landfill that has been approved by the federal government.
Kebouak First Nations is adamantly opposed to the storage of nuclear waste which is in a seismological zone, being only 1.2 km distance from the Ottawa River. The Chalk River site lies upstream from many Pontiac villages and cottages – as well as communities on the Ontario shore, and from Ottawa, Montreal and eventually, the Atlantic Ocean.
Chalk River is also situated on unceded territory of the Anishinabe Algonquin peoples.
Key to the First Nations opposition of the NSDF is the federal government’s implementation of the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP) which became law, in Canada, on June 21, 2021.
In UNDRIP, the resolution declares “States shall take effective measures to ensure that no storage or disposal of hazardous materials shall take place in the lands or territories of indigenous peoples without their free, prior and informed consent.”
Article 32 of UNDRIP declares “States shall consult and cooperate in good faith with the indigenous peoples concerned through their own representative institutions in order to obtain their free and informed consent prior to the approval of any project affecting their lands or territories and other resources…”
Verna Polson, Cultural Coordinator for Kebaowek First Nation addressed both issues, where First Nations were not consulted appropriately and do not give consent to the NSDF.
Meanwhile, Prime Minister Trudeau has stated he “trusts the experts” and endorses the project.
Insodoing, First Nations argues he is betraying Canada’s commitment to the UNDRIP, and is waiving aside all concerns expressed by First Nations and their Allies.
Allies are people such as Venetia Crawford, President of the Pontiac Archives, and others who were present at the coffeehouse and who attend rallies in support of the Kebouak First Nations.
The First Nations also say that Trudeau is also betraying the concept of Reconciliation, because under UNDRIP, First Nations are supposed to be informed and must give approval of the use of their land.
Crawford is delighted that Polson and Chevrier agreed to come to the Pontiac Archives to explain their opposition to the nuclear waste facility.
Crawford said, “Because I started Pontiac Anti Nuclear Action Committee (PANAC) in the 70's - now Pontiac Environment Protection (PEP), and because my mother worked with Dr. Gordon Edwards [president of the Canadian Coalition for Nuclear Responsibility]in Montreal and persuaded me that I should follow her footsteps and work to prevent nuclear damage, I had no choice but to agree to do this obvious step and invite the amazing Kebaowek First Nation group to the Archives.
On July 10, Crawford and her granddaughter accompanied several other Pontiac residents to the Supreme Court in Ottawa, to Rally in opposition to the building of the NSDF. On the 10 and 11 July, the First Nations are at court defending the Ottawa River against the development of the NSDF.
Photo caption: Verna Polson, Cultural Coordinator for Kebaowek First Nation sings the Water Song at Pontiac Archives' Kebouak First Nations coffeehouse meeting on July 3, 2024.
Photo credit: Katharine Fletcher
Without Words
To better appreciate what is written here, it is good to actually perform the suggested simple movements.
Place your index finger across your chin with your thumb across the chin's side. With your arms slightly angled from your side, turn the palms outward-facing. Lift your shoulders. Purse your lips, throw your head back and roll your eyes. Bending your arms at the elbows, open your hands with palms upwards.
You may have concluded several things after completing the above. However, this is not for the purpose of physical exercise. It is an exercise to bring an awareness to a way in which we communicate with each other without vocalizing.
Hmmm, you were wondering, what is he writing about? Has he gone bonkers again? As you completed rolling your eyes while shrugging those shoulders, you might have concluded that this is some type of madness. Palms raised upwards? What am I offering up, or, what might this person be offering to me?
Gaze in a mirror. Smile broadly. Maintaining that smile, curl up one side of the mouth while opening your eyes wide and raising your eyebrows. The sincerity of that broad smile becomes one of cynicism. There are multiple interpretations of smiles to which any aspiring actor will attest. There's even a smile that can convey hatred.
The hands? Oh, those hands are the most visible sign of interacting with others. V for victory, index finger and thumb forming a circle indicates perfection. Thumbs up? Way to go! Thumbs down? Well, you know. There's the one with raised middle finger that's sometimes accentuated by bending the arm at the supporting elbow. This may be frequently observed by motorists interacting with each other. Add a steady horn blowing to further emphasize the message.
Shoulders stooped with head bowed, a figure shuffles along. Another's steps are sprightly, practically dancing along. They may even greet you with a wave of the hand. Observing these postures, how do you respond? Do you return the wave? Do you acknowledge the presence of the one who appears depressed?
As toddlers in the early stages of our lives, our vocabulary was limited. There were those times when we desperately wanted to convey a message. Nobody was listening to what we wanted to say. No one loved us. Abandoned and frustrated, we lay on the floor, kicked our legs out, pounded our fists on the floor while howling out our woes to the ceiling and walls. In essence, we were 'throwing a tantrum.'
These moments of fury may not have been limited within the confines of our homes. To the embarrassment of our parents, they might have occurred in a church or other public setting.
As adults now, we may simply pound the stairs as we ascend them, or slam a door. We are, after all, more sophisticated. Heck, we might even revert to that silent treatment. 'I've said all that I'm going to say; I don't care about anything else that you have to say.'
Today, as you go about your daily life, you encounter others who are now in the roles that you yourself once were. There you are in a line-up out at the grocery store where, to the caregiver's chagrin, their child bellows a forlorn woe to all present. Do you cover your ears? Do you cover your face instead to play peek-a-boo to bring a smile to that child's face?
There is one certain act that you can do that will engage a child's attention in the throes of a tantrum. I do not know if this is a recommended manner of averting a tantrum. It's been over twenty years since I last attempted such an intervention. I guarantee that it is effective.
As the child kicks out while pounding fists on the floor, lay down beside him/her and do the same. Children adapt their behaviours to those surrounding them. Seeing an adult emulating childish behaviour almost always will bring laughter to their face. Then you can sit on the floor beside them to discover the reason for their acting out.
It is my hope that what I've written today will bring to your consciousness the fact that we all convey messages to others through our body language as well as through our words.
Biden Delivers. Our Leaders, Not So Much
They say that Joe Biden is senile, but he just pulled off an impressive feat, a massive prisoner swap with Russia. American citizens were released. As for Canadian citizens held in China, that’s more than can be said for Justin Trudeau and Stephen Harper, both of whom are alleged to have their wits about them. We begin with Biden.
Biden’s first principle: Get American prisoners safely home. His effort took two years of diplomacy, involving negotiations with Germany, Slovenia, Belarus, Norway, and Poland, to bring together the 24 subjects involved in the trade, which took place in Turkey. Freed to return to Russia were people convicted or charged with murder, computer hacking, and espionage. Among those Russia released were Americans, Wall Street Journal journalist Evan Gershkovich, Alsu Kurmasheva, journalist for Radio Free Europe/ Radio Liberty, and Paul Whelan, who has worked in IT and law enforcement. Whelan also holds Canadian citizenship.
Now to Canada. A swap was arranged with China for Michael Kovrig and Michael Spavor in exchange for Huawei executive Meng Wanzhou. This swap involved few complications, as China was desperate to get her back. The sole matter to iron out was the U.S. charge of violating its ban on exporting certain things to Iran. Canada turned negotiations over to the Americans. However, there are other Canadians held in China. Both Harper and Trudeau have failed to act to gain their release.
Huseyin Celil is a Uyghur human rights defender who was visiting in-laws in Uzbekistan in 2006. He was extradited to China and has been there since. Harper called on China to release him, but there was no offer to negotiate for his release.
Sun Qian was convicted in 2017 and sentenced to eight years in prison for her involvement with Falun Gong.
There are a number of people in American custody for crimes such as economic espionage. It might be possible to include some in negotiations. Canada is not completely lacking in potential trades. There is Yuesheng Wang, accused of economic espionage at Hydro Québec We missed a golden opportunity when Winnipeg scientists Xiangguo Qiu and Kedding Cheng got through our fingers and made it back to China. They were accused of stealing samples and violating secrecy regulations. They would have been excellent subjects for exchange.
Cameron Ortis is another possible person for an exchange, if he is wiling. He was a highly placed civilian in the RCMP convicted of passing on secrets, primarily to criminals, though it is thought that China might also have benefitted from his treachery.
Finally, consider four Canadian drug offenders sentenced to death in China: Robert Schellenberg, Ye Jianhui, Xu Weihong, and Fan Wei. Schellenberg was sentenced in 2019. None of the death sentences has yet been carried out. Is China holding these men for something or somebody China wants in exchange?
Perhaps Biden is in his dotage, but he delivers for his citizens in foreign thrall. That is better than we can get from our bright-eyed, bushy-tailed leaders.
Chelsea and Ottawa Suffer the Same
Chelsea and the City of Ottawa are fighting the same battle, against the practice of the federal government and its agency the National Capital Commission (NCC), which are shortchanging them on payment in lieu of taxes. Since governments do not pay property tax, they pay in lieu, and in the case of both Chelsea and the City of Ottawa, they choose to pay less and less, leaving a big hole in municipal resources. Both municipalities are involved in litigation, to make the NCC pay up. While Ottawa has a variety of issues with the feds around money, both municipalities complain about how they are being treated by the NCC.
Chelsea went to the Payments in Lieu of Taxes (PILT) Advisory Panel to get its opinion on the dispute with the NCC as to the amount to be paid. At the time, the NCC agreed to abide by the Panel’s finding, but when it found for Chelsea the NCC broke its word. It has been paying less and less. Chelsea then went to Superior Court, which decided in favor of the NCC. Next the judges of the Court of Appeals unanimously came to the same conclusion. Chief Justice Yves de Montigny said, “It is ultimately up to the NCC’s discretion to establish the value of the land as well as the PILT to be paid to the municipality.” Because the court was unanimous, the Supreme Court would ordinarily be unlikely to give leave to appeal. Nevertheless, Chelsea is seeking leave. The one possible factor that might influence the Supreme Court to take the case is that the City of Ottawa is also involved in similar litigation. Under the circumstances, Chelsea should be looking to how it might cooperate with the City of Ottawa.
On August 2, Ottawa Mayor Mark Sutcliffe issued an urgent plea to upper levels of government to meet what he sees as their commitments to his city. Commenting on what the NCC pays as PILT, he asked, “Imagine if I told you, as a property taxpayer, that you could decide how much you wanted to pay every year.” He put some numbers to the situation. “Eight years ago, they were paying $194 million a year in PILT. Now they’re paying $164 million.” That, he complains, is $95 million less than what they should be paying now.
Sutcliffe pointed to one way in which the NCC sets its valuations. It allows buildings to deteriorate, failing to provide adequate upkeep. Then, they decide that the building is worth less and that they should reduce the relevant PILT. Let’s put it this way.
“Your Honor, I am pleading for mercy for my client, the defendant, standing before you on a charge of patricide. When sentencing him please give due consideration to the fact that he is fatherless.”
The federal approach to PILT amounts to downloading onto local government. In both Ontario and Quebec, local governments are forced to rely primarily on property taxes. This tax is regressive and erratic. Thus, as frequently noted, the three principal factors in establishing the value of a property are location, location, and location. The tax bears no relationship to ability to pay. By contrast, the federal income tax is broadly progressive. The federal government can also go into debt, while municipalities in Ontario and Quebec may not, though there are workarounds.
A View from the Other Side
As we watch professional sports events, it is only rarely that we stop to reflect upon the lives of those we refer to as stars. Stars are those sparkling gems in a sky dome above us. Stars are those who perform unbelievable feats of strength and stamina with grace and agility. Stars are paid millions for their extraordinary feats. Stars earn millions more by merely endorsing a product in a 30-second commercial. We clamour after them for their autographs; we collect memorabilia about their exploits; we sport sweaters with their names and team numbers emblazoned upon them. Stars are superhuman, elevated to a status that we can only fantasize or aspire.
There is, however, a greater reality, a recognition that those to whom we acknowledge perfection are human. Consider for a moment this one example of a major league baseball player. There are many like him in sports entertainment, who must daily live with the price of fame and adulation, while performing before millions of fans. From early years, he watched his heroes, just as we view him now. Emulating those heroes, he aspired to become an MLB pitcher, striking out other MLB players on a regular basis.
Pursuing his goal, he spent countless hours training, being coached at various levels in gymnasiums and on the field. It culminated with that glorious day when he was drafted, donning an MLB team jacket and signing an entry-level contract. There was so much more involved now than stepping up to the mound. Now, he needed an agent to handle the business aspects of this beloved sport. The rewards were many, monetary, adulation of the fans and the bonding with the other team members.
There was also his personal life—responsibilities for his spouse and growing family. There was their home, ensconced in a wealthy suburban neighbourhood where the children were happily engaged with their siblings and their schoolmates. It was at that time of year, too, that his team was struggling in last place in their division. Rumours were flying that changes were imminent, that some team members were to be traded or sent to a minor league team.
How few are they, who through their talent and years of training have reached that pinnacle of success? How few are they, who standing on the mound can read the catcher’s signals, responding by hurling a ball around ninety miles an hour through a narrow strike zone? Through a variety of grips on that ball, they can spin it in different ways to confuse the batter. Yes, how few, in this whole wide world, can perform such feats, aware that they must, that statistics are recorded, that they are constantly being evaluated for their performance.
They know that they must continue to perform at the highest level. They’re acutely aware that, any time, they may walk to the dugout to sit beside their teammates for one last time before being told that they would be traded to another team. Their family would remain in the suburban house until the end of the school year, before joining them in another MLB City somewhere in North America. For weeks, they have lived with this reality, somehow not allowing the gossip to compromise their performance.
You and I are the fans who seldom reflect upon the real lives of those we refer to as stars. This example from a fictional MLB team pitcher is applicable to others in sports entertainment, to musicians, to movie stars and to other celebrities. All who have climbed that mountain to success in their chosen field are under public scrutiny. The gossip columns lay bare their private lives as well as their exploits. Missteps along the way spread across social media and the printed press. As we once celebrated their victories, we now condemn them.
Might we also reflect on another fact. Do we not do the same to those who put their names forward for public office? Perhaps because we disagree with their political views, we excoriate them. There are some who choose to express their views in harsher ways. Witness graffiti scrawled across their homes. Witness threats directed toward those politicians, as well as their families. It is that sad behaviour that spreads a dark cloud over those we call stars.
Godsibb
While waiting my turn in the cashier’s line-up, my eyes scanned the scandalous cover headlines of the magazines displayed. Upon returning home, I turned on the TV where a panel of sportscasters was speculating on the merits of a major league baseball pitcher who was about to be traded.
Is this not a form of gossip, I asked myself? Gossip sells, especially when the subjects are celebrities. Reflecting on these matters brought me to the realization that not all gossip is inherently bad. How well I recall the personals in the Buckingham Post where I read about out-of-town visitors to others in town, of their journeys and of their adult children’s enrolment at some college or university. Weren’t we all interested in each others happy moments? Was this not a healthy sharing of our family dynamics? Perusing these thoughts further, I turned to the Internet, to the archives of the Buckingham Post circa 1940, where I read about life as it was in the town back then. More specifically, I chose the month of June 1941, since it coincided with my birth. There I discovered an Accidental Report where my grandmother and godmother Josephine Conroy was badly injured, leading to her death shortly after.
The omission of her name in that story left me with feelings of anger and frustration. These were very different times. My feeling became a bridge to those bygone days of injustice toward women like my grandmother. Online, I read about the Suffragettes’ crusade for equality in Quebec in the 1940s. I read about Marie-Claire Kirkland-Casgrain, the first woman to become a member of the National Assembly in 1961.
The impetus for these revelations was scanning the cover stories of gossip magazines in a store. The origins of the word gossip are: “Old English godsibb. ‘sponsor godparent,’ from God + sibb ‘relative’. The sense was extended to Middle English to ‘a familiar acquaintance, a friend, neighbour’ (c. 1300), especially to women friends invited to attend a birth, later to ‘anyone engaging in familiar or idle talk’ (1560s). The sense was further extended to ‘trifling talk, groundless rumour.’ Similar formations are found in old Norse guðsifja, Old Saxon guþziff.”
There was another story of interest in that 1941 edition in the Buckingham Post. Here is that article:
In Appreciation
This week we received another letter of thanks from one of the Buckingham boys overseas for the copy of the ‘Buckingham Post’ which goes to him each week. It is as follows.
On Active Service with the Canadian Forces, May 30th, 1941.
It is with the greatest of pleasures I am writing you on behalf of the rest of the Buckingham boys serving in the Cameron Highlanders of Ottawa, at present in England. We all get together and read our ‘Post’ and talk about happenings of the town we are so proud to fight for.
Wishing to be remembered by all the people of Buckingham and district,
I am
yours in the C.A.S.F
Pte. Jack Rae
We are pleased to know that the Post is so much appreciated by the boys overseas to whom it goes on request, free of charge for the duration of the war. The pleasure more than repays for the expense at this end.
Linda Chenier, President of Branch 54 of the Royal Canadian Legion informs us that Jack Rae was President of that Branch of the Legion in 1951.
On November 11, I always reflect upon those who valiantly served our country during the various wars throughout our history. I also reflect on the fact that each of those who fought and died for our freedom had a mother who gave birth to them. During the Second World War, those mothers would see their sons, and sometimes their daughters, leave for overseas. Yet those same mothers did not have the right to vote or stand for elected office in their own province of Quebec.
Finally, from the pen of Joseph, Anthony, Victor is a little gossip poem that he’s just written.
They are gathered around a table
Where from gossip’s vessel they sup.
Why when they put down another
Do they build their own images up?
One asks, “Did you hear...?” “No, I didn’t.”
Still, I know what’s about to unfold.
A tale of someone’s misdemeanours
Whose misdeed too soon will be told.
Then a hush comes over the dwelling
As that poor fellow walks through the door.
All eyes are now transfixed upon him
He’s not welcome here anymore.
Chelsea and Ottawa suffer the same tax avoiders
Chelsea and the City of Ottawa are fighting the same battle, against the practice of the federal government and its agency the National Capital Commission (NCC), which are shortchanging them on payment in lieu of taxes. Since governments do not pay property tax, they pay in lieu, and in the case of both Chelsea and the City of Ottawa, they choose to pay less and less, leaving a big hole in municipal resources. Both municipalities are involved in litigation, to make the NCC pay up. While Ottawa has a variety of issues with the feds around money, both municipalities complain about how they are being treated by the NCC.
