Anomalies

Rumour has it that Voltaire was with Louis XV at the time of the fall of New France, and in an effort to console the monarch dismissed the lost territory as “quelques arpents de neiges”. Indeed the winters of New France consisted of not just acres, but thousands of square miles of snow-covered landscape. And Voltaire’s opinions on the subject are truly documented, in both Candide and other writings. So it continues to surprise me when this "barren wilderness" produces such extraordinary products.

Forget maple syrup, if you can. And if you know it intimately on your pancakes, you can’t. Dismiss Bombardier, presently the third largest aircraft maker in the world. But the strawberries! How could anyone forget those savoury red berries which outmatch anything of the same name that the year-round produce market deems suitable for shipping more than a few kilometres from source.

And the wonder of it in this climate depends to a large extent on a kind of anomaly. L'isle d'Orléans. Originally named Ile de Bacchus by Jacques Cartier, it’s position in the St. Lawrence River gives it an extraordinarily favourable climate.

Over three months ago we bought our first local berries. This evening I brought home two pints heaped high. Tomorrow morning, pancakes with maple syrup and strawberries. Anomalies can be wonderful!

Distractions

It might be easier to deal with if it were a straightforward medical problem. Or attributable to genetics. Not that I would wish on myself all-out attention deficit disorder, popping Ritalin to keep me in line. But being easily distracted has its challenges. Very early this morning I received an email from a friend in Hong Kong. It made my day, but destroyed all my earnest plans for those Sisyphus-like activities laid out before me.

I was asked a simple question. “When will Though I am Gone be screened at the imminent Vancouver Film Festival.?” Like Alice, I tumbled into a cyber hole that lead me into another world. Not that the question was complex. I expect to discover the answer tomorrow when film festival offices are open for business.

Ever-curious I wanted to know the name of the filmmaker. Which led me to a wonderful interview which Shen Rui conducted with compassionate historian and film director Hu Jie (胡杰). He yearns to know the real and recent history of his country, China. He is a searcher after the truth, and a compassionate visual chronicler. In many ways apolitical, his films are more of a scourage to the establishment than those of a confrontational sort.

So today has been all about Hu Jie. I was willingly hijacked from the role of Hercules, and left King Augeas’ litter a-lying about me while I immersed myself in the fresh air of Hu’s story, so ably translated by Ms. Shen. And found his film on Youtube, albeit in ten segments. Now, later in the day, some seem to have disappeared. And all are blocked in China apparently.

Christopher Columbus is quoted as saying By prevailing over all obstacles and distractions, one may unfailingly arrive at his chosen goal or destination. Look where that got him! And me? Well my distraction may get me into even more uncharted waters. Time will tell.

Pedal for Hope

They arrived in the neighbourhood the same year that we did. Muslim Harji was tall and genial, and his wife whom we always called “Mrs. Harji” was warm and spontaneous. They had fled Uganda when Idi Amin’s regime threatened. Now they were a very busy couple setting up a small food shop on Avenue du Parc, in the midst of a heterogeneous community. Hassidim, Italian and Greek Canadians, Quebecois(e) and Anglos such as ourselves.

Then a daughter, Ayesha, was born to them, and a son two years later. The little store thrived as a family enterprise. Sadly, they retired after some thirty years of hard work. We picked up on their story at the library a few days ago, when Muslim, after warmly embracing us, recounted the Cairo to Cape bicycle journey which he and his daughter made last year. It was part of a fund-raising effort by the Aga Khan Foundation. Muslim didn’t have enough time to tell about the whole 12,000km trip, so he focused on Sudan. This was the Sudan you never hear about. Ayesha’s blog reveals the no strings attached kindness they encountered amidst the material poverty.

One day, in the small town of Karima, we were invited into the home of a man we didn't know, who didn't speak any English at all. Being the cautious traveller, I was worried that this was going to be some sort of scam with a request for payment at the end, but we went in and sat down on the floor of a thatched little open-air hut surrounded by palm trees.