Chelsea went to the Payments in Lieu of Taxes (PILT) Advisory Panel to get its opinion on the dispute with the NCC as to the amount to be paid. At the time, the NCC agreed to abide by the Panel’s finding, but when it found for Chelsea the NCC broke its word. It has been paying less and less. Chelsea then went to Superior Court, which decided in favor of the NCC. Next the judges of the Court of Appeals unanimously came to the same conclusion. Chief Justice Yves de Montigny said, “It is ultimately up to the NCC’s discretion to establish the value of the land as well as the PILT to be paid to the municipality.” Because the court was unanimous, the Supreme Court would ordinarily be unlikely to give leave to appeal. Nevertheless, Chelsea is seeking leave. The one possible factor that might influence the Supreme Court to take the case is that the City of Ottawa is also involved in similar litigation. Under the circumstances, Chelsea should be looking to how it might cooperate with the City of Ottawa.
On August 2, Ottawa Mayor Mark Sutcliffe issued an urgent plea to upper levels of government to meet what he sees as their commitments to his city. Commenting on what the NCC pays as PILT, he asked, “Imagine if I told you, as a property taxpayer, that you could decide how much you wanted to pay every year.” He put some numbers to the situation. “Eight years ago, they were paying $194 million a year in PILT. Now they’re paying $164 million.” That, he complains, is $95 million less than what they should be paying now.
Sutcliffe pointed to one way in which the NCC sets its valuations. It allows buildings to deteriorate, failing to provide adequate upkeep. Then, they decide that the building is worth less and that they should reduce the relevant PILT. Let’s put it this way.
“Your Honor, I am pleading for mercy for my client, the defendant, standing before you on a charge of patricide. When sentencing him please give due consideration to the fact that he is fatherless.”
The federal approach to PILT amounts to downloading onto local government. In both Ontario and Quebec, local governments are forced to rely primarily on property taxes. This tax is regressive and erratic. Thus, as frequently noted, the three principal factors in establishing the value of a property are location, location, and location. The tax bears no relationship to ability to pay. By contrast, the federal income tax is broadly progressive. The federal government can also go into debt, while municipalities in Ontario and Quebec may not, though there are workarounds.
A Monkey’s wise life observations
Close your eyes for a moment and hearken back to those halcyon days of your childhood. Hand in hand with your parents and siblings you walked excitedly to the circus that had come to town. The circus, as it was known in those days, rather than the larger fairs of autumn today, was a major attraction in a town where the wailing of a firetruck enticed townspeople to the scene. You will recall the eager anticipation of the rides at the circus. A merry-go-round was but one of them.
At home you may have ridden a rocking horse; at the circus you were hoisted onto the back of a real looking horse. Slowly as the music played, you floated upwards, then down again in waves as you rode around in circles. No doubt, you will recall smiling broadly as your horse rode past your smiling parents. You felt an attachment to that inanimate creature that you may already have given a name. Off you raced to one more exciting adventure.
There were the bumper cars where you adeptly steered away from others but intentionally bumped into several where a 180° turn of the wheel propelled you backwards. After moving in that direction for a time, you reversed the process yet realized that there was no way of avoiding others. The object then became aiming directly at some unsuspecting car while careening off it into yet one more traffic jam. Just as you got right into the spirit of it all, your trusty car ran out of gas (electricity). The fun was over, on to the next attraction!
Perhaps there was a hotdog, ice cream or cotton candy between those rides. A ferris wheel was but one of them. This time, you were once more rotating in circles. This time it was vertical; this time it was backward. As you reached the apex of that height you were somewhat frightened. As the rotations paused to allow riders to discharge, you were terrified as you were momentarily left dangling high above the ground where neither the chair in front nor behind you were visible. Your stomach felt queasy; you wished that you hadn’t eaten that ice cream and hotdog.
You must recall being handed a fistful of dimes and nickels. Perhaps, not counting the pennies you had saved, there was a whole dollar of them. A spinning-wheel barker beckoned you to place your bets. You placed two nickels on the spades. Three spades turned up. Now you had six nickels. Wow! After repeating the process multiple times, your luck was running out. You turned away from the spinning wheel table with two dimes and a penny to your name.
Off you went to see the monkey show. The monkeys copied your hand waves and expressions. As they mimicked your every move, you laughed aloud. It was you who controlled the monkeys’ actions. What you didn’t realize is that it was the monkeys who were making fun of you.
A circus was a microcosm of life itself. That would become evident the older you became. Life’s like a merry-go-round where you go around in circles. There are unavoidable bumps and collisions along the way. There are times you go up; there are times you go down. There are moments of ecstasy. There are times of loss...of being frightened. As we grow older, we come to understand that these are all part of our human nature. Some are unavoidable while it is we who initiate them. The only solace is that it’s all part of being alive. There are times when instead of ruminating on the difficulties, we should just lean back and laugh at ourselves.
Here, courtesy of my sister Mary, is a poem that our late mother Ethel was given by a lady who initialed it J.A.:
In Monkeydom
Three monkeys sat on a coconut tree
Discussing things as they’re said to be.
Said one to the others – ‘Now listen you two,
There’s a certain rumour that can’t be true,
That man descended from our noble race --
The very idea is sure a disgrace.
No monkey ever deserted his wife,
Starved her babies and ruined her life.
And you’ve never known another monkey
To leave her babies with others to bunk,
Or pass them on from one to another
Till they hardly knew which one is their mother.
And another thing you will never see --
A monk built a fence ‘round a coconut tree
And let the coconuts go to waste,
Forbidding all other monks a taste.
Starvation would force you to steal from me
And here’s something else a monk won’t do --
Go out at night and get on a stew
Or use a gun, or club, or knife
To take some other poor monkey’s life.
Yes man descended – the ornery cuss
But brother, he didn’t descend from us!
J.A.
Remembering Kris Kristofferson
At twilight, we are thankful for those past and present who have enriched our life’s journey. Through the darkness of night as we slumber, we often meet them in our dreams. At the first light of a new day, we are grateful for the gift of life with all the promises it offers. As the twilight of our own lives sets upon us, we often reflect upon these things.
There are others, too; others, whom we may never have met, yet who have enriched our life’s journey. Today, I want to share with you one of those others, who for over 60 years has shaped many of my thoughts. That person is Kris Kristofferson, one whom I have never, nor will ever encounter. Circumstances prevented meeting Kristofferson, as you will see here. His legacy of poetry in song remains, although, at 88 years, the sun has set on his life. Kris Kristofferson was a Renaissance man.
A Rhodes Scholar with a Master’s degree in English Literature, he would clean studios for others as a janitor. He was a boxer and a football player. The son of an Air Force General, he became a helicopter pilot himself. He was a featured actor in Hollywood productions. It is his songs that often stir my reflections on life’s experiences. Please, please, if you’re able, seek and listen to That Silver-Tongued Devil. Listen also to Darby’s Castle and to Casey’s Last Ride. The latter, sung by Bytown Bluegrass, is my favourite version of the song.
Kristofferson wanted these lyrics of Leonard Cohen's song, Bird on a Wire, on his tombstone: Like a bird on a wire, like a drunk in a midnight choir, I have tried in my own way to be free. Kris Kristofferson died on September 28. Here are two personal stories about the singing poet:
When I was writing about country music, one of the venues that presented live entertainment was the Gilmour Hotel on Bank Street in Ottawa. There, one evening, Chris McCann was entertaining. Today an inductee into the Ottawa Valley Country Music Hall of Fame, Chris had just released her award-winning recording Dance With Me Darlin on the RCA label. Chris McCann relayed this intriguing story:
Kristofferson was performing at Barrymore’s up the street. As Christine stepped outside during a break, she noticed Kristofferson near his tour bus. Racing toward him, she introduced herself as sharing a common first name and handed him a disc of her latest hit.
In the early 2000s, I was one of a group receiving vocal coaching from Meredith Matthews. At the time, our Monday morning sessions were held at Orpheus House. Bill Connolly, a singer-songwriter, was part of that group. He was also the owner of Oceanfront Properties with commercial real estate holdings in Canada and the United States. One of those properties was a strip mall in Corpus Christi, Texas. At that venue was a music store where each year a star with the name of a well-known entertainer was embedded in the sidewalk. Bill suggested Kris Kristofferson, since he resided in Brownsville, Texas at the time. When Kristofferson came to Corpus Christi for the ceremony, Bill asked him if he would come to Ottawa to present a songwriting workshop. Kris agreed and Bill connected him to Chris White, co-founder of the Ottawa Folk Festival. White, a Nova Scotia native son is also a talented singer, songwriter and performer.
Kris Kristofferson would come to Ottawa in mid-August 2007, as one of the featured performers who would also conduct songwriters’ workshops at the Ron Kolbus Centre and sing on the outdoor stage at a Woody Guthrie tribute. At the time, I eagerly awaited the event, since, like Bill, I anticipated meeting Kris Kristofferson. It was not to be.
Meredith had arranged a seminar for us that same weekend at the Sears and Switzer Acting Studio in Toronto. That Sunday night, returning from the weekend seminar, as we drove down the 401, the rain tumbled down.
Kristofferson was on stage at Britannia Park with his most loyal fans seated in the front rows. As the storm started, all had to move indoors for shelter. Those in the back rows were the first to enter the Ron Kolbus Centre, taking their places at the front near the stage. There, those who had come first were the last to enter. They were furious. Like them, I felt sad that I had lost my one chance to see Kristofferson in person. As Bill observed, “You can only be in one place at a time.”
Mac Beattie, In His Own Words
In a recent column about gossip, I wrote: “If you called me a sinner, I might smile at the acuteness of your observation.” I have since reflected upon those words with dismay, since they may have been interpreted as indicating my delight in doing wrong. To clarify, those words were an expression of our common humanity; each of us err at times through our thoughts, our words and our actions. Which one of us does not occasionally go astray? Which of us has not judged another without knowing the circumstances, motives or relationships of that person? Sometimes as we hear stories of another’s misdemeanour, we repeat that misdeed to others. It continues through the grapevine sowing seeds that affect a person’s reputation. Through the following story, I wish to further illustrate this.
John McNab, “Mac Beattie” (1916-1982) along with Reg Hill (1927-1979), an old-tyme fiddler, in the band “Mac Beattie and the Ottawa Valley Melodiers,” were the first inductees into the Ottawa Valley Music Hall of Fame in 1981. Many from my era grew up listening to the music of the CFRA Melodiers in the 1950’s that preceded the CFRA Happy Wanderers of that time. The Melodiers recorded eleven albums of songs written by Mac Beattie that are a real part of our Canadian mosaic. His songs are of the people and places of the Ottawa Valley, of Ontario and Quebec, where the band performed.
In addition to writing songs, Mac Beattie also was a hockey goaltender who at one time played in Western Canada. He also worked in lumber camps cutting timber. In 1941, he enlisted in the Canadian army, going from a relatively peaceful life to the harsh life of a soldier. After returning to Canada, he began his musical career. During that period, he suffered an injury to one of his eyes, resulting in a prosthesis, or “glass eye,” which it was then commonly called. When I was writing about country music, I went to numerous locations throughout West Quebec and Eastern Ontario to write about the musicians that I grew up listening to for years. Frequently, Mac Beattie’s name would surface, as did references to his blindness in one eye. On several occasions, I heard different descriptions of how this unfortunate happening occurred. Many of these stories were incorrect, as I would discover.
From Mac Beattie’s book, “This Ottawa Valley of Mine,” here are Mac’s own words to set the record straight:
“The year was 1953, and not a good year for me. While performing
in Portage du Fort, two brothers were in a heated discussion over
the possession of a girl after the dance. The discussion jumped to an
argument and then quickly accelerated into a fight. When it appeared
that they were going to keep it up until someone was seriously
injured, I decided to step in and help stop the fight. On the ground,
one brother was on top of the other and punching him senseless. I
bent over and tried to pull him off. At that point yet another brother,
the youngest of the clan, happened by and claimed he thought I was
beating up on the two of them. With a heavy boot, he kicked me hard
in the face.
At Ottawa’s General Hospital, a Dr. Gilhouly fought desperately to
save my left eye. It was too badly damaged and had to be removed.
Infection had begun to spread and I was very fortunate to not have
lost sight in my remaining right eye.
I will always remember my many good friends and fans who came
to see me in the hospital during this very dark moment and all the
cards and letters that I received. Frank Ryan, Les Lye, Bev Shaw and
all the Melodiers organized a benefit dance at Alec Staye’s Pavillion in
Arnprior. Many entertainers joined in the huge crowd that night, and
the proceeds went to defray the costs of my hospital stay. I shall always
be grateful to them. This was the Ottawa Valley way, the way we always
try to help each other.”
Yes, this was before we had Medicare. Mac Beattie’s words written years ago are but one other witness echoing the necessity of telling the story correctly, if we must. His legacy of songs is with us today via the internet which he never knew.
May Columns
May Musings
Perhaps you’ve sung along to these lyrics at one time in your life:
“Why should we care for the weather Whether it’s cloudy or clear
As long as we are together waiting to hear:
Step right up and say that you love me Come right out with an I love you
Step right up and say that you love me For down deep in your heart you do.”
Now those lyrics are an interesting twist on all those ‘I love you’ songs that are so often heard. Here, the person boldly corrals their partner, telling them that ‘unequivocally, I know that deep within that heart of yours, you love me. Step right up and tell me so.’
Before reading further, please be aware this is a mere parody of the song itself.
Confronted with those words, the other person might aptly reply that: ‘What I’d really love to step up and tell you now is that I’d love to see the sun shining. It’s been cloudy all week.” Weather, you see, does affect us all. It’s called seasonal affective disorder or SAD.
Should the temperature be a hot, humid day, an appropriate response would be: “What I’d really love right now is a bucket of ice-cold water.’
You and I have both experienced those SAD moments when our demeanour resembles a ‘just-got-up-in the-morning appearance.’ Lengthy periods of cloudy weather or hot-humid days do invite sultry responses. We’re helpless, we have no control over what nature throws our way. There are weeks in both summer and winter when the weather frowns upon us.
Sometimes we frown right back.
It is at times such as this that we sometimes lash out at others. “Just leave me alone in my misery, I’m not interested in anything that you have to say!”
This piece, however, is written in early May. It’s a pleasantly warm day. The gardening centres are now open. Magnificent floral displays smile upon us. We smile back. We smile and greet one another. Glorious days lie ahead. BBQ’ing, planting seedlings, walking, biking, swimming, boating all loom on the horizon. We step right up and shout: “I love it all. I love you and you and you.”
We are only human after all. Hope springs eternal. These words just trickled through my head.
“How pleasant is this lovely morning And may I be forgiven
For saying that May is the sweetest month
With regrets to the other eleven.”
Yesterday, I walked over the hill, crossed that busy intersection and made my way to the path along the Ottawa River to join the birds, joggers, cyclists and others. With a sack in one hand, however, my eyes were constantly surveying the woodland along the path. I wasn’t disappointed, for there they were: the first of the fiddlehead ferns. Off the beaten way, I went gathering fiddleheads. Tonight, they will be on the table for supper.
It would be nice to have you join me for that appetizing feast. Picking dandelion greens and lamb’s quarters are on my list of nature’s gifts to gather this May. If you guessed that I’m in love with May, you’d be absolutely correct.
Oh yes, and I love signing too. On Sunday, May 26, Atlantic Voices will present their spring concert, Rogue’s Gallery, at Centretown United Church in Ottawa at 3 pm. On May 16, the Heart and Soul Singers will present their concert at Our Lady of Victory Church in Buckingham.
Finally, another little verse to celebrate the season: Inhale the fresh air of this May morning
As warm rising sun sweeps the night chill away
Now rises a chorus of birdsong so sweet Beside quiet pathways and along every street
There in the woodlot the fiddleheads curl There in forest fauna trilliums unfurl Daffodils, tulips, narcissus and trilliums Hyacinths, lilacs, muscari and alliums
These are precious gifts of this morning in May
As warm smiles that greet us sweep worries away.
Community Development for Health
Community development as a tool to improve the health status of the elderly—an interesting idea. Engaging in community-building means a reduction of isolation, which is a frequent problem for older people. Isolation is unhealthy. Social engagement is healthy.
On May 15, Connexion Resource Centre provided a virtual link to a production by the Community Health and Social Services Network about a community development program aimed at older people in multi-dwelling units in a geographic area in Toronto. The program is run by Toronto’s University Health Network, which is made up of a group of Toronto hospitals with university affiliation. Jen Recknagle, who staffs the project, was the presenter.
She began with the proposition that older people prefer to live in their home. The project works in 23 buildings, including condos, apartment houses, and coops. The community development process is slow, but the impact begins during that process.
The aims are to promote health and well-being, provide social support, help with everyday things, provide information and aid in navigating the system, and promote self-determination, autonomy, and choice.
One issue that we did not hear addressed is how this project relates to the non-elderly living in these buildings.
What are the possible take-aways from this model, or something like it, locally? The first problem is one of auspices. Who would operate it? In its days of bold beginnings, the obvious choice would be the CLSC’s, but that golden age of community has passed into history. CLSC’s today are lucky to be little more than parking lots.
And once an auspice is determined, where is the funding?
It might be possible to identify the buildings. Would it be feasible to identify a group which could be served together, or would it be necessary to serve one or a few at once? Would the project serve just seniors or could the service be extended to include all the tenants?
Homes for the aged are required to have elected advisory committees, but their focus is on advice to the landlord. It lacks the broader function in the Toronto example. CHSLD’s also have advisory committees, including residents and family members. Again the committee’s work is internal rather than expansive.
The next problem is to where these community groups would be able to guide people for help. The highly-centralized CISSSO (Centre intégré de santé et des services) is a huge all-encompassing amoeba, with a hole in the centre. It is like a river a mile wide and an inch deep. No manpower. It cannot even provide physiotherapy or social work for patients in preparation for hospital admission or for those on release. The crisis we face in a lack of physicians and nurses is common knowledge.
We are due for a new hospital in Gatineau. There is already mumbling about the Wakefield Hospital. Is the new hospital to be at their expense and be in conjunction with their closure? Close hospitals and then go on a construction boom. That is, after all, how they do it in Ottawa. And how does that factor in those needing care out in the northern perimeter?
Toronto’s project is interesting, but it exists in an environment that offers more choice and less central domination.
Teens and Drugs
Adrianne Nalbandian and Samantha Maiorino, Portage staff members, provided a virtual session on Teens and Drugs on May 14. Portage is a multi-functional drug treatment program located in the Laurentians.
Their most important message was that the parent needs to act as the parent in dealing with the teen. That means being neither a dictator nor just a friend, something in between. The relationship changes as the teen becomes older. Paradoxically, the teen needs both rules and more freedom. In this balancing act, the parent needs to be aware of his own attitudes, beliefs, and values, and what of these he does not want to pass on. And love. The teen needs that, big time.
In the relation with the teen, open and honest dialog is essential. Concern is for the teen’s safety and for promoting his self-worth. Low self-esteem can be an important factor leading to drug abuse. It is important to give praise when the teen expresses self-worth.
The presentation set out some warning signs. While many of these may trigger concern about drugs, and while the presenters did not raise the issue, a mental health alert is also raised. Suppose he changes friends or activities, develops unusual sleep patterns, becomes a person with poor hygiene. Drastic mood swings or irritability may ring alarm bells.
Other signs, perhaps more troubling. Calls from school or work about absence or other problems. Lies may be a wakeup call. Then there are physical clues: eye droppers, rolling paper, and vaping equipment.
Concern escalates with alcohol use and issues around money. That could be too much money showing up or money going missing. Are medicines going missing from the home?
Dropping out—school, work, or activities—may cause concern. Then there is the matter of trouble with the law.
Teens may be moody and may want to go off by themselves and withdraw from things. All that may be normal, but only within limits. Same goes for anxiety and depression. Beside the matter of drug involvement, there may be a need to seek mental heath help. (Again, a matter not raised by the presenters.)
Presenters defined addiction as behavior that interferes with the person’s life and which he cannot change by himself. Maiorino is less concerned about a teen who experiments with drugs and is not addicted. However, such experimenting can get a teen killed. Using without knowing the potency or the presence of products such as fentanyl could be fatal.
Social media were described as both beneficial and harmful. There are programs on the media to promote self-esteem and help with homework, for example. On the other hand, there are programs that promote anxiety and panic and unhealthy body image. There are also predators on social media. Parents should discuss what goes on in social media with their teens.
April Columns
Derecho Party
At the outset, a brief observation about the title of this week’s column. Aware of the heartbreak and devastation of the derecho that wreaked havoc throughout our region in 2022, I was puzzled by the word ‘Party’ associated with it. This piece is about a band of musicians with that name, to which my son-in-law David Haskins belongs. It was through David that I learned about the band and I asked him about the origin of the chosen name. David replied with these words from Conroy Pitt, fellow musician:
“Well...we formed around April 2022, and the derecho hit in May. We were bouncing names around. Derecho seemed right, in the moment, and we were an original party band so Derecho was born. As we say, we like to party up a storm. Why not just call the band Derecho?”
In that context, the title becomes easier to digest. Forces of nature have been chosen for other names as well. For example, the Carolina Hurricanes and Tampa Bay Lightning are NHL teams that will be competing in this year’s Stanley Cup playoffs.
Since I have yet to see Derecho Party perform, I am hardly qualified to critique them. However, in viewing their website, www.derechoparty.com, and listening to their recordings, I have this commentary. The instruments are guitars, bass and drums. The emphasis is percussion, befitting the rock style. The simple addition of fiddle and/or steel guitar to some of their music would give it a country flavour. A harmonica would add that bluesy touch to songs of that nature.
What impressed this old man the most are the original songs written by band members. Two of these I found outstanding: Freedom from Freedom and What’s an Old Man?
Freedom from Freedom is a powerful social commentary on those who descended on the Nation’s Capital during the Covid-19 outbreak. That occupation eclipsed the freedom of others, particularly those who lived in the area surrounding Parliament Hill and downtown Ottawa. As the song relates:
They want
Freedom from freedom
A smoker’s coup
Freedom from consequence
When they come after you.
The song that I enjoyed the most, however, was What’s an Old Man? I do not pretend to speak for other old codgers like myself, but it sure is a treat to hear our story told in such an insightful manner.
With the band’s permission, here are the words of the song:
What’s an old man
Got to smile about, laugh about,
Ain’t nothing funny anyway
What’s an old man
Got to beg about, kneel about,
You know he doesn’t even pray
What’s an old man
Got to yell about, scream about
You know he wanted it this way
What’s an old man
Got to live about, die about
Why don’t he just go away
He knows exactly what the fact is
He pays his government taxes
What’s an old man
Got to think about, drink about
When he’s got the blues
When an old man
Says he’s had enough, given up
Now he’s on the edge
When an old man’s
Got nothing to die for
He goes on living instead
He knows exactly what the fact is
He knows what party to the max is.
You know he cuddles like cactus
And on Sunday, he relaxes
You know an old man
Ought to give it up, pack it in
Before he gets out of line
What’s an old man
Got to toss about, turn about
Lay in bed all day
Once an old man
He apologized, caught in lies
And she didn’t even stay
He pays his government taxes
He knows what party to the max is
He knows what party to the max is.
Remembering
Remember me when the candle lights are gleaming
Remember me at the close of a long, long day
It would be so sweet when all alone I’m dreaming
Just to know you still remember me.
How often we hear the words, “We shouldn’t live in the past.” There is wisdom in those words, but sagacity in these words as well: “There is much to be learned from what came before.” As we become older, as most of our life is behind us, we live in the present, yet reflect upon where we once were, on our friendships today, on those friendships from which we are severed, and on where we might be tomorrow.
It is upon those reflections in lyrics of songs that I write about today. “Remember Me” is but one of many. Here are others:
Tell me the tales that to me were so dear
long, long ago
long, long ago.
Sing me the songs I delighted to hear
long, long ago
long ago.
And...
Songs of home in living rooms and bars
Songs of home on fiddles and guitars
Off you go the music gives you wings
And there’s peace in what the memories bring.
Another...
When it’s lamp lighting time in the valley
Then in dreams I go back to my home
I can see that bright light in the window
It will guide me wherever I roam
That silver-haired daddy...
In a vine-covered shack in the mountains
Bravely fighting the battle of time
Is a dear one who’s weathered life’s sorrows
Is that silver-haired daddy of mine.
More...
Where is my wandering boy tonight...
The boy of my tenderest care,
The boy that was once my joy and light,
The child of my love and prayer.
These words...
Thank you for the party
We’re always glad we came
I’m the only one from the family tonight
But I know they’d say the same.
Drink to me only...
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine,
Or leave a kiss within the cup
And I’ll not ask for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove’s nectar sip
I would not change for thine.
Home I’ll be...
...You’re as peaceful as a clear day
You’re as rugged as the seas
I caress you oh, Cape Breton
In my dreams
And home I’ll be
Home I’ll be
Banish thoughts of leaving
Home I’ll be.
These are but a few snippets from songs that were going through my mind. Thank you for letting me share my love of the ‘old’ songs with you today.
March Columns
Chinese Scientists Go Unpunished
Xiangguo Qiu and her husband Kedding Chen were fired from Canada’s National Microbiology Laboroatory in January 2021. Recently released redacted documents indicate why.
Qiu is a physician and a biologist and he a biologist. She is accused of sharing confidential scientific information with China. When questioned about this, she lied. A document states that she “had close and clandestine relationships with a variety of entities of the People’s Republic of China.” She also allowed unauthorized agents of Chinese entities to have access to the lab. We have less information about Chen, but he participated in her project.
In a letter removing her security clearance, she was told that she “committed serious security breaches and violated policies of the Public Health Agency of Canada (PHAC) and the Treasury Board policy on government security,” and that she “shipped antibodies outside of the National Microbiology Laboratory.”
The two had their security clearances revoked and were fired. That was all. Shipping the antibodies out without authorization was theft. There are also grounds for her being charged with violation of the Security of Information Act, previously known as the Official Secrets Act. The document in question refers to the CISIS Act. Breach of trust is certainly involved.
Consequences for this illegal behavior appear underwhelming. Why were they not charged and arrested? If they had been, these valuable assets could have been used to bargain for Canadians held in China. As we have argued previously, the exchange of Michael Kovrig and Michael Spavor for Meng Wanzhou was to Canada’s disadvantage. Meng is an important figure in the Chinese business world and is tied closely to the government élite. We should have gotten more. The arrangement did not address the status quo ante, before her arrest, which would release Sun Qian, arrested for involvement with Falun Gong, and would have mitigated the death sentences handed out to Canadians for drug offenses. And the negotiations did not address the fate of Uyghur human rights defender Huseyin Celil, imprisoned now for 17 years. He was extradited from Uzbekistan, where his family were visiting his wife’s relatives.
Getting rid of Qiu and her husband, along with tightening security, may serve the interests of the laboratory and the government, but it is silo thinking. It does not look at what other interests the treatment of the couple may entail. Once again Canada fails to address the plight of its citizens abroad.
To review the opportunities lost or not yet pursued, there were two cases under Stephen Harper’s rein in which Chinese criminals were returned to China without a demand for release of Celil in exchange. Then there was the case of Qing Quentin Huang whose case dragged on for eight years before being tossed. He was accused of offering his engineering information to China, in a phone call. The government was not prepared to supply his lawyer with disclosure of the wiretap of the conversation, but during the eight years a deal might have been possible with China. Currently, there is the case of Yuesheng Wang, charged with economic espionage while working at Hydro-Québec. As well, former RCMP bigwig Cameron Ortiz has been sentenced for being a mole for organized crime. It has also been alleged that he worked for China. They and
he might consider taking part in a trade.
Once again, Canada needs to think beyond silos and look for opportunities to aid its citizens in trouble overseas.
Ah, Springtime and Oh, We Creatures
Although snowfall accumulation was much less during this El Niño winter, there remains evidence of what did fall in those miniature mountains along the curbs of sprawling parking lots. As you stroll by their shrinking masses, you notice that the white stuff that floated from above has now assumed shades varying from black to grey and mottled shades of white. The more the packed snow melts, the darker the ice. That darkness comes from tiny particles of pollution that float in the air that you and I breathe as we walk by. Cumulatively, it is you, I, and the rest of us, who add these pollutants to the environment. There is much more.
If the mounds of discoloured snow resemble mountains, proportionally you become a giant as you pass them by. Momentarily, you stop to ponder that illusion, as you stare at these snow-plowed heaps. It is then that you observe something else. Clinging to black ice – a black glove, a Tim Horton’s coffee container, a hair band, bottles, cardboard – an endless list of trash. These did not fall from the sky. It is you, I and the rest of us who deposited them across the parking lot to be scooped up by the plow and dropped upon the mountain.
As the weather becomes warmer, you may notice a figure moving about the parking lot with a long-handled dustpan and broom sweeping up the debris. There are containers by the entrances. Some, or most of us, attempt to utilize these. Some of us do not. Many a university student will attest that their noble public service duties of picking up trash greatly supplemented their tuition fees.
Perhaps while relaxing on a windy day, you’ll hear the unmistakable groan of a waste disposal truck, stopping and starting as it passes your place. The fellow with the coloured vest scoops up your refuse, spilling it into the truck. As you fetch the container from your driveway, you notice that some of your garbage was scattered along the pavement. Bits of it were irretrievable if a gust happened to be blowing.
Those same mini-tornadoes that, in winter, swirled snow across the land, now stir brown leaves, paper, cardboard and tin cans about your feet. Who hasn’t heard the clanging of a tin can scraping across the pavement? This, however, is springtime, with its blue sky, gentle days, birdsong, flowers and … trash. You and I and the rest of us are one sorry lot.
Sap flows through lines connected to a pristine maple sugar bush. In our vehicles we speed along concession roads to savour once more a fresh-air country way of life. Along those roads, along main thoroughfares, under bypasses and in ditches we scatter refuse as we drive along. Heck, you might even notice a car tire, or crumpled mattress if you’re a passenger.
In a few weeks all of this will change. You’ll notice children from a nearby school scooping litter into black bags. You may also join a neighbourhood clean-up crew erasing all signs of your malevolence. After all, this will be April 22nd, Earth Day. This is the day to hug dear Mother Earth; to bask in her goodness and bounty.
Some of you pause to gaze upwards at a silver speck moving across a clear blue sky. Someone will blurt out: “Contrails: Just imagine how many jets streak across the sky every minute of the day across this lovely planet of ours?” Indeed, it was one of those shiny jets that ferried you back from your winter getaway to sunnier climes.
There are also some of us with pets. Most of us are responsible ones. Most of us are conscientious. Most of us stoop and scoop. There’s ample evidence that some of us do not. Be careful where you step along pathways or sidewalks.
Sorry about going in this direction, as we enter daylight-savings time. It was my intention to write about creation’s finer moments in this springtime of the year. Isn’t it true that we don’t always follow through with what we intended. Take a deep breath. Pin a green ribbon to your lapel if you’ve never been guilty of some of the aforementioned misdemeanours.
A spring morning escape
On a fine spring morning before breakfast, I set out across the park, climbed over the hill on my way to Life-Lab for a blood test. I opted to walk, since the destination was but fifteen minutes away. This is the city, however, with all its amenities, nearby conveniences and all that. At this early rush hour, it is also abuzz with traffic, lots of it. Most of that traffic whizzing by is a one-occupant vehicle. This east-west corridor is similar to Highway 50; two lanes each way separated by a grassy curb. Unlike the 50, however, there are buildings of all shapes and sizes along the thoroughfare.
The one-occupant vehicles, buses along with them, are transporting others to their places of employment. Never mind pressing the pedestrian signal button at this time. They are electronically timed to allow a fluid circulation of traffic during rush hour. This is city life. If the light is orange, don’t dare step off the curb; you’ll be road kill. If you have the pedestrian-proceed light, look both ways before leaving the sidewalk. Occasionally, one of the monsters might yet bear down upon you. They are, after all, in full throttle trying to ‘make the light’.
Am I being sanctimonious about this? Hopefully not. I drive one of those vehicles myself. In this city today, as in others wherever you live, driving isn't as pleasant an experience as it once was. You know, the speed bumps, cameras, darn bicyclists, jaywalkers, extended curbs, potholes, slow drivers, fast drivers...on and on.
As you drive along, tuned into early-morning traffic reports, you hear it all. Avoid this area, or that area, because of construction. East-west traffic is slow in both directions and, if it's raining or snowing, there are accidents throughout the city. If the weather is sunny and dry, there are collisions, although there may be fewer. This is city life. Walking or biking is less stressful, as well as better for your health. It is; yet, sometimes it isn’t.
I could have chosen a more peaceful route to the Life-Lab. I could have, but...it would have added time and distance to the walk. This is the city, you’d better get to your destination early, or sit for an hour to hear your name called.
As the week went by, the weather became warmer. On this glorious spring morning, I went for a stroll. At the outset, there was no destination, just a pleasant trek. Over the hill I went, descending to that busy intersection. Ah, but today, there were no pressing matters to deter me. Crossing the six lanes, at the safest of moments while following the pedestrian signal, I turned left and at the first street, right, which led to the pathway along the Ottawa River. As soon as you leave the hustle and bustle, the greater that awe of complete peace waves over you. It gets even better as you reach the pathway along the river. Bicyclists speed along, but the path is divided. You walk facing approaching cyclists. There are few problems here, few accidents, fewer pedestrians, geese, ducks and flowing water. You even greet one another.
I’ve just returned from that walk, rested a bit, then put pen to paper that will be typed for your perusal a week from now.
What went through my mind on that peaceful walk became this poem that I share with you now. How much more pleasant it is than that grumpy diatribe about littering that I left you with in the last Post issue.
Early Spring
Hang up your thick coat
Stow away winter boots
There’s no need for gloves
Or long underwear.
The sun’s shining brightly
Step you now lightly
Breathe in the sweetness
Of the spring-morning air.
Lean forward and climb
Up and over the hilltop
Follow the street
Down to the river
There swelling water
Flows swiftly along.
There sun shines brightly
Step you now sprightly
Whistle or hum a
Sweet tune of birdsong.
Raise up your arms
You’re in nature’s cathedral
Eyes focus on a
Bright blue-sky dome.
Turn now around
Your footsteps retracing
With joy in your heart
Sing your way home.
February Columns
Pauline Brown, Step Dancer, Singer-Songwriter and Reiki Master
By circumstance, as I write my first story of the New Year, I return to where this column began in 1985. Ensuing years were devoted to writing about traditional country music. Much of this revolved around the music of the Ottawa Valley. Appropriately, there were numerous stories related to Old Tyme Fiddling and Step Dancing. There were several stories related to Buster and Pauline Brown, who were inducted into the Ottawa Valley Country Music Hall of Fame in 2003 as a foremost step dancing duo.
Buster Brown passed away in 2014, yet over the years I continued writing about Pauline, who continues teaching step dancing at the Bronson Centre in Ottawa. I had the pleasure of attending a show, at Pauline’s invitation, in 2010. That show featured Pauline’s students at their Father’s Day presentation Dance for the Soul. As I recall, the dancers that day ranged in age from six to seventy-six.
From radiodowntown.ca are these words by John K:
“Pauline, who was adopted as an infant, eventually met her birth family. Her grandfather, Jean Bastien, played fiddle. He would make his son, Jean Jr., step dance at weddings if he received a quarter. During that period, the Bastiens did not know that another Bastien, Pauline, was dancing up a storm to the fiddle. It should come as no surprise that today, Buster and Pauline’s daughter, 18-year-old Abby, step dances as well.”
After several years of vocal lessons under Meredith Matthews, a small number of her students began entertaining at various functions. One of my contacts was at Unitarian House. On one occasion, Meredith was unable to produce a planned show at Unitarian House and that production fell into my hands.