After some small talk where, with some difficulty, we explained to them that we were on a bicycle expedition (only to get the same incredulous response), a young boy came forward with an enormous tray that he put down on the floor. He uncovered four bowls of food - salad, a delicious curry-type dish similar to what my mom makes at home, beans (called foul, pronounced "fool") and a sweet vermicelli dish (like sev for all you Indians out there). Around the four bowls were round pieces of bread and we all sat there on the floor and ate together. The man also gave us a tour of his compound (including his home, a wheat-grinder, a kitchen and a women's section - there were a lot of them, don't know how many wives this guy has, but anyway) and also gave us fresh figs right off a tree.

After all this, they just led us back into the street, we all said our goodbyes and they pointed us back in the direction from whence we came. No money, no payment, no nothing. It was just plain and simple hospitality, and he disappeared back into his home like this was nothing out of the ordinary. Everywhere along the road, many members of our group have experienced similar displays of openness and good will from the people in this country.

"Leave well enough, alone"

This is an old saying from my childhood. To be told this by my mother was a polite way of her saying “Shut up, you’ve already said too much!” Delightfully burdened with only fond memories of her presence, I feel free to indulge. It was the recent furniture store visit which set me to thinking. I won't leave well enough alone. Thinking about how people leave their mark.

My feelings on the robber barons, past and present, who leave such “gifts” as Carnegie Hall, are mixed.

The amenity is often appreciated, but the naming.... Why aren’t they named after some of the workers who died to make the amassed fortunes? My hero and companion in this line of thought, since schooldays, has always been Shelley, and the way he celebrated the once noble Ozymandias.

I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies.........

Enough. Back to the furniture store and sofas. The latter word apparently coming from Turkish into English almost 300 years ago. But what about ottoman, and chesterfield? And to a lesser degree, davenport? The world's population lolling about comfortably on them with the Sunday paper. Wouldn’t this be a fine way to have one’s name remembered.?

schlimmbesserungen

We set out to explore the bargains at an SAQ Dépôt. I picked up a bottle of Metaxa Seven Star as well as a French blend, a plonk which I recommend. Then I continued on with my good friends who are searching for suitable furnishings for their home-to-be. They are still at the exploratory stage, measuring tape in hand, and eyeing various combinations for purchase at a later stage.

The spacious and elegant showroom was designed primarily for the eye. Vast sweeps of white with pools of dark-finish table tops and subdued displays of colour. Pseudo-artistic creations at exorbitant prices. “Gimmicks galore for home décor” could easily have been the store’s slogan. I was particularly intrigued by all-in-one sofas cum chaise-longues which seemed to be the “in thing”. Cursory tests of either the comfort or practicality of these articles seemed to be the last thing on the minds of potential buyers. These were not your customary IKEA shoppers.

Which leads me to another article by Mark Kingwell. Bear with him. His thoughts outpace his expressive abilities. Unless your German’s up to par, you’ll have to read it to understand the heading of this piece! In the meantime open a bottle and enjoy the fruits of this 12^th century Languedoc Château!

The Reconciliation of John and Gordon

It was February in Prague, just a month after the former Czechoslovakia had been split into two separate countries, the Czech and the Slovak Republics. A sad event for me as I had already made many friends on both sides of the border. And I favour inclusiveness over separatism. But it was a beautiful evening all the same.

Powder snow swirled and glistened under the century-old lamps as we wound our way through the narrow streets of the old city, heading to the Staroměstské subway station. Another time I might be humming Good King Wenceslas as I held my head low against the wintry blast. But not tonight. Christmas was six weeks past. Besides, I only hum when I’m alone.

John, Jana and I had spent an evening in her cozy apartment overlooking the Vltava. After a simple dinner we did our best to empty a bottle of Becharovka. As it closed in on eleven, I headed to catch the last train to the hostel which was home. John insisted on accompanying me to the station. A Czech by birth, he was now a Canadian who had returned to his native land and was organizing volunteers to teach English to an eager populace. I was playing a part in this venture.

A retired career army officer, he wrote The Disarming of Canada, a critique of Canada’s military policy as a peace-keeping force. There was a chapter in it criticizing a peace education project which I had initiated. But over three years of collaboration a lot of trust had developed between us, seasoned with good humour and Pilsener.