I immediately contacted Pauline to inquire if she was available with a few of her dancers to join us for the show. We were on stage where my nervousness was growing as there was no sign of the dancers. While singing a number, I heard the unmistakable sound of step dancers walking up the corridor. I introduced them as they approached, Pauline placing an iPod with speakers on the stage. We joined the audience as Pauline and her step dancers put on a spectacular show.
My vocal coach, Meredith Matthews, was involved as Director of the Savoy Society’s production of H.M.S. Pinafore. Although she did not take part in the Unitarian House show that day, she was impressed with Pauline’s professional production.
Three of the dancers that day, Meredith Cormier, Caitlin Crockard and Laurie MacEachern, were invited to lead the Cabaret dancing featured in Act II of Pinafore. The year was 2013. That trio would dance for Queen Elizabeth at Balmoral Castle shortly afterward.
At one of the Country Music Hall of Fame shows at Centrepointe (now Meridian Theatres), Pauline Brown was on the program. I was there, camera in hand, to capture her performance. What a surprise I had when she strolled onstage in a royal blue floor-length dress to sing a song that she had written. I didn’t even know that Pauline had begun singing and songwriting as well as step dancing.
In 2018, Pauline was back at that theatre for a sold-out performance fundraiser for the Dementia Society. There she sang The Long Goodbye, written for her aunt who had dementia.
During the Covid pandemic, Pauline continued writing and recording songs along with videos. To date, she has released 13 of 15 songs that she wrote. You can view song videos that she has recorded on YouTube, Spotify and Apple Music. “Basically, it’s the story of my life,” she laughed.
One of her songs, A Simple Time, tells about growing up along Fraser Road, in Aylmer, next door to her cousin Dean. Perhaps the most significant event in her songwriting career is that of a recent song, Dance to the Fiddle. It tells an Ottawa Valley step dancing story and includes Pauline’s steps and vocals. A Swedish choreographer was so taken with the piece that it was later performed in Sweden, as well as in Asia. These can be viewed on her website. Dance to the Fiddle was also featured live at an Armenian Christmas Party.
Pauline also mentioned that in a darker time of her life, Shelley McGuire, her cousin Dean’s sister, was one who supported her emotionally. “When I was down and out, she was my Undercover Angel.” That’s the title of another of her songs.
Pauline is now a Reiki Master, a healing energy modality. “We all have to have a purpose. How can I help others?” she stated.
She now has Buster Brown’s fiddle and her present goal, along with her songwriting and step dancing, is learning to play the instrument.
Correction: My last column’s summary sentence should have read, “Let us use our relationships to grow. It can be hell or a pathway out of hell.” This was my error, not Carolyn Maloney’s. My apologies to Carolyn.
Hamas-Israel Quagmire
What can we make of the current hostilities between Hamas and Israel? Immediately following the October 7 attack by Hamas, there was a sprinkling of statements supporting the struggle against Israel, implying endorsement of the attack. Then people had to start backing down. For example, CUPE Ontario President Fred Hahn, who initially applauded “the power of resistance,” faced a storm of criticism and conceded that “Hamas committed a horrific terrorist attack on civilians in Israel.” They killed some 1200.
It is hard to justify Hamas’ actions. They attacked a music festival, not only killing but also taking hostages. They also attacked kibbutzim, torturing, raping, kidnapping, and killing in this rampage. And it is the kibbutzniks who have been among the strongest Israeli supporters of Palestinian rights and of their inclusion in Israeli society. When patients from Gaza were permitted to enter Israel for hospital care, typically it was kibbutzniks who met them at the border and took them to their medical care. Some of those kibbutzim may no longer exist.
In spite of how one must characterize both Hamas’ attack and its policies in Gaza—for example, misogynist prohibition of women’s sports—Israel does not come out squeaky-clean. Anti-Palestinian prejudice and discrimination by Israelis are reminiscent of the treatment of blacks in the American South in mid-century and earlier. In the Occupied Territories, colonizers in the outposts terrorize their Palestinian neighbors, burning crops, destroying homes, attacking children going to school. Constantly restive Gaza has been subject to severe border controls, including deliberate limitation of food imports.
With regard to the actual fighting, Israel has been carrying out a program of what amounts to little less than total destruction. Israel has claimed that its army is the most moral in the world. The evidence says otherwise. When three men advanced toward Israeli forces, carrying white flags, they were mowed down. These men were Israelis who had been kidnapped and managed to escape.
It is instructive to watch the reaction of the Israeli government to the conflict. Some world leaders are trying to pump new life into the corpse of the two-state solution. Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu will have none of that. He has made it utterly clear that he will never accept a Palestinian state. Israel must have control from the river to the sea. “From the river to the sea,” who else had said that? And he certainly has no intention to incorporate Gaza and the West Bank into Israel with full citizenship for all inhabitants. That would mean too many non-Jews.
One Palestinian expressed his frustration with the situation in these words: “Either marry us or divorce us.” No, Netanyahu wants a state of permanent concubinage. Will Netanyahu’s policy bring peace and security or more October 7’s?
Our Captives in China
There are matters left over from the exchange of Meng Wanzhou in 2021 for Michael Kovrig and Michael Spavor. That is beside the claim by Spavor that he was entrapped by Kovrig, a matter with which we will not be dealing here.
Our concern here is what that settlement left out and what is left to do. Besides the two Michaels, there are at least five other Canadians whose fates are in the balance. As we shall see, there may be measures that could have been and still may be taken to resolve their situations.
Robert Schellenberg was sentenced to 15 years in prison in 2018 for attempting to smuggle illicit drugs to Australia. Following Meng’s arrest in Canada in 2018 on an American extradition request, he was retried and sentenced to death. Was 15 years lenient? Let me cite the case of one of my clients. I was a social worker whose client was caught peddling fentanyl. The judge asked the amica curiae for her advice as to a sentence. After reviewing precedents, she recommended six to ten. The judge gave him 12 years. 15 years was not light.
Then two other Canadians, Xu Weihong and Fan Wei, were convicted of drug offences and also sentenced to death. Another Canadian, Sun Qian, was convicted in 2020 for her activities in Falun Gong and given an eight year sentence.
Finally, we come to the case of Huseyin Celil, a Chinese-born Canadian Uyghur human rights defender. He and his family were visiting his in-laws in Uzbekistan when China requested and received his extradition. He has been in Chinese captivity for 17 years.
The first question is about the trade of Meng for the two Michaels. Was that the best deal Canada could have made? Meng is the chief financial officer of Huawei, a major Chinese international technology corporation. She and her father are close to the country’s political élite. The exchange of Meng for the two Michaels did not even result in a return to the status quo ante. That is to say, the least one might expect in exchange for Meng would include no death penalty and, arguably, release of Sun. Be that as it may, after this poor deal we are left with the problem of how to resolve the situation of the five remaining Canadians.
China is going to release Canadians or lift the death sentences only if there is a quid pro quo. Canada is not facing that reality. The failure to do so antedates this prime minister. When Stephen Harper was in charge, Lai Changxing was extradited to China, which wanted him for his role in a major smuggling ring. And Zeng Hanin was returned to China because of business fraud. There was no quid pro quo. The lacking quo? Celil.
Bringing matters up to more recent times, let us consider other possibilities, either missed or still open. Consider the case of Qing Quentin Huang. He was arrested on a charge of offering to share engineering secrets with China. After eight years, the case was tossed in 2021. The evidence was obtained by a wiretap on the Chinese embassy, and the case fell apart because his lawyer demanded disclosure around the wiretap, information that the government would not reveal. During those eight years, could the government not have tried to do a deal for an exchange?
Currently, there are multiple charges against Yueshang Wang, accused of economic espionage while he was working at Hydro-Québec. Is this not a possible trade?
Finally, there is the case of Cameron Ortiz. A civilian high up in the RCMP, he was recently convicted of being a mole for organized crime. While the actual charges in court did not include acting for China, it has been alleged that that was also the case. Would China be interested in him? Might he prefer China to a federal penitentiary? It is said that he speaks Mandarin. Might a deal be made?
Is the government doing all that it should to help these five Canadians?
Being anyone, or anything, you want to be
Throughout this whole January night, powerful northwesterly winds roared as waves of sea over the land. It stung the flesh of those night workers who had to face it, if only for the time it took them to reach their destinations. This is not about the relative proximity of cold dense air to milder air. This is not about science. Those of us warmly wrapped in comforters, in the shelter of our homes, could not escape the message brought to us by the howling winds:
“Oh, mere mortals,” it loudly proclaimed; “be humble and bow to the truth. There are forces in life over which you have no control.”
As I listened to those raging winds, my mind was swept back to another time and place. I was lying in another bed, clutching my Teddy Bear, as those same words echoed that timeless message. A hot stovepipe in the corner of that room kept Teddy and me warm. As the winds roared, the embers turned to ashes in the kitchen stove, the stovepipe turned lukewarm as I cuddled Teddy to keep him from the cold. I was but a child, you see, and Teddy Bear was a companion during night hours such as this one. Whenever I was cold, whenever I was upset or frightened, I spoke to Teddy who always listened to my words; who never scolded or judged me harshly.
As a child, I could become anyone, or anything, I wanted to be. On the morning after the storm, as I sat with my brother and sister around the kitchen table devouring a heaping bowl of porridge swimming in milk, my mind turned toward the day’s adventures that awaited me. Perhaps it was racing down the hill on a toboggan in Gauthier’s pasture where I could speed ‘as fast as any car.’ In the afternoon, I might don my Maple Leaf hockey sweater and run down the street to become an NHL hockey player along with my cousins, the Lacelles.
During another season, as the wild winds began to blow, I became a paratrooper by fashioning a parachute from an old bedsheet. There, I awaited a gust of wind to lift me upward into the sky. It never happened, of course, but that wind spread the sheet taking me swiftly down the garden path. A real paratrooper needed a lofty place. The woodshed served just that purpose. From that height, I leapt. A small layer of sawdust cushioned the landing...somewhat.
In those bygone years, bread and milk were delivered to the door. Sometimes, the bread man or milkman drove a horse-drawn sleigh. Two empty tin cans crushed beneath my runners metamorphosed me into a horse. I had a red and yellow wagon to pull. Down the street I’d clamour to make the deliveries. As I halted in front of a dwelling, the imaginary driver delivered the bread of milk. A horse’s task was to pull the wagon.
Many years before I was a horse, my older brother, Leo, influenced my behaviours. Our dear Aunt Barbara dressed us up in fine pastel-coloured clothing that she’d purchased in Ottawa. We scurried outdoors to play. A mud puddle remnant from a previous storm became an attraction. Leo suggested that I pretend to be a pig and wallow in the puddle. After wallowing around a bit, you can only imagine Aunt Barbara’s horrified exclamation: “What in the name of...?” and my timid response: “Leo told me to pretend that I was a pig!” At Leo’s behest, I had also bitten a pig’s tail.
On a warm summer afternoon, I might swing up onto a branch of the tall maple beside the house, imagining myself as Tarzan of the Apes. Over the rooftops, I peered, gradually transformed into an early explorer. Descending from that height, I was off to the woods to explore. Turning over logs and stones, I became a scientist. At that age, I was too young to know what an entomologist was.
The morning after the winds that inspired this writing, I went outside to push back a heavy snow-layer on the patio stones. From the nearby hillside, I heard the joyful shouts of children as they raced down the hillside on their sleds. ‘Faster than a car,’ I surmised, for as I leaned on my shovel, I was right there on a toboggan with them. What an exhilarating feeling it was to be a child again...if only for a few fleeting moments.
Only in Sweden? Pity
We use a sanitary product produced by a Swedish corporation. The company advertises a partial rebate program, which is operated by another company. The process to receive the rebate—they call it a “reward”---is both complicated and ofttimes illusory. Not infrequently, the consumer gets nothing. How to complain?
The Better Business Bureau informed us that their scope is essentially local. However, they suggested a contact with the consumer agency of the company’s country. Initially we thought it was Norway, but it proved to be Sweden. Both countries have such an agency.
The Swedish Consumer Agency can take complaints. The head of the agency is the ombudsman. It can even go to court on a consumer complaint. It has a wide range of other roles. Thus, it acts to ensure that companies comply with the law and that products and services are safe.
As well, the agency helps consumers plan their finances. Budget and debt advisors exist at the municipal level, with support from the agency. The agency becomes involved when Swedes have issues with goods and services purchased from European Union member countries, Norway, Iceland, or the United Kingdom.
While not all EU countries take action, as Sweden does, at the court level, it is common for them to engage in mediation or alternate dispute resolution, if the parties are willing.
When we contacted the Swedish Consumer agency about our problem, they replied that their services are for Swedes. They will also act for consumers in the EU, Norway, Iceland, and the United Kingdom. Not Canada. The Swedish Consumer Agency referred us to the Canadian agency. Unfortunately, there is none such. Perhaps there should be.
The Customer is always right?
On October 28, 2021, a spanking new grocery store held its inaugural near where I live. It was such an important event that the mayor of our fine city was there to cut the ribbon. Significantly, every customer who entered the premises of that hallowed building that day was accorded VIP status. Always searching for bargains, I was among the first to enter.
I write this, a few years later, as I speculate that you too have had a similar experience. In this day of escalating food prices, we consumers have to stand together. Some of you, more computer savvy than I, may have one of those smartphone apps where you can take advantage of the best prices by scanning online flyers. Every Thursday, I peruse these flyers that appear at the door in the daily paper. Appropriately, I prepare a list of the sale prices while planning shopping expeditions should I be driving by a particular store. Here is what occurred on one of those excursions.
On February 3, I arrived at that spanking new store where I was once welcomed as a VIP. I entered to select a floral arrangement to bring to family members celebrating their wedding anniversary. It’s a lovely florist corner that this day had colourful displays, including balloons for Valentine’s Day. A sign indicated that the person in charge was unavailable at the moment, but that any cashier would be happy to assist.
There were other items on my list which I decided to add to the cart, before returning to the floral section that was still unoccupied. Noting that all the cashiers were busy, I looked about for anyone who could assist me. There was no one. After some time exploring the beautiful arrangements, I selected one in a lovely sculpted vase, placed it on the counter, selected and signed a small card to go with it and waited, waited and waited. When I was about to leave, three ladies approached, one of whom asked if she could help. Indeed, that employee wrapped the gift, complete with curly ribbon, as I signed the accompanying card.
At that same store the following week, Harvest Spinach was listed for $2.99. That’s a real bargain. However, there was none on display. I searched for assistance only to be told that the order would be arriving within the next couple of hours. Fair enough, I’d be passing by in the next few days.
Two days later, the sale price, as well as the Harvest Spinach, was nowhere in sight. This I mentioned at Customer Service. The lady made a phone call, answered two other calls, then the one that answered my request.
“Just go to the door at the back of the produce department and someone will be there to help you,” she said.
After waiting several minutes, I noticed a fellow approaching. He mentioned that the spinach was now on display. There were six packages only. What these stores won’t do to avoid making available a loss leader. Heck, if they can coax you into the premises to purchase other items, why not make it a little inconvenient by delaying the display of the loss leader?
Just another consumer with no VIP status, I had to relieve my frustration, so I sat down and wrote this verse:
In reading the tea leaves this morning
I saw an island and three ships at sea
Weekly flyers, I laid on the table
Boiled water for one more cup of tea.
To peruse flyers I am accustomed
To seek best deals, I’m always inclined
Those ships must have been those of pirates
For there weren’t many bargains to find.
Three probiotic yogurt for ten dollars
Translates to one at three thirty-three
If months ago it was two for five dollars
Then the third one offered should be free.
Pennies were retired to heaven
Many a full moon ago
Yet those flyers still count the pennies
Eight and nine round upwards we know.
For a half-century the metric system
Was adopted as our measurement scale
Yet kilograms dwarfed pounds and ounces
Guess a minnow must look like a whale.
Carbon taxes do raise grocery prices
As does that war in Ukraine
Yet big box stores roll in high prices
While inflation our bank accounts drain.
Here’s wishing you a pleasant shopping experience. Should you become agitated, just grin and bear it...you’re on camera after all.
211 is Back in Gatineau
In 1986, San Diego established an information line, which became a division of the local United Way. Eleven years later, Atlanta followed suit. The movement then took off. United States municipalities (in at least one state, as well) teamed up with United Ways, using the 211 number. Canada came on board in 2002, when Toronto joined.
211 is a non-emergency information and referral service for callers seeking to know about services. How can I get a birth certificate? Is there a free service to help me complete my taxes? Where can I get help learning English or French—or Spanish, for that matter? Are there any organizations for families with children with autism, or who are deaf? And s on. In a complex society such as ours, information is a vital social service.
So we come to Quebec and Gatineau. During the COVD crisis, the federal government provided province-wide 211 coverage from December 2020 through 2021. After a gap, Gatineau joined on its own in August, 2023, partnering with Centraide Outaouais, our United Way. Gatineau will be putting out some $81,000 a year until 2026, with Centraide kicking in another $21,000. The actual calls are handled by 211 in Montreal.
This is an important public service, but as couple questions arise. First, the federal role. Starting and closing an information service is simply wasteful. It takes time and effort to start and maintain the database for a 211. More appropriate would have been providing the start-up with commitment by local governments to continue once the start-up money ended.
Then we might ask why only Gatineau is on board. What about the MRC des-Collines -de- l’Outaouais? Our efforts to get an answer to that question were ignored. People throughout the region need these services. Why are residents elsewhere in the MRC being neglected?
January Columns
Back to the Trucker Blocade
So it’s back to the trucker convoy. We thought that the government decision to invoke the Emergencies Act to put an end to the blockade was settled. After all, Judge Paul Rouleau, in the public inquiry into the invocation of the act, found that the federal government acted appropriately. However, Federal Court Justice Richard Mosley has found otherwise.
On January 23, Mosley issued his decision that the invocation was in violation of the Constitution because the blockade did not really constitute a threat to national security. In a heart-on-the-sleeve decision, he revealed that he had begun hearing the case with sympathy for the federal position, but the presentations by the Canadian Civil Liberties Association and the Canadian Constitutional Foundation forced him to revise his thinking. He found that less extreme measures could have been taken. That they were not taken was because of “a failure of leadership and determination,” apparently a commentary on the role of Ottawa’s then-Chief Peter Sloly and perhaps of others as well.
We have believed from the outset that there were measures that the police should have taken to interrupt the blockade. Let’s give some examples.
The press reported on one incident where a large gathering of trucker supporters was playing cat-and-mouse with the police. This was winter. Police could have used water to drench the crowd.
A barbecue and hot tub were set up on Parliament Hill. Why was a helicopter not sent to drop glue or skunk water on the entertainment?
Then there are the trucks themselves. After an appropriate warning, trucks could have been attacked, perhaps late at night to avoid confrontations. Glue, sewage, or skunk water could have been sprayed into the cabins, breaking a window if necessary. This tactic could begin modestly, as a demonstration, pour encourager les autres.
Essentially, police did not do much to inconvenience the truckers till the Emergencies Act was invoked.
In any case, Deputy Prime Minister Chrystia Freeland promises to appeal Mosley’s decision to the Supreme Court. Thus, the matter is not over yet. And Opposition Leader Pierre Poilievre put all the blame on Justin Trudeau, for dividing Canadians. Apparently this is in reference to the COVID crisis. One of the issues of concern to the truckers was COVID restrictions. During the blockade, Poilievre was down at the blockade to offer his support.
December Columns
Remembering Jennifer (Jenn) Bigelow (1968-2022) Part 1
It must be acknowledged that what is written here was initiated by Carolyn Maloney, who lives in Buckingham. Carolyn mentioned the story a year ago. When she speaks about society’s approach to addiction, Carolyn speaks from her heart and soul. She followed up on our previous conversation with an email on November 7th, the contents of which comprise what you are about to read. I want to express my gratitude to Carolyn for her sincerity and perseverance in following up on Jennifer Bigelow’s story. It should also be noted that when I requested a personal photo from Carolyn, she was hesitant about including it. It was with persuasion that she agreed to submit it. You now have a photograph to identify the one who deserves all the credit for today’s column.
Carolyn writes. . .
Jenn grew up in and around Buckingham and, as far back as her mother can remember, she always wanted to help others, especially women. Life threw many challenges at Jenn over the years. She succumbed to depression and at one point was living on the street. During the brighter years, while living in Vanier, Jenn saw what was happening around her, especially to women who ended up sleeping on the street. No one was more courageous or driven in her quest to help them, than Jenn, who often found a dozen plus sleeping in her living room when she woke up in the morning.
This led her to starting up the organization, “Purple Bridges”, whose aim was to fill a tangible gap in services, providing outreach to street-level sex workers. In the beginning, it was finding temporary places where the street people could feel safe and out of the cold – a bed and something to eat. Eventually, a van was purchased, as the volunteers continued to make and/or buy food, gift cards, financial donations, as well as warm winter coats, boots and other clothing.
Injecting hope into their lives, being there for them was definitely Jenn’s focus. She was in demand to talk at Ottawa’s universities, Algonquin College, as well as one in Edmonton for social science classes. In addition, she spoke at women’s rights rallies.
Upon Jenn’s death a year ago, a number of Celebration of Life gatherings were held, including at the Shepherds of Good Hope, and Willow’s, a drop-in and outreach program where welcome services and support are provided. Willow’s is a joint project of Families of Sisters in Spirit, Métis Nations of Ontario, and Indigenous Death Doula Collective. As Jenn worked closely with OAC (Outreach and Church) Ministries of Canada, a touching and heartfelt eulogy was given by Pastors Deborah and Layton Kerr, OAC Ministers, at the Buckingham Cemetery, noting Jenn’s generous contribution to the support groups at their church. As a society, we have to take responsibility for not pointing fingers. Jenn was a beautiful and accomplished daughter.
Christmas Concert
Carolyn Maloney is one of the Heart and Soul Singers who will present their Christmas Concert at 7:00 pm, at Our Lady of Victory Church in Buckingham on December 8.
Remembering Jennifer (Jenn) Bigelow (1968-2022) Part II
Every time I put pen to paper to expound on a chosen topic, I am well aware that there may be some who read it with greater insight than I have. In conversation with Carolyn Maloney, who initiated Jennifer Bigelow’s story, it rapidly became evident that this was one of those instances. It’s far better to give Carolyn the reins than to attempt to transpose her thoughts to you. Carolyn adeptly speaks from her heart to ours in relating the story.
In case you missed the front-page Post story by Tashi Farmilo, I encourage you to go online to read her December 1st article on the “Tortière'' project initiative that raised $12,000 to support the Association of Physically Disabled People of the Outaouais. I mention this because it somewhat parallels Carolyn’s writing about Jennifer. Both of these stories demonstrate the compassion of their respective communities. Whether the community is in the Outaouais, in Vanier, or elsewhere, caring for, and about, others has no boundaries.
I also want to draw your attention to Carolyn Maloney’s opening statement this week where she describes Jennifer Bigelow’s tenacity in approaching merchants to seek help for others in need. Be mindful as you read this that this happened during Covid times when these businesses were under intense pressure just to survive. Yet, their willingness to give to those in need demonstrates their social conscience.
Carolyn writes:
Jennifer was compassionate, fearless and tenacious in walking from business to business and store to store to solicit financial support for her dream of having a place for street people to rest and get a warm drink or meal.
As we celebrate the Holiday Season, what would Jennifer say as many of us are faced with family and friends struggling with life’s challenges? Last year, I heard an acquaintance say that the hardest thing he did was to refuse to open the door for his brother, who was out in the cold, telling him that he was welcome when he could come back sober. On a positive note: a young man saying that he didn’t know where he would be today if it weren’t for the support and love of his mother. We can have all the compassion in the world, but what do we do when it comes to our loved one who disrupts the whole family fun?
I personally found an understanding when I discovered Dr Gabor Maté’s YouTube interviews on trauma, depression and illness, and read one of his books. Dr Maté, a family physician for 20 years, followed his practice for 12 of those as a doctor in Vancouver’s East Hastings, which has the most concentrated drug use in the Western World. People are shocked when they see it.
How do we live with our addictions, whether it is shopping, watching television or any of the many substances? It is always the past showing up, whether trauma, abuse, neglect or some other factor. Recognition is important, i.e., throwing a childhood tantrum in the adult body. Let us use our relationships to grow: It can be hell, or a pathway to hell.
Don’t hate the addiction
hate the disease
Don’t hate the person
hate the behaviour
If it’s hard to watch it,
Imagine how hard
It is to live it.
November Columns
Purging the mind of clutter
As we grow older, we discover new insights. Sometimes these revelations are beyond comprehension. Eighty years plus had expired before I finally realized that I had carried truckloads of clutter in my head. This profound truth was revealed to me on a recent walk. By rough estimation, I had taken 16,000 similar walks before it occurred to me. Walking, you see, clears the mind. Since that last stroll, my mind is now completely empty. I can now affirm that simple thoughts, or impulses, trump scientific facts. I know this, since I am now free to think and share simple conclusions that have dubious merit. It is in light of thoughts such as these that I can now reflect upon my formative years with a senior's wisdom.
It is now clear in my mind why some of my early teachers occasionally referred to me as 'scatterbrain'. There have been a number of occasions during my lifetime that I will confess to having no knowledge about whether I was coming or going. There have been multiple occasions when I have come and gone simultaneously. At other times, I have marched off in several directions at the same time. When your mind has been purged of all redundant matter, you can state profound truths such as these.
When one's brain has become completely emptied, one can raise one's eyebrows to state profoundly to anyone who will heed your proffered wisdom: "I come before you, to stand behind you, dear brother or sister, to direct you to the pathway that will bring you successes such as your wildest dreams could only imagine. You will discover that, upon purging your mind of all inconsequential stuff, there is very little, if anything, to worry about."
As an exercise, may I suggest that today you go for a healthy stroll to purge your mind of all dark thoughts. Allow fresh air and sunlight to clear your mind, to shine down upon a clean slate.
In the cold month of January 2002, while my mind was full of clutter, I reflected upon how I might bring more peace and happiness into my life. The answer was simple. If you want to be happy, what can you do today that might fulfill your desire? Through making others feel better, you'll feel better yourself.
After a few days meditating on this, I put pen to paper to write the following poem.
Sharing Good Deeds
Every act, every word in time's swiftness
is sealed with the passing of years.
Each choice that is made in the future may add to our laughter and tears.
It is today that we make our tomorrows,
it is the good that we do will repay what we owe to the ones we have faulted by a wrong word, or deed, on the way.
How often we look in life's mirror to review all the places we've been.
We see faces of loved ones departed that we'll never be seeing again.
How beautiful then are our riches when we share them with someone in need.
For in life's bank account all the interest can only be earned with good deeds.
Remember this: Happiness is a perfume that you cannot spill on others without getting a few drops on yourself.
Remembrance Day
Today we are witnessing the horrors of war in other regions of the world. As we view tragedies unfolding, of innocent lives lost, of our brothers and sisters starving, maimed and wounded, let us never forget that there are those Canadians who lived and experienced these atrocities in other lands fighting for the freedom and peaceful lives that we enjoy today. Thousands sacrificed their lives, were wounded and scared physically and mentally. Let us never forget the debt that we owe our armed forces. If unable to attend a Remembrance Day service, let us bow our heads at 11:00 am on November 11th to remember and honour every one of them.
Plus que ça change, plus que c’est la même chose
From the Old Testament, the description of the Battle of Jericho reveals that the soldiers walked around the walls six times before Joshua sounded the trumpet and the walls came tumbling down. Now a trumpet, no matter the volume of its sound, would never bring down any wall. Rather this should be interpreted as the trumpet’s signal to attack and the soldiers to storm the barricades. I’m no biblical scholar, but it’s the only logical explanation that I assume occurred at the Battle of Jericho.
Throughout history, many walls have been erected to deter, or repel, the “enemy” from attacking. The “enemy” is, in reality, fellow human beings who have interpreted good and evil differently than others. Thus, for some, the kidnapping, raping and killing of others is somehow justified. Others, whether children or the elderly, are dehumanized in the process. Walls, not simply borders, must be erected to divide us from those who do not see it Our Way.
There’s the Great Wall of China, the Belfast Peace Wall (1969) to separate Catholics and Protestants, the former Berlin Wall, and the Israeli West Bank Barrier separating Israelis from Palestinians.
In the context of the present war in the Middle East, where mostly innocent Palestinians are suffering the consequences, as well as many Israelis, I am reminded of Lord Byron’s (1778-1824) poem The Destruction of Sennacherib. Lord Byron was more concerned with the victims of war than with the participating factions. Here are two verses of that poem:
The Assyrians came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
(...)
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
Victor Hugo, the renowned nineteenth century French novelist, published his novel, Les Misérables, in 1862. The central theme is of a man, Jean Valjean, who was imprisoned for many years for stealing a loaf of bread. Valjean, upon release from prison, became a successful industrialist, and under another name, became the mayor of a northern town. Yet, a police inspector, Javert, continues to pursue Valjean. A musical, Les Mis, is based on the novel’s story lines. It is from that dark musical that I draw upon this personal experience.
As most of you know, my musical history derives from traditional country music, which I continue to love. However, over the years I became exposed to other genres of music as well. Musical Theatre is one of these.
When I began taking vocal lessons through the Meredith Matthews Gets You Singing program, we were more than a dozen students. At one time, we held our lessons at Orpheus House. One of the first musicals to which we were introduced was Les Mis. Three of the main selections of Les Mis were part of that process. These were Master of the House, Do You Hear the People Sing? and Bring Him Home.
The first is a lighter moment in the musical theatre piece, of the unscrupulous landlord, Thénardier. Do You Hear the People Sing is a marching song where the students in the streets of 19th century France finally rally to confront the injustices of that time and place. They were led by Valjean. Bring Him Home is Valjean’s plea to God to save young Marius from perishing in the ensuing battle.
I loved that part of the musical journey, particularly having the opportunity to learn and sing the parts of Thénardier and Valjean.
Frequently, I share what I call one of my poems that are, in reality, verses. Here are a few verses of another one of those pertinent to this piece.
On lines put the words in their places
Words may shatter our point of view
They are marching to tell us a story
As a window that we can look through.
Read the script of the play we are seeing
Before lights dim and overture starts
Now the curtains are slowly opening
Revealing a world torn apart.
Buildings crumble in Israel and Gaza
Buildings crumbling, too, in Ukraine
Innocent lives lost in hellfire
As missiles down on others reign.
The theatre is now cold and empty
We, the patrons, now cozy and warm
As we draw up our blankets around us
Where missiles can do us no harm.
Municipality of Chelsea versus Jean-Paul Murray
Jean-Paul Murray has been successful in getting under the skin of Mayor Pierre Guénard and other members of Chelsea Council. His language—and we are talking scatological, not English or French—does it.
Back in June 2022, Chelsea Council adopted a bylaw prohibiting use of abusive language aimed at municipal politicians and employees. At that time, we thought the measure to be ultra vires, beyond Council’s authority. We still believe that.
We would not argue that Murray’s language is in good taste or that it adds anything to reasonable discourse. There are, however, limits to what can be said, even if the bylaw lacks force. Chelsea is seeking an injunction in Quebec Superior Court, ordering him to cease and desist. Will the court find some basis to impose such an injunction? It is questionable if good taste is subject to judicial imposition.
So what might be done? Murray called the mayor a fart-catcher, clearly a metaphor and clearly one without any meaningful referent. However, he also called him a fascist. That is a different kettle of fish.
While Canadian court cases do not come to mind, an American case does. A great deal of civil liberties court action in both Canada and the United States has involved Jehovah’s Witnesses. In one such case, the U.S. Supreme Court held that calling a sheriff “a damn fascist” was not protected speech. The same principle might apply to calling the mayor a fascist. Not clear that the same thing would apply to fart-catcher. Presumably, the fascist charge could result in a libel suit.
In another outburst, Murray connected Director General Sheena Ngalle Miano to voodoo. This charge against a black woman might be seen as racist and might be pursued as such.
Chelsea Council is also disturbed by Murray’s frequent requests for records. Why not simply charge a reasonable copying fee, say twenty-five cents a page? A down payment in advance, please.
October Columns
A Consumer's Nightmare
As I write these words, I am well aware that some of you, unlike this old codger, own a smartphone. A smartphone is a convenient way to scan weekly specials, to present the best competitive price at the checkout counter and to walk away with better savings than we who do not use one. Just as I prefer to read the morning newspaper while eating an orange and a banana, I like to peruse the flyers that add colour and volume to Thursday's newspaper. I usually grab a pen to check off the best deals before writing the items on a weekly shopping list.
Not too long ago, this was a pleasant experience; not so much anymore. Today, pennies are history, but I wonder why numerals such as one to nine are prominently displayed in today's flyers. To illustrate this, I am now referring to one of the flyers with 92 items displayed over six pages.
Of the 92 items, 10 are rounded to favour the buyer. Eighty-two of the items are rounded up to the nearest dollar. This is nickel and diming the customer to the benefit of the merchant in the majority of cases. The same is evident upon examining the other flyers, with one exception. A popular big box store that also sells significant merchandise other than grocery items has all displayed produce that is rounded off to the lower figure.
Profit margins are thin, we are told, so this becomes a legitimate way of adding profit to sales.
Another eyecatcher from these flyers are the larger numerals indicating the prices in pounds. On many of the flyers, you need a microscope to read the price in kilograms or grams. It was on April 1, 1975 that Canada adopted the metric system to replace the imperial one. You would hardly know it, glancing at those ads today. Ha! you might gasp. Is this an April Fools joke?
Before April 1, 1975, we pumped fuel into our vehicles by the gallon. If we were still using the imperial system, we'd be paying over six dollars for every gallon of gasoline. Now, I ask, would you rather see the advertised price of $1.60.9/litre or $6.08.9/gallon?
Yet there's more grist for the mill of today's rant. If grocery procedures must feature imperial measurement and service stations advertise in the metric system, must we ask ourselves in which country we are living?
We, the consumers, also have other irritants as we stretch our paycheques. Here are a few personal examples that made my teeth grind. A recipe that I was following called for a 16 oz. can of jellied cranberry sauce. There were only 14 oz. (381 ml) cans displayed on the shelf. My solution was to reduce the chili sauce to maintain the proper consistency.
At that same store, a day later, I needed three items. House brands of a dry-mouth oral rinse, of beef broth and a bottle of ketchup. The oral rinse was listed at $11.97/l. The brand-name litre was $26.97. There was no house-brand oral rinse on the shelf. Ditto the house-brand of beef broth, where only four boxes of chicken broth were displayed among multiple choices of a brand-name variety at over a dollar more than the house-brand price.
Now I imagine that most of us are accustomed to the Heinz Ketchup brand. There are, however, other brands as well. Personally, I don't like house-brand ketchups but I do like French's. As I arrived at the aisle, the shelves featuring French's Ketchup, which was cheaper than the others, were empty. Grit your teeth but smile, you're on camera.
Finally, one of those flyers informs us that we can earn 2500 points by purchasing two 213 g cans of Wild Sockeye Salmon. That's saving the equivalent of $2.50 when you buy two. One can was listed at $6.49. With the 2500 points you would be paying $10.00.
To redeem points under this system you have to spend at least $10.00. On this day the Omega 3 eggs, an advertised special, were absent from the display. I asked for a raincheck. I was told that they would check with the manager. "How many would you like?" he asked. "Just one," I replied.
After a five-minute wait at the checkout, he brought me a dozen Omega 3 eggs at $3.89.
Canadian Nature Museum Open House: Research & Collections
And… a goodbye
On October 14, the Gatineau Research Branch of the Canadian Nature Museum opens its doors to the public.
This is the one time of year when the public are invited inside this research museum.
Dr. Jean-Marc Gagnon, Chief Scientist and Curator of Invertebrates, says part of the appeal is that Gatineau’s Pink Road museum houses more than 14.6 million specimens and artifacts of plants, animals, fossils and minerals. It’s also Canada’s repository of frozen tissues of plants and animals in the recently opened Cryobank.