The streets were empty so it was a surprise to come upon an unsteady figure in tattered clothing. As we approached, this Robinson Crusoe apparition stumbled again, his bleeding hands pierced by nails protruding from a packing case he dragged behind him. John rushed to his rescue and we proceeded, supporting him, to a nearby apartment. Despite the doorkeeper’s protests we took him to his room, cleaned him up, and John left him with a five hundred crown note. Apparently the wretched one had spent his rent money at a local bar, something that newfound capitalism couldn’t tolerate.

In the process I missed the train. The taxi was much more expensive. But well worth the cementing of our bond. It was the last time I saw John. He was drawn to the smell of conflict and became a war correspondent in Bosnia. He died there when his car ran over a land mine.

The Ghost of Maggie Thatcher?

This is a purely political rant.

Civic employees of the beautiful city of Vancouver are on strike. The libraries are closed for the first time in a seventy-seven year history. And the city has a magnificent library system which not only provides for the reading and research needs of citizens, but actively reaches out to those who are most in need of encouragement - the poor, the disabled, the non-English speaker, and the immigrant.

Their librarians are amongst the most committed of employees, with a sense of mission and passion for their work. Without going into all the details it is clear that their treatment has been shabby to say the least.

But why? This comment from the management on August 13 suggests that the bosses want it that way.

Vancouver's four-week-old civic strike could stretch past Labour Day and into the fall, a city spokesman predicted Monday.

"Our past strikes have lasted on the order of six to eight weeks and if that's an indication of where we are this time then that's how long it might last," Jerry Dobrovolny said.

Was this an event planned by the city administration to recoup money overspent in the run-up to the Winter Olympics 2010?

More information:

End of rant!

Hank

I knew nothing about him, not having a radio in our family home. But there we were, my buddy Gord and I on assignment for Quality Records who handled MGM and other labels in Canada. In our last years of high school we earned enough from these infrequent photo gigs to supplement more regular pay. In my case working part-time for a local supermarket. Doing the gamut from cutting meat to stocking shelves.

It was October 27, 1949 and I was seventeen, in grade thirteen, my final year. On the other hand, Hank was just short of nine years my senior, and had made it to #1 on the Billboard Country Singles chart with his version of Lovesick Blues.

The show took place in the Mutual Arena, a venue for ice skating in winter, and in summer a “roller rink”. It was my first venture into this particular kind of worldly atmosphere. But not the last. I was somewhat overwhelmed, and very intimidated as we entered the cavernous hall. The stage setting, lighting, and swelling audience were a far cry even from the high school auditorium gatherings. Even more remote from our gospel hall’s special meetings.

We were nervous. You can take landscape, or store window display photos over again if you flub them the first time around. But concerts are another matter. Our primary task was to take some shots after the show was over. Which it was all too quickly. Using Gord’s Kodak Vigilant, f/4.5 lens, bellows extended, loaded with a roll of 620 Super-XX, and with a carton of eight GE flashbulbs at hand we began. All eight shots counted.

Neither of us had any directorial skills, but fortunately the record company rep managed that for us. Hank Williams was most gracious to these two amateurs. So was Fred Roden, with Hank in this picture. For many years afterwards I meant to drop into Fred Roden’s Record Corral on Avenue Road north, and give him prints. But, like many good intentions .....

Tabula rasa

An inauspicious beginning I know! My encounters with Latin will no doubt be the grist for another day at blogger’s mill . However, tabula rasa, the slate wiped clean, interests me a lot right now. Piqued by Naomi Klein’s new book, The Shock Doctrine, released just yesterday. I haven’t read it yet, but just listened to her, and find its thesis fascinating.

The notion that major social and political change can be introduced following massive events such as the breakdown of an existing system has often focussed on armed revolutions and uprisings. The French, American and Russian revolutions are the most commonly known of these.

There are variations on this theme. After the surrender of Japan in August 1945, the Allied Command, at the behest of the Netherlands, asked the Nipponese troops to remain in control of The Dutch East Indies in order to preserve the existing colonial system. But Sukarno moved quickly to establish a republic, which became a reality four years later.

As an aside from Klein’s social approach, it appears to me that at the personal level, tabula rasa, would be a process that born-again Christians consider essential. A baptism or ritual cleansing. The slate wiped clean, and a new spiritual birth with its presumed attendant moral, ethical, and other personal consequences.