It’s intriguing to understand the level of protection required for the collection of everything from ancient dinosaur bones through to delicate plants. From humidity to heat, pests to fragrances, specimens are fragile, requiring special conservation and preservation technologies and strategies.
This annual one-day event let us peek into these scientists’ fascinating work.
Open Labs
At the popular Fossil Workshop, meet researchers who will demonstrate their fascinating work, including 3D scanning of new fossil discoveries, and how fossils are extracted from rock. At the X-Ray lab, learn how scientists identify new minerals. At the Conservation Lab, understand how specimens are preserved and conserved. At the Heavy Wet Lab see selections of fishes, reptiles and amphibians.
Open Collections
Collections of fossils, minerals, invertebrates, mammal skeletons in the Large Skeleton Room, Botany – Canada’s vast National Herbarium, the Library and Archives (oldest book dates from the 1580s), and the National Biodiversity Cryobank are areas to discover.
The Cryobank is the museum’s “deep freeze” which preserves DNA samples of plant and animal tissue for analysis. Opened in 2018, the Cryobank’s DNA samples are frozen at -170C, offering unique road maps of each tissue’s specific structure, crucial for biodiversity study and preservation.
October 6: Register promptly
On October 6 pre-register for free, timed tickets at: nature.ca/openhouse: https://nature.ca/en/visit-us/whats-on/listing/open-house/. Do this early on the 6th, because tickets go quickly. Although they’re available from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. the last reserved ticket slot is at 2:30 p.m.
Canadian Museum of Nature Research & Collections Open House, October 14, 1o:00 – 4:00, 1740 Pink Road, Gatineau
And… Au revoir -- for now
This is my last column, particularly appropriate because this open house reflects my raison d'être: the understanding, appreciation and conservation of nature plus the celebration of individuals who do such work.
In these 34 years of living at Spiritwood, I’ve discussed everything from bird migration to waste management. I’ve asked you to cherish our Pontiac as an indescribably precious, integral part of Earth’s dwindling biodiversity.
I’ve asked you to please be vigilant, reflective. We are witnessing climate change. Tornadoes. Hail. Drought. Forest fires. Reduced snow, increased ice storms, power outages. As a scientist mentioned to me yesterday, “It’s only the beginning.” Dire? Yes.
We must protect our collective future by considering our actions of today. Do we really choose to clearcut forests while speaking of species at risk? Should we install an incinerator in the Pontiac? Must we follow the capitalist mantra, “shop ’til you drop”?
How much is enough?
What do we actually do about First Nations unceded territories – particularly when considering nuclear waste landfills, mining, and our colonial-inspired concepts of property rights?
Choices.
As a visual artist and writer, I chose to join CPAWS-Ottawa Valley’s DRAW (Dumoine River Artists for Wilderness) to advocate for conservation: for hope. I choose activism: to create art, write columns, articles, books. All represent positive initiatives where, for example, CPAWS-OV has been successful in protecting areas of the Dumoine and Rivière Noire.
More personally, over 34 years, Eric and I have nurtured a wildlife sanctuary at Spiritwood. This September, we’re enabling bat research with NCC biologists at Spiritwood, because our land is adjacent to Gatineau Park. It’s exciting to further the understanding of Park biodiversity with NCC scientists.
How we choose to act makes a difference.
Thank-you very much for your support over these 34 years.
Katharine Fletcher is a freelance writer and visual artist. Contact her at fletcher.katharine@gmail.com
A momentary escape from the Middle East war
It is with feelings of sadness and some apprehension that I write these words today. You and I are experiencing vicariously the horrific horrors of hate unleashed in Israel and Palestine. I am referring to the slaughter of innocent people on both sides of the Israel-Palestine conflict, particularly the brutality that occurred at a music festival in Israel where 260 innocent people lost their lives. Many sought shelter in a building where the last sounds that they would hear was a roar of hatred that snuffed out their lives. There was no escape for them as bullets of hate ripped through their bodies.
Perhaps you and I, just listening to the reports on television with vivid images of the unfolding slaughter, sought momentary refuge by turning off the TV. Would you please join me now to pause and reflect upon these things? Would you join me for a walk to ease our thoughts; to contrast where we are in our time and space with what our brothers and sisters in Israel and Palestine are experiencing – where there is no escape?
As we stroll beneath the tall maple across the well-kept green carpeted lawn, we hear the steady thud of a ball bouncing on the pavement of a tennis court. Our feet then trod upon a soft yellow carpet from the row of honeysuckle trees to where we hear the gleeful shouts of children at play. We turn to walk uphill, where we pause beneath a gigantic poplar that has stood since long before we were born. Its rustling leaves are soothing to the soul.
Upon returning to our starting point, we decide to climb the sloping terrain that will take us to the sidewalk beyond the park. There at the curbside is a twisted heap of furniture. We’ve seen that on several occasions. Perhaps, we surmise, it’s because someone is renovating. As we stare at that discarded furniture, we’re reminded of the debris covering human beings in the Gaza Strip. A passer-by chuckles as he exclaims: “Another loser evicted!”
Our peaceful excursion is interrupted by those callous words. If it indeed was an eviction, why would anyone revel in another person’s misfortune? Where was the compassion? Where, the empathy? Have we, at some time, not heard similar comments directed at a poor person begging a handout while standing in the rain? They are our fellow human beings, our brothers and our sisters. Are we who are blessed with the comforts of life, with greater prosperity, any better or more worthy than they? Might we not surmise that if there is a heaven, it is we, not they, who will be evicted?
As we continue our walk, thoughts such as these plague our conscience. In Sigmund Freud’s writings, he describes the life instinct, Eros. Eros is the basic instinctual impulses of thirst and hunger that includes life-giving gifts of love, sympathy and empathy. The opposite, Thanatos, is the death instinct that includes negative feelings of rejection, of hate and aggression. It is the latter that brings us heavy thoughts that sap our energy from us, that erodes and destroys our peace, that brings us to an “us versus them” mentality. It is Thanatos that erupts in anger, in hatred and in wars.
As these atrocities occur in Israel and Palestine, I am also reminded of two Rabbis who are laid to rest in Jerusalem. Many years ago, in a class of Clinical Psychology, Rabbi Dr. Simon Eckstein, Gerontologist and Founder of the International Fellowship of Christians and Jews, was our professor.
A woman interrupted the class to wheel in an overhead projector. Rabbi Eckstein turned toward her with a smile. Greeting her warmly, he asked her how her day was going and thanked her for bringing the overhead projector. It was a genuine act of kindness that I shall always remember.
Logotherapy was also a part of that Psychology course. Rabbi Eckstein invited Rabbi Dr. Reuven Bulka to lecture on Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl’s “Man’s Search For Meaning”.
Both these eminent Rabbis made our world a better place in which to live. Thanks to Rabbi Bulka’s legacy of kindness, Canada now has a National Kindness Week. As much as they would mourn the hatred directed toward Israel by terrorists, I firmly believe that they would equally be saddened at the loss of innocent men, women and children in Palestine.
On being a caregiver
He: There’s a new cure for Alzheimer’s disease.
She: And what that might be?
He: I forget.
Well, while scientists have some hopeful results in developing medicines to slow the progression of the disease, there is no cure on the horizon. Alzheimer’s is one of the dementias.
Claire Webster is the founder of McGill’s Dementia Education Program and was the caregiver for her late mother who had Alzheimer’s. On September 20, Connexions Resource Centre gave access to her virtual presentation, prepared by the Community Health and Social Services Network. The conference focused on the role, responsibilities, and challenges of the caregiver.
Webster commented that the number one problem that the caregiver faces is the lack of information. First off, the caregiver needs to know the signs and symptoms. Does the person have dementia? Getting a diagnosis may not be a simple matter. Then, how to manage. Safety is a concern both for the caregiver and the person in care. There is also the matter of leisure activities for the person. The caregiver needs to know about resources available. The CLSC should be key, but it may not be able to supply the needed help.
The care plan needs a team—the caregiver, physician, and social worker at a minimum. And the care plan can be expensive.
People with dementia come with other problems, some of which may be related. For example, anxiety and depression often go along with dementia. These other problems need treatment.
Memory loss begins to have an impact on independent daily living. Help may be needed in managing medications. Other areas of impairment may include handling bills, shopping, cooking, housework, driving, dressing, and personal hygiene.
Dementia is progressive. At some point, when the person’s memory declines to a certain stage, he may lack insight into that fact and become paranoid. “Who is hiding my shoes?” In response, one does not correct him. Instead, “I don’t know about that, but let’s look for them together.”
A night light can help prevent falls and even perhaps confusion. To deal with the potential event of wandering, putting chimes on the door might give warning.
With a degree of loss, as vision becomes narrower, memory becomes more impaired, and depth perception and reaction rates deteriorate, it becomes time for the doctor to pull his driver’s license.
Eventually the time may come when placement is necessary. That decision entails choice of public, non-profit, and profit. Cost may be a major consideration. Placement or not, the caregiver will eventually find it necessary to take control of his finances. Other matters to consider are legal and estate arrangements and advance care planning.
The caregiver faces a mountain of problems. There may be conflicts with other family members over what needs to be done. Then there are personal issues. Feelings of anger and guilt may come into play, and the two may be mutually reinforcing. The caregiver will perhaps feel isolated because the all-encompassing nature of the role. Will he recognize it if he becomes overwhelmed?
Caregiving may involve various problem conditions—denial (I am perfectly capable), guilt (I am resentful and not doing a good job), anticipatory grief, isolation (I am all alone with my charge), and shame (rubbing off from my charge).
In the final analysis, said Webster, the basic goals of caring are to keep the person safe, clean, and happy.
September Columns
Beware that sneeze or cough
Our children have transitioned from Mother Nature’s vast learning environment to confined spaces where a more structured, formal program is offered. The nights are longer and cooler; the cricket sings. Soon those dark, wee-morning hours will flirt with frost. Land’s bounty is almost all harvested. On October 8th, we will be giving thanks for it. Soon, also, we’ll be singing the praises of those blazing autumn colours. Leaves will shower down upon us, leaving stark bare branches to scratch the sky. A white blanket will spread across the land. Winter enthusiasts will shout with joy. We’ll celebrate the Holiday Season. Snowbirds will migrate to warmer climates to golf and enjoy sandy beaches.
Having attempted to capture the mood of this seasonal time of the year, what you will now read are graphic descriptions of an approaching winter’s hazard. That is the spread of contagious germs through sneezing or coughing. The three examples that I have chosen concern sneezing, but you can substitute coughing if you desire, or, a combination of both.
Our noses are natural filtration systems that prevent many germs from entering our respiratory systems. Hence, it is wise to breathe in through the nose rather than through the mouth. As anyone will tell you, that’s not an easy task if you’re huffing and puffing to get to the top of a hill. In reality, we all sometimes have to breathe through both passages to inhale enough air to perform a task.
What follows are three experiences I had recently. Given our common experiences, I suspect that you, too, are familiar with incidents such as these.
Being alone. It had been an eventful day where I had circulated among many people. A relaxing warm bath in a tub sprinkled with a half cup of baking soda was the perfect way to end the day. Afterwards, I drew back the blankets, lay my head on a couple of pillows and … before I could reach for a facial tissue … aah-aah-Choo! Darn it all, I’d just bathed and towelled my body. That sneeze must have reached the ceiling. Tiny droplets descended on my exposed skin, on the bed sheets and probably on every surface of the room. It is what prompted me to write what you are reading now.
Thinking you are alone. At the mall, that same afternoon, with two bags of groceries in hand, I sought the public washroom. On the way down the corridor, that aah-Choo feeling came upon me. A polo shirt was the only protection from others. I sneezed into the shoulder portion of that shirt. No doubt about it, some of those tiny droplets became airborne. I used the adjacent hand sanitizer before opening the handle of that washroom door. After sneezing, I heard a “Bless You” from behind me. I hadn’t been the only person in that corridor.
Having a face-to-face encounter. While sitting on a bench, I recognized a couple of fellows passing by. It was at a bus stop where they had just exited. While exchanging gleeful remarks, one of those guys turned his back and let fly a series of whopping sneezes that must have sprayed the other side of the street. The other two of us repeated “Bless You” and “Gesundheit” after each of his sneezes.
I sneeze. You sneeze. They sneeze. We all sneeze. Allergies, dust, particulate matter from forest fires, and certain spices are but some of the things that we breathe in regularly. That CO2 that we breathe in contains more than carbon and oxygen. Our nose filters do their utmost to protect us but, alas, this existence isn’t perfect. Did you know, for instance, that an average sneeze, or cough, can spread around 100,000 contagious germs into the air at 100 mph? That information, I discovered on the Internet. Whoo-eee! That’s a lot of germs for our poor little nose filters to absorb.
That is precisely why we should carry an N-95 mask around our wrists at all times during this season. Indoors, it is preferable to wear that mask at all times. It is why we should have access to facial tissue in a pocket, wash our hands and use hand sanitizer. It might also be a good practice to wash our bedding and our clothes. Especially, after encountering a self-inflicted or other dispersed load of germs.
Covid-19 and influenza are also part of this season. And that is no coughing or sneezing matter. One “Aah-aah-Choo!” could be your last.
Of Mosquitos and Fire
When we were in graduate school, a classmate told of a time when he worked in a welfare office. One of his clients was a black woman from a small town in Mississippi. The town was segregated. Mosquitos were a serious problem in the town, so the local government instituted a spraying program—for the white section. However, the mosquitos did not know that they were to torment only black people. They multiplied in the black sector and moved back to harass white folks as well. An effective program would have been inclusive.
This story came to mind when our seniors’ residence recently had a compulsory fire safety program—what to do to prevent fire and what to do in case of fire. It was in French. Staff were prepared to answer questions in English, but the audiovisual presentation from the province was unilingual. When asked why there was not a separate session for those not comfortable in French, the presenters explained that trainers in fire safety had to be authorized by the province, and no one on staff met that requirement.
In case of fire, French-speakers may have had the necessary information. However, nous autres could mess things up for everyone. Our fire department should ensure that for multiple-unit dwelling facilities fire safety information is available in both languages.
By the way, the audiovisual presentation was largely inaudible. While we wear hearing aids, our wife, Québécoise de souche, could not understand much of the broadcast, and her hearing is normal.
August Columns
Reviewing our successes and failures
An aircraft could easily have landed that early morning when I steered my car into the mall’s empty parking lot. I was there to renew my driver’s licence at the behest of the Ministry of Transport. The previous day, 40 of us octogenarians had successfully completed the compulsory driving testing. We were then directed to go to the nearest transport facility to renew our driver’s licenses. It must be done in person, as a new photo and signature are required. AI facsimiles aren’t accepted.
My plan was simple; arrive early, have breakfast at the mall restaurant, read the morning paper and saunter over to the transport office to await its opening. Poor planning: the restaurant had yet to open. No problem, since I knew of another nearby diner that served breakfast.
As I drove into that lot, vacant but for one vehicle parked at the entrance of the diner, I wished that I had chosen to stay in bed an hour longer. However, my mindset changed as that vehicle became the catalyst for what you are about to read.
It was one of those long sleek sports cars, black in colour with those high wheel wells. As I strolled by that beauty, my eyes surveyed the tanned interior of the two-seater. In one last backward glance before entering the place, two oval-shaped diagonal headlight eyes stared back at me. This was a beauty, a beautiful beast. One could imagine the roar from its bowels as its accelerator was pressed. Growling off, it would undoubtedly gobble up a kilometre of asphalt within seconds. Its proud owner, who spoke with an Irish brogue, was conversing with another gentleman, whom I assumed may have been the diner’s owner. My ears caught snippets of his words: ‘Dublin, Paris, my granddaughter loves it…’ However, I became the lone patron now comfortably ensconced at a small table. I won’t describe the breakfast or the place. I will only mention that the coffee mug was half-size, the marmalade had a distinctly rubber texture and there wasn’t even a wee slice of orange on the two-sausage plate. There was but one paper to read called Druthers, which is the antithesis of anything that you will read in this paper.
Returning to the mall, I reflected on my experience at the diner where, upon departing, I had stood examining that beautiful beast more closely. “It’s a Lotus,” came a voice from its owner who was seated in the one patch of sunlight on the patio. I replied that it was a beauty that you might only see in the movies, which seemed to have delighted him greatly.
You may have already surmised, as I did, that that sleek black Lotus was to its owner symbolic of his acquired status. A compliment about his possession was a word of praise for him. Upon further reflection, however, I came to the realization that most of us, at one time or another, have revelled in some object that we possessed – an automobile, a boat, a swimming pool, jewellery or an item of clothing perhaps.
We sometimes measure our status through our acquisition of material things, symbols of our successes. The only way to prevent our heads from swelling too much is to remember all those who contributed to our achievements along the way. We ought also to recall our many missteps, our failures that equal what we achieved. It is what keeps our heads from swelling too much.
In life’s book, our many successes
Are emblazoned in chapters of gold
Though our failures may well those outnumber
Seldom are these stories told.
Procrastination that led to anxiety
As that high school exam drew near
Too late now to change study habits
Come September, we would repeat that year.
Partying ‘til the wee morning hours
Eyes closed at the break of day
With cobwebs in our head, we stayed in our bed
We failed in our duties that way.
Yes, if we make an honest appraisal
As the years pass us by in review
Though we’re flattered by our successes
Our failures must be mentioned too.
So many people – so little interaction
Seventy-two years ago, I was that 10-year-old lad hunched over on the back porch steps, elbows on knees, head weighed down by ‘poor me’ thoughts, resting on the palms of my hands. The anticipation of two whole months of freedom and adventure of that last school day in June had morphed into mid-August doldrums. In that woeful state, I rose, opened the screen door and blurted out words such as these to my mother who was busily preparing the evening meal: “Mom, I’m bored; there’s nothing to do around here.”
To which mother might have exasperatedly replied: “Why don’t you weed one of the garden beds; it’ll surprise your father when he gets home from work.”
Weeding the garden wasn’t exactly the type of activity I craved. Resuming my position on the porch steps, my eyes, which originally stared into blank space, now focussed on the bed of carrots. There I was on my hands and knees weeding between the rows. Viewing the results of my endeavour was sufficient incentive to weed the whole carrot bed. Upon completing the task, I stood to admire the difference I had made. Inside, I felt good, proud of the work that I had done. If father was surprised, it would have been icing on the cake. The work itself was the reward.
During my lifetime, I have spent considerable time killing time, or wasting it. Today, at 82, there are some regrets about that. Time, you see, catches up with us all. I have since discovered that time is elusive; you can never catch and kill it. Time for me now is lurking just around the corner, waiting to kill me. Don’t we all know that in the Battle of Time, depending on one’s conviction, it is either off to Gloryland or the grave, or perhaps, the spirit is off to Gloryland and the carcass to the grave.
Today, my wife Joan had a hair appointment. Call us partners if you will, but don’t refer to either of us as ‘the better half.’ What better way to use the two hours productively than take a six-minute walk to the Great Canadian Superstore to search for bargains? Upon entering, I selected a sweet kale salad, as this was the lunch hour. As I munched on that salad in the upper concourse, I marvelled at the colourful displays of fruit and vegetables below that stretched to the self-checkout and about a dozen other service counters. Beyond that was a display of clothing that would have filled any Main Street store in Buckingham when I was growing up.
It occurred to me that perhaps on this very day, 72 years ago, my mother might have handed me a dollar bill to go to the Demers’ store down the street to fetch a bag of flour. That distance spanned three properties, which approximated the distance from where I now sat to the opposite side of the Superstore.
Madame Demers might have greeted me: "Ton père et ta mère vont bien?" she would intone as she scooped a pound of flour into a double brown paper bag. If Madame Demers were alive and sitting beside me now, I am certain that she would have been in awe at the size of this store and the magnitude of its produce. The prices would have bewildered her, but most of all, she would have felt a sadness that nobody smiled or spoke to one another while waiting in the line-ups.
Oh, how that friendly ‘p’tit rendezvous’ has been weeded out of today’s robotic-like society. C’est triste ça.
July Columns
Our Consolidation Years
After a lengthy hiatus due to the pandemic, events have resumed at Our Lady of Light Cultural Centre (OLLCC) at Mulgrave/Derry located northeast of Buckingham. The first event, on June 25, featuring opera singer Norman E. Brown with piano accompanist Frédéric Lacroix, had a relatively small audience, perhaps due to intense smoke that filled the air that day. Many events were cancelled due to the concentration of air pollutants.
There is always a welcoming experience for everyone in a delightful rural paradise setting at OLLCC. Here are the events to be presented throughout the summer, as described by Brenda Miller and Michael Kane.Sunday, July 16 (2:00 pm – 3:00 pm)
Carey’s RnR Show
Brothers Nic and Joey Carey used to fight each other a lot, both on stage and off. But since they found music, and especially Rock‘n’Roll music, they seemed to find a common cause to fight for.
Their music is not limited to Blues, Swing or pure Rock ‘n’ Roll. It’s the 40s, 50s and 60s revisited in the style of Jerry Lee Lewis, Johnny Cash, Fats Domino, without forgetting the King and all the other icons of the spirit of freedom that prevailed at that time.
Come out and join us in this trip down memory lane.
Admission is $10.00 for adults, $5.00 for students and free for children aged 12 and under. Tickets are available at the door.
Le dimanche 16 juillet (14h00 - 15h00)
Spectacle RnR de Carey
Les frères Nic et Joey Carey se battaient beaucoup sur scène et en dehors. Mais depuis qu’ils ont découvert la musique, et surtout la musique Rock‘n’Roll, ils semblent avoir trouvé une cause commune pour laquelle se battre.
Leur musique ne se limite pas simplement au Blues, au Swing ou au Rock‘n’Roll…On revisite les années 40, 50 et 60 avec entre autre Jerry Lee Lewis, Johnny Cash, Fats Domino, sans oublier le King et toutes les autres idoles qui prévalaient un esprit de liberté à cette époque.
Venez nous rejoindre dans ce voyage dans le passé.
L’entrée est de 10,00 $ pour les adultes, de 5,00 $ pour les étudiants et gratuite pour les enfants de 12 ans et moins. Les billets sont disponibles à la porte.
Sunday, August 6 (2:00 pm – 3:00 pm)
Concert with Ambiance
Looking for a vivifying and uplifting musical experience? Come sing and dance with AMBIANCE! This wind quintet offers old-timey music, French and English ditties, ballroom airs and other nostalgic and widely known pieces.
Hélène Sansfaçon (alto saxophone), Marie-Josée Rondeau (clarinet), Denis Manseau (trombone), Pierre Lachance (bass clarinet) and Louise Lavigne (tenor sax, and clarinet) will be delighted to make music with you. We have lyric booklets prepared for this fantastic event.
Saturday, August 19 – rain date Sunday, August 20 (9:00 am – 3:00 pm)
Art and Yard Sale
We invite all artists and members of our community to bring and set up their table for this event. Cash donations will be accepted by the OLLCC. Refreshments and food will be available.
Saturday, September 9 (11:00 am – 3:00 pm)
Harvest Feast
Everyone in the community is welcomed to come and showcase their harvested fruits and vegetables, canned preserves and other home-made goodies at this event. You may be surprised to see how many people are truly interested in buying what you have to offer at your table. Again, cash donations will be accepted by the OLLCC. A lunch will be served (sausages and potato salad) from 11:30 am to 1:00 pm.
June Columns
Our Consolidation Years
Our golden years might be better described as our consolidation years. Those of us who have survived to greet them, whose wills were long-since written, and whose children and their children are now at their adult stage of life, might attest to the above observation. It is during our later years that we become most keenly engrossed in compiling our ancestral trees. It is now that we tell and retell the stories of our youthful episodes. These are the years when we remember our loved ones who have long-since departed. Join me today, if you will, to a time on my journey of seventy years ago to which many of you might easily relate.
Around this time of year back then, I was eagerly anticipating the end of the school year. Soon I’d be preparing to go to Scout camp where, at Randall Teske’s farm at the Blanche, our 2nd Buckingham Boy Scout Troop would set up for a couple of weeks of pioneering.
To the right of the little wooden bridge that spanned the river was a sandy area where we would build, cabin-style, our campfire. Beneath the fire, buried in the sand, was the huge cast-iron pot of beans that would be our supper the following day.
Around that bonfire our stories were told, songs were sung and skits performed. At the closing of the evening, as the glowing embers matched the colours of our faces, our Scoutmaster, Bill Lawliss, would lead us in these words:
By the blazing campfire’s light
We have met in comradeship tonight
Round about the whispering trees
Guard our golden memories
And so before we close our eyes in sleep
Let us pledge each other that we’ll keep
Scouting friendships strong and deep
‘til we meet again
Then with drooping eyelids, we would turn on our flashlights and stroll down the darkened roadway to our patrol tents and a good night’s restful sleep. Now I’m sure that most of you have at one time or more sat around a campfire at night. Simply change the words ‘Scouting friendships,’ to ‘our friendships’ and you will grasp the conveyed mood.
You and I both know that a time would come when family and friends would never be met again. As the years rolled by, we went our separate ways: each of us pursuing our own occupation(s); each of us becoming involved in our own activities; many of us raising families of our own. We are now well aware that many, if not most of our loved ones, have walked that final journey which we also are destined to follow.
As we reflect on the early and middle years of our lives, we fondly remember and bring back the glowing faces of those who guided us along the way. There are those occasions, such as reunions, weddings and celebrations of life, when we gather in harmony to tell our own stories. It is at these times that we meet others who shared our early life experiences with us. As we become older, there are fewer of these friends who remain to share the stories. As we bring it all together during our consolidation years, some of us keep diaries, some of us write our memoirs, while most of us just orally relate our stories.
What we all cherish are the memories of family and friends who may have left us. We treasure our own families and friends who sustain us today. We may not be gathered around a glowing campfire, yet the warm smiles and greetings of those who surround us cheer us on.
Today, I would like to leave you with some words of an old country song: ‘A Satisfied Mind’ by Porter Wagoner who started Dolly Parton’s illustrious career.
“…Money can’t buy back
Your youth when you’re old
Or a friend when you’re lonely
Or a love that’s grown cold
The wealthiest person is a pauper at times
Compared to the man with a satisfied mind.”
May Columns
A Perilous Expedition of an Early Life
The late Frank Ryan, founder of radio station CFRA that bears his initials, was the owner of Kilrean Farm, where Algonquin College now stands. He once signed off his noon hour program, “Farmer’s Notebook,” with these words: “A farmer is one whose feet are planted solidly on the good green earth and his head is right up there in the stars.”
Did you also know that Publisher Emeritus of the West Quebec Post, Fred Ryan, whose thought-provoking editorials always challenge us to probe more deeply our own convictions, was at one time a sheep farmer?
Murray McLauchlan’s “Farmer’s Song” lyrics contain these words:
“There’s no farmer’s songs on the car radio
Just cowboys, truck drivers and pain
Well this is my way to say thanks for the meal
And I hope there’s no shortage of rain.”
The late Stan Rogers, in his song “The Field Behind the Plow,” wrote these words:
“Poor old Kuzyk down the road
The heartache, hail and hoppers
Got him down
He gave it up and went to town.
And Emmett Pierce the other day
Took a heart attack and died at forty-two
You could see it coming on
‘Cuz he worked as hard as you.”
I mention these things because we’ve survived another winter and the planting has begun in earnest. Perhaps you, like I, are preparing our own little plots or arranging our own groupings of potted plants. Meanwhile, the real farmers are tilling the soil of hectares of land. They’re the ones that you’ll observe along the highways, out in the fields behind their tractor wheels, hard at it, as you’re driving to your rural vacation. They are the ones that we often take for granted; the ones who produce the food that’s on our tables. The ones to whom we, like Murray McLauchlan, should say: “Thanks for the meal.”
About Stan Rogers’ “Field Behind the Plow,” who am I to criticize this fluent poet-songwriter when he describes “Poor old Kuzyk” and “Emmett Pierce.” Farming, you see, isn’t an easy task. There are long hours of labour, often in hot weather. There’s work to be done seven days a week. Anyone who farms knows this but will attest to the love of the land, the freedom to be your own boss and the satisfaction of bringing in the harvest.
They will also tell you a couple of other things. There are, most certainly, “heartaches, hail and hoppers” to contend with. There are periods of drought where rain is prayed for to save a withering crop. There may also be too much rain preventing them from getting their crops into the ground. They will tell you that, yes, they are at the mercy of mother nature at critical times.
That part about Kuzyk moving into town may ring true with some. About Emmett Pierce, who died from a heart attack from hard work? Hard work is not what kills you. A poor diet, little exercise, and late hours partying will certainly factor into taking you out at an early age. Don’t we all know that? Down goes the bacon and poutine; out comes the chips and beer; on goes the sports channel. Sports, you see, are good for you…if you participate.
Here is one of my poems that I would like to plant in your mind.
March wind’s a lion that is biting the flesh
Of all who dare show their face
But when door of March closes, the lion reposes
As a gentle lamb leaps into its place.
Furrows, yet frozen, await the thawing
That comes with warm sunshine and rain
And a bounty of life emerges from seedlings
That September’s promise brings us again.
Will corn stalks stand tall in rows as do soldiers
Or be mowed down by storms lashing land?
Will sweet corn be our pleasure with summer days measured?
For it’s Mother Nature, not we, in command.
Dandelion memories of bygone years
In gratefulness for Canada’s role in liberating their country from Nazi occupation during the war, the people of Holland annually gift us with hundreds of thousands of tulips. Every spring folk travel from near and far to view the colourful display in the Nation’s Capital. Whether their journey is by land or air, these tourists are also exposed to another floral gift that was brought to eastern North America in the 16th century. It is the gift that keeps on giving.
These early settlers brought with them the seeds of dandelion to plant in their gardens for nourishment and medicinal purposes. Dandelion greens are high in nutritional value; the flowers are also edible and can be boiled to make tea. They are one of the natural plants that pharmaceutical giants process and bottle to place on drugstore shelves throughout the world. We happily pay for them. Dandelions, like milk thistle, are good for the liver.
Today, as I write these words, a smile spreads across my face as a yellow carpet spreads before my window. It is the fond recollection of seventy-six years ago, when two young classmates picked fistfuls of dandelions from the churchyard to bring to their teacher. Paul Fortier and I were the boys; Alma Lavell was our first-grade teacher. Miss Lavell smiled and graciously accepted them as she placed the beautiful bundles in a glass vessel upon her desk. At dismissal she could not know that her two little students would choose to go behind the school to examine Brother Hermidas’ plane on display there. We were hidden from view as those dandelions showered down from the top floor window.
The word dandelion is an English corruption of the French word dent-de-lion or lion’s tooth, so named for their shape. The French also refer to these flowers as pissenlit. The assonance of that descriptor implies what many of us would like to shower upon them.
Yet another smile spreads over my face at a later time in my life when we were raising our family. I had unearthed a red-covered manual from a pile of used books on display. That little red book from England contained hundreds of recipes for making home made wines, of which dandelion was one. Now you see it clearly stated that you needed two quarts of the petals plucked from the calyx to make one gallon of wine. My smallest wine-making jar was a three-gallon size. Further, how much better the final product would be, I thought, if the flowers were picked from a countryside meadow. To Poltimore we drove where that pristine meadow of golden splendour was on full display. Our three daughters gathered the flowers; the heap of them grew before Joan and me, who were kept busy plucking the flowers. We left with a bagful of them.
I smile today, although I shouldn’t I suppose, at the memory of boiling the mixture of dandelions, sugar, grapefruit and orange zest and juice, and golden raisins in a huge pot on the stove. You may want to try this yourself today after reading this but let me assure you of two important things that will not make you smile. After the boiling, which leaves a putrid odour, the concoction has to rest for half a day before being strained into your glass jar. It’s springtime and we all love to keep our windows open for the fresh air. If you’re making dandelion wine don’t do that; your neighbours might surmise that you’ve broken a sewar pipe and dial the city maintenance crew.
The final product, however, is a pleasant tasting dry wine that will amaze some folk. You’ll only be able to taste it come Christmas, but the satisfaction from your labours will be worth the wait. A cautionary word here: one glass is fine, two starts the scenery in motion, three glasses and your surroundings become waves and, more than that, you’ll be walking as a fish swims in water…if you can walk at all.
Paul Fortier, Miss Lavell, the large college of St. Michael where we started our formal school journey are all gone now. The parking lot of St. Grégoire’s Church where we picked the dandelions is now paved over. That field in Poltimore may well be paved over today as well. Soon, also, I will be history and there will be no one left to relate the above stories.
April Columns
Wolves! Shapeshifters in a Changing World
What are your thoughts when you think of wolves?
Pest and predator of your lambs and calves? Spiritual guides? Symbols of resilience and community?
Perhaps an intricate tapestry of these and other reactions.
Your answer can be any of these and of course, much more. And if you raise livestock, you may have the first response: that of a shepherd guarding their flock, where survival of your own animals takes precedence.
Nevertheless, wolves have fascinated us for thousands of years.
That’s why Ottawa’s Canadian Museum of Nature is currently presenting Wolves! Shapeshifters in a Changing World, until 18 March, 2024. (https://bit.ly/3ThaqeW)
Elusive beings
As we enter the exhibition, we hear the howls of wolves… or, is that my imagination at work?
And, that’s the thing, while experiencing this show, we’re welcomed into the wolfian world of shapeshifting, of fascinating science – and remarkable experiences revealed by First Nations accounts and artwork.
Wolves are elusive. Sometimes they are fleetingly glimpsed by us, where hairs on the back of our neck prickle to their howls and shadowy presence.
Patience rewarded
Or, if we are patient, sometimes nature reveals itself. Ottawa photographer Michelle Valberg is a Fellow of the Royal Canadian Geographical Society, and is Canadian Geographic’s photographer-in-residence. She spent months researching wolves of Canada’s West Coast, sometimes sitting in a blind for days, hoping for a glimpse of wolves.
Patience was rewarded: Valberg’s photos of wolves transfix us. My reactions: I perceive deep intelligence and assessment as I gaze into the eyes of her wolf subjects. And the teeth! Certainly to be both admired and respected.
In fact, respect and admiration are my reactions not only to her amazing photographs, but also to the mammals themselves.
Fast facts
Museum signage explains that wolves evolved from weasel-like carnivores which lived approximately 66 million years ago.
Grey wolves entered North America 1 million to 700,000 years ago, crossing the Beringia land mass which connected Russia’s Lena River to Canada’s Mackenzie River. Now, wolves are the most widely distributed of the worlds’ land mammals.
Wolves remain keystone species, defined as being “one whose impact outweighs its abundance. In the case of wolves, their presence is felt throughout an environment. Wolf predation reduces populations of large plant-eating animals. This sets off a chain reaction of effects on countless other organisms.” (Museum signage)
In the USA’s Yellowstone National Park, wolves were eradicated in the early 1900s. The consequence? Elk populations boomed, where overgrazing decimated wild flora, affecting the biodiversity of the parkland. Between 1995 and 1997, forty-one wolves were reintroduced to Yellowstone, stabilizing the elk populations. Chris Wilmers, wildlife ecologist at the University of California, Santa Cruz, noted, “Elk aren’t starving to death anymore.” (https://on.natgeo.com/3LjpE17)
In ideal conditions, wolves can smell their prey at a distance of 2.4 km.
Wolves and coyotes do interbreed, a fact which many people have doubted. “Wolves and coyotes share the same ancestry and can interbreed. Gaining wolf DNA has caused northeastern coyotes to develop bigger bodies, increasing their ability to feed on larger prey such as white-tailed deer.” (Museum fact sheet)
Shapeshifters
The title of the exhibition echoes wolves’ tenacious ability to adapt to that one unavoidable constant in all Earth’s creatures’ lives: change.
Anthropomorphic change – change that human beings have wrought on Earth -- is such a reality that our present Era is named the Anthropocene. The Yellowstone example dramatically demonstrates how humans’ fear of wolves caused the government to put a bounty on their heads such that they were shot. Then? Quelle surprise! We didn’t know what we were doing, of course, so we were compelled to reintroduce wolves into their natural environment when we realized what damage we’d wrought.
We don’t appear to be the brightest sparks in the universe.
Fortunately, wolves adapt. To us.
Will they adapt to the vagaries of climate change? Will we? My bet is the wolves will...
Katharine Fletcher loves wolves and exploring her natural world. To discover her visual art, which includes wolves and other wildlife, visit her at: facebook.com/KatharineFletcherArtist/
Joël Fafard, Canadian Blues/Folk artist coming to West Quebec
“You should write a story about Joël Fafard,” was the suggestion of my daughters Christine and Anne Marie. Although I had heard Fafard’s music playing at their place – Anne’s husband, David Haskins, an accomplished guitarist was listening to the music – I was too busy conversing to listen.
How, then, does one write about a professional Canadian musician who writes, plays and sings a type of music to which he is unaccustomed?
How? First, open up your mind. Secondly, open up the internet and go to the subject’s website. That, essentially, was my introduction. What I learned was ear-pleasing, pleasant and informative. After reading this piece, I urge you to do likewise.
Fafard, who has released several albums featuring original and traditional folk-blues instrumentals and songs, is a Saskatchewan native who now lives on the Sunshine Coast in B.C.
Although some songs were recorded indoors with other musicians, the majority of the recordings blend with nature’s great studio – a woodshed, with the forest background, an outdoor verandah where clothing hangs drying, candles warmly beaming around him.
As Fafard sings, one is immediately captivated by the lyrics, his Juno-Award nominated guitar stylings, and a simple life surrounded by nature’s paradise.
In “Borrowed – New and Blue,” Fafard is seated in lush foliage along the banks of a flowing river. As the slide bar presses down on the strings, the listener is transported to another world.
How does a novice write about a blues/folk artist? This novice emailed him at his home in British Columbia, asking simple questions about details of his music and where it has taken him. Here is one of his replies to my queries.
“I am originally from Saskatchewan but live in Robert’s Creek, BC now. Music has taken me across Canada, as well as Nevada, Oregon, Washington state, South Africa, New Zealand, Austria, Switzerland, Poland, Germany and the Netherlands. The tour that this show is part of has stops in Ontario, Quebec, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, France, Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany and Manitoba. I love music and I love travelling – the fit is good for me.”
The Quebec location for Joël Fafard’s upcoming tour concert is at the Chelsea Motel on April 22nd. That location, familiar to most of us in this region, was formerly known as the Tulip Valley Restaurant. The show begins at 9 pm. The price of admission is $27.96. Tickets are at https://allevents.in/chelsea/motel-chelsea-presents-an-evening-with-joel-fafard/10000590088981027?ref=eventlist-cat.
From his bio are these words: “Award-winning guitarist Joël Fafard performs Southern roots and blues classics with the soul of a purist and the showmanship of a seasoned entertainer. He sings with the sexy, sandpapered-sounding vocal style of this new generation of bluesmen.”
Also of interest is that his father, Joe Fafard, was one of Canada’s leading professional visual artists who had exhibited a wide variety of work in galleries and museums across Canada, the United States, Great Britain, France and Japan.
You can view an online CBC documentary of father and son where the arts of sculpture and music are blended.
Also note that the photograph of Joël Fafard included here is by Randy MacNeil, a freelance film photographer who for over 30 years has been photographing many great musicians. You are welcome to visit his website to view some of his music photography, spanning many genres of music. As he states on his website: “We are always adding content, so please visit often.”
Randy MacNeil lives in the West Quebec region. Joël Fafard’s photographs included here is with his permission and I thank him for that.
A Perilous Expedition of an Early Life
You’ve probably heard some of these phrases: burning the candle at both ends; sowing wild oats; burning the midnight oil; living the life of Riley; being wild and reckless. You may also have observed that aphorisms, such as these, date to a time before electric lights hung from the ceilings of our homes. There is an eternal wisdom to expressions like these that still ring true today.
Those of my vintage, of the male species, can attest to each one of the above. We lived them, we were part of that scene and we, most certainly, can relate tales of our own lives that will attest to them. Some of our youthful shenanigans might raise the hair on your head. However, most of us prefer to remain silent about our early behaviours since they now might raise the hair on our own heads.
Some of us readily relate foolhardy escapades of our young lives. We may be too old to ‘cut the mustard’ today, yet, by gosh, we are now able to disassociate from our former reckless selves. Today, I am doing that, in print no less. Kindly understand and forgive me for doing that.
In the second year at the Ottawa Teacher’s College on Elgin Street, the first all-male class of prospective teachers was formed. Without females, including nuns in our class, the whole demeanour changed. One might say that the rough edges were sometimes on full display.
We were encouraged to take advantage of exploring the wider community that surrounded us that included museums, art galleries, and the Parliament Buildings. Most of us did just that. However, to solidify the knowledge and culture that we had absorbed, we discovered the pub at the Lord Elgin Hotel up the street was the best place to share it. It is there that we enlightened ourselves about events of the world, gained great insights, solved Canada’s political problems and grew in knowledge and wisdom. Unfortunately, little of our newfound insights were recalled the following morning. That was a pity but we were still able to retell most of the jokes that we shared.
On one of my exploratory excursions, I found myself wandering down a pathway along the west side of the Parliament Buildings. It was after sitting in the public gallery watching the political debates between the likes of then Prime Minister Lester Pearson, the Conservative Leader of the Opposition John Diefenbaker, CCF Leader Tommy Douglas and Réal Caouette of the Social Credit Party. There had been much rhetoric about ‘this great country of ours, about our early pioneers and about the vastness of this great land.’
Perhaps, that was the reason why, after leaving the gallery, I found myself exploring a part of Canada surrounding the Parliament Buildings. The pathway led downwards to where it became more precipitous. Suddenly, as a mountain goat would, my footsteps took me across a narrow pathway along the cliff behind the Parliament Buildings. Looking up was a vertical wall of shale, glancing downwards revealed the darkened waters of the Ottawa River. I looked downwards but once, as the dizziness might have caused me to lose my balance.
To maintain a semblance of composure, I imagined myself in the footsteps of one of our native people or, of one of Samuel Champlain’s explorers. Always with one hand touching the wall of rock, I continued towards the Interprovincial Bridge (the Alexandra Bridge) emerging at the east end. So elated to have survived the expedition, I then walked briskly down Mackenzie King Drive, passed the Château Laurier and happily back to the Teacher’s College on Elgin Street.
Given my earlier escapades, it’s a wonder I even made it to Teacher’s College. On my first and last time driving a motorcycle, without a helmet, I rounded a curve, jumped the sidewalk and went smack dab through the middle of a picket fence. No harm done to my brains; they were out to lunch that eventful day. On our honeymoon, behind the wheel of a Volkswagen Beetle, I became confused and drove up an exit ramp on to the New Jersey Turnpike. Must have surmised that “Turnpike” was synonymous with “U-turn,” which I promptly managed to manoeuvre thereby averting almost certain death.
March Columns
Buy Clean: Embodied energy matters!
There’s so much to think about as consumers, assuming we want to encourage a green, sustainable environment here in the Pontiac, the Outaouais — and world.
Embodied energy (EE)
Science Direct explains that Embodied Energy is the amount of energy to produce a material, where the “material” is anything we can think of: food, clothing, shelter, recreational equipment: you name it, everything we use from cutlery to pets’ supplies has been made from something. This processing is where EE is derived. Science Direct’s website notes:
“Embodied energy, or ‘embedded energy,’ is a concept that includes the energy required to extract raw materials from nature, plus the energy utilized in the manufacturing activities. Inevitably, all products and goods have inherent embodied energy. The closer a material is to its natural state at the time of use, the lower is its embodied energy.” (https://bit.ly/3IYj12u)
This website, incidentally, shows a scientific explanation of the calculation used to quantify the EE in a product/material. The formula assumes that “the origin of EE was associated with fossil fuels.”
When we realize that everything we purchase requires EE, and when we factor in the use and amount of fossil fuels needed to extract, create, deliver said product to market, promote/sell/ship it, and then dispose/reuse/recycle it, we can understand the relevance of EE (whether it’s in the context of a cradle-to-grave, circular economy – or not).
EE has “repurposing legs”
Authors Monahan and Powell explain that EE includes, “the total primary energy required for extraction of resources, transportation, manufacture, assembly, disassembly, and end-of-life disposal of a product.” (https://bit.ly/3IYj12u)
Although we may prefer to ignore it, “end-of-life disposal” possesses intrinsic energy expenditures, too. Mattresses are not only manufactured and delivered to our homes, they’re collected and “vanish” from our lives. Ditto with appliances and every other product we own. Everything has a lifetime – not simply us human beings. So landfills become wastelands of unwanted or broken materials.
No-one wants to live near a landfill.
Therefore, it’s prudent to consider EE when buying something. What went into it to make it? Do I need it? Is there a similar product that is better made, made from sustainable materials where the company has a cradle-to-grave policy? These are questions we must train ourselves to ask when we purchase anything.
Examples: Sand and gravel and cement
When first thinking about cement which is made from naturally occurring substances such as sand and gravel, we can be forgiven if we think cement production is not a harmful industry.
But let’s apply critical thinking.
Before sand and gravel can be harvested, forests are clearcut, eliminating biodiversity and the cleansing nature of woodlands – habitat for native and migratory birds through to the endangered wood turtle here in Quebec. Then, these natural aggregates are extracted, using fossil-fuel powered heavy equipment. Sifting and sorting requires further energy, where consumers can then order, for instance, 0–¾ inch pit-run aggregate for laneways, or ¾ inch washed stone for roof driplines, etc. Sand and gravel are trucked to industrial sites for making concrete.
Concrete issues
That seemingly innocuous, all-pervasive material, cement, is a polluter requiring immense EE. The Columbia Climate School’s State of the Climate website informs us about cement as an ingredient of concrete:
“A single industry accounts for around 5 percent of global carbon dioxide (CO2) emissions. It produces a material so ubiquitous it is nearly invisible: cement. It is the primary ingredient in concrete, which in turn forms the foundations and structures of the buildings we live and work in, and the roads and bridges we drive on. Concrete is the second most consumed substance on Earth after water. On average, each year, three tons of concrete are consumed by every person on the planet.” (https://bit.ly/3SG53FC)
Cementing our understanding
Everyone uses products.
We must accept responsibility for our planet’s wellbeing, inform ourselves, and examine what we purchase to foster a cleaner, greener, more sustainable Outaouais and world.
Katharine Fletcher is a freelance writer and visual artist. Contact her at fletcher.katharine@gmail.com
A young lad’s Tarzan escapades
What you will read here are the adventures of a 12-year-old boy, circa 1952. These adventures really happened – this is not fiction. I knew the young lad very well as that fellow was myself. As you read about his escapades, contrast them with the life of a 12-year-old boy today.
Our house on Church Street in Buckingham fronted a property that stretched to a gravel road where the Rainbow Plastics Company plant was located. Formerly a war ammunition plant, it was converted to its new purpose during peacetime. The rolls of barbed wire remained atop the surrounding fence. The property stretched from the railway tracks uphill. We called it the Plant Hill.
At a stone’s throw from where this property ended stood several tall, majestic white pines. Although their branches started high up from the ground, I managed to maneuver my way to the uppermost branches, where I had a panoramic view of the rooftops in the south part of town. Collège St-Michel and the French Church stood out.
Upon descending, I noticed that my hands were very sticky from the pine sap. Soap and water wouldn’t remove it, so I resorted to some solvent that was in our garage. The panoramic view was so inviting that I climbed that same tree several times afterward.
Closer to our house was a clump of cedar trees. There, I would climb one of the tallest, reach out to grasp the top of a cedar about 8 feet tall and…’Aiaieeeooo,’ like Tarzan swing down to the ground. I became so adept at this that I’d sometimes release the first tree while grasping an adjacent one with the other hand. Upon landing, that ‘Aiaieeeooo’ echoed once more. It wasn’t Gaelic; it was the cry of the jungle – of Tarzan himself.
Beyond the majestic pines, near Dorchester Street, was a turtle-shaped knoll where we would slide in winter. The south side of that knoll was very steep with many loose rocks among the shrubbery. Beside that steep hill grew a tall deciduous tree with one lower branch stretching toward the hill.
This day, I was with a friend exploring the woods. Although I cannot say with certainty, I believe it was Ronnie Macdonald, who lived on Dorchester Street. We would regularly exchange comic books, many of which featured Tarzan.
Two Tarzans stood gazing upward at that tree. We had a lengthy rope, restlessness and bravado.
‘Why not throw the rope over that big branch and go for a swing?’
‘Why not?’ of course, and I thought, ‘Why not climb that steep slope, hold on to the rope and swing all the way from that height to the ground?’
‘Aiaieeeooo!’ Out I swung and ‘Ow-Ow-Ow!’ The branch broke, plummeting me to earth below.
Fortunately, the branch wasn’t completely torn from the tree. If it had landed on my head, I might have been long since gone from now.
I wanted to end this piece with a poem to summarize the Tarzan-like episodes, but ‘Aiaieeeooo’, despite the vowel sounds, wasn’t appealing. Therefore, to conclude, here is a little poem about yet another adventure, skipping flat stones across the water of the Lièvre River near the railway tracks at the Landing.
You skipped a stone across the water
One, two and three.
It sank down to the bottom
Stones have no buoyancy.
I skipped my stone across the water
One, two, three, four.
It, too, sank to the bottom
As your stone did before.
We skipped more rocks across the water
One, two and three.
They all sank to the bottom
But … not the memory.
A young lad’s Tarzan escapades
As we celebrate Spring’s arrival, I would like to share with you one of the things that have brought a realm of joy to my life.
Bliss Carman (1861-1929), who was born in Fredericton, New Brunswick, wrote a poem, Revelation, which includes the following three stanzas:
Live in friendship with the seasons, and their skill will make thee whole.
Take the bird's call and the brook's note for their tonic to thy soul.
Bathe in renaissance of morning, drink the solace twilight brings,
Feed on beauty for thy welfare and the strength whence rapture springs;
So thy living soul shall sense the meaning of the Wandering Word,
And thy being know the secret that creation's morning heard.
Gary Dewar (1959 - ) arranged Carman’s poem, commissioned by the Nova Scotia Choral Federation, on the occasion of its 25th Anniversary. On April 30th, as the Atlantic Voices Choir celebrates its 20th Anniversary, this is one of the choral renditions that will be presented. This, as well as other songs, bring great joy to our hearts, as we hope we will bring joy to all who come to share our music.
Songs of Home, with words and music by Cape Breton’s Allistair McGillivray, is another song chosen from our repertoire. Here is the first verse and chorus of that song:
Where are those with eyes of fire who would
chase elusive dreams?
On they go where highways lead and won’t
turn back
As the sun goes down to rest, what sustains
them in their quest?
Thoughts of those they love the best – And songs
of home.
Songs of home in living rooms and bars,
Songs of home on fiddles and guitars.
Off you go the music gives you wings,
And there’s peace in what the mem’ry brings.
Our concert will also include a Gaelic song. Though we were challenged, we are well prepared to sing Am dam doribhi. Here is verse three of that song:
’Nd ’fhuair iad ’n’ Stiubh-art-ach?’
’Nd ’fhuairiade dé ná chinn-each?
’Nd ’fhuairiad ’n’ Stiubh-art-ach?’
Gill-ean’ bhail’ og-ainnfheini.
Translation:
Did they get the Stewart man? Did they
get him from the clan?
Did they get the Stewart man, the lads of
our own village?
More familiar with most of us are the lyrics of Acadie de nos coeurs:
Séparés par la mer pendant les
années tristes,
Dispersés à travers on n’avait pas eu
l’choix d’partir.
C’est l’temps pour se revoir
Chanter danser ensemble où ça tout
commencer
Presque quatre cents ans passés.
When in 1755, the French-speaking inhabitants of Nova Scotia refused to sign an oath of allegiance to Britain, they were ordered deported. The Expulsion of the Acadians, or the Great Deportation, lasted until July 11, 1764.
The Isle of Skye is the largest island in the Inner Hebrides archipelago that lies off the west coast of Scotland. The Skye Boat Song conjures up something of the windswept and romantic landscapes of rocky shores and green pastures and of the ever-changing weather from the Atlantic Ocean. The “lad that’s born to be king” is ‘Bonnie Prince Charlie’:
Speed bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing!
“Onward!” the sailors cry
Carry the lad that's born to be king
Over the sea to Skye
Loud the winds howl,
Loud the waves roar,
Thunder clouds rend the air
Baffled our foes stand on the shore,
Follow they will not dare
Speed bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing
Over the sea to Skye.
The Spanish Fisherman is a ballad containing four lines. Its words are by Robbie Smith:
Ah but Celinda waits for him
Waiting to soothe his rope-burned hands
And the lonely’s worth the living
When the sea meets with the land.
The late Stan Rogers, before his untimely death in an airplane accident, wrote most of his songs about Nova Scotia. He had begun writing about his native Ontario as well. Included in the 20th Anniversary are two of these songs: The Field behind the Plow and MacDonnell on the Heights.
MacDonnell on the Heights, a portion of the Niagara Escarpment, occurred in 1812 when American soldiers succeeded in surrounding Major-General Sir Isaac Brock’s British soldiers at the Heights. Brock was killed in the battle and is eulogized by his troops, who eventually succeeded in defending the land of Upper Canada.
As Stan Rogers notes in his song:
[Verse 1]
Too thin the line that charged the Heights
And scrambled in the clay
Too thin the Eastern Township Scot
Who showed them all the way
And perhaps had you not fallen
You might be what Brock became
[Refrain]
But not one in ten thousand knows your name
[Verse 2]
To say the name, MacDonnell
It would bring no bugle call
But the Redcoats stayed beside you
When they saw the General fall
‘Twas MacDonnell raised the banner then
And set the Heights aflame
[Refrain]
But not one in ten thousand knows your name