Klein goes further with her collective study. She documents the deliberate political, social, and economic efforts over decades to create and exploit “disaster mentality” and fear. Generated out of both natural events such as tsunamis and those with human intervention such as national fiscal crises. All to the end of supporting The Shock Doctrine, the Rise of Disaster Capitalism, a situation of fear, despair, or numbness which allows the introduction of conditions beneficial to interests groups but not to the general citizenry. This is not conspiracy theory but the work of a disciplined journalist.

I’m off now to buy a copy. No, this is not a paid commercial!

Fate strikes

As predicted in today's paper. Three very busy blogging weeks ahead!

GEMINI Today your ruler, Mercury, moves into a fellow air sign. That means the next three weeks are a wonderful time for expressing your thoughts.

Now I'll check the tea leaves [tasseography] for alternatives!

Archives

The past two days have seen a blundering archivist at work. He has never followed the rules of the professional. That is, to store safely, catalogue accurately (with appropriate cross-references), and have proper retrieval procedures. Now time is catching up with this amateur. The cardboard boxes are being unearthed, the contents spread across every inch of level flat space in the house, and the goodies being unruffled and placed first in categories, then assigned spaces and places of their own.

The thought behind this action has been of long-standing. But stand it did, without any movement. Until recently. The German Film Archives made a generous and irresistible offer to restore a film completed 28 years ago. Which brought the chronicler instinct to the fore. But simultaneously raised many questions.

We realise that certain of the records and artifacts are of international interest. Those we have separated from the family treasures. We also know from experience that Archives tend to be preoccupied with preservation and are anything but “user-friendly”. And those with an hospitable bent are scattered in nooks and crannies around the globe. So what to do with this conglomeration?

One option is to digitize and open our own cyber-archives, then hand the originals over to the best caretakers wherever they may be. But who would caretake the cyber-archives?

And of course we must first write the book before relinquishing the source material. He says with a wry grin.

And the odd item may be of interest to our children. Like the glass-framed original silhouette of Galahad at the completion of the Quest when the ghostly maidens enter the hall. And he cries out, “In the name of God, stay a moment!”

Illustration by Lotte Reiniger from Roger Lancelyn Green’s book, King Arthur and His Knights of the Round Table [1953 - Penguin]

The Reconciliation of Carl and Jean

In my opinion the richness of “reconcile” has been somewhat debased by the bean counters. They use it to mean the verification of financial accounts. But reconciliation has much more potential than simply ticking off the items on a credit card statement. I think that Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu had it right, in principle.

What got me thinking about it was the first time that Jean Renoir and Carl Koch really met. Of course they didn’t know about that meeting until later. I will let Renoir tell the story himself.

Carl Koch had been a German army captain of artillery in the First War. In 1916 he was in command of an anti-aircraft battery in the Rheims sector. “It was a good sector,” he told me. “Nothing against it except the incessant attack of the French squadron opposite us.” As it happens, in 1916 I was flying in a reconnaissance squadron in the same sector, and we were the main target of a Germany battery which gave us a lot of trouble. Koch and I concluded that this was his battery: so we had made war together. These things form a bond. The fact that we were on opposite sides was the merest detail.

From: My Life and My Films by Jean Renoir 1974

We met both Carl and Jean long after they had died. Carl’s wife, Lotte Reiniger, introduced us to them both with delightful stories of their first meeting in Paris at the première of Lotte’s Die Abenteuer des Prinzen Achmed. And their subsequent adventures in working together on the Renoir films. Glorious days in Meudon as well as dedicated work on such masterpieces as La Marseillaise and La Grande Illusion. Carl left first, and when he did Jean wrote to Lotte from his home, which was by that time in Hollywood.

“The best times in my life working in film were with Carl. It was through this connection that The Rules of the Game was such a success. Carl, from Heaven on high, must surely be laughing.”

True reconciliation.

Leisure?

A recent article by Mark Kingwell stimulated me to reflect on this theme. Thoughts somehow led to Chaucer, and whether the pilgrims heading to Canterbury were engaged in work or leisure. I know little about his work, although we did explore The Tales as a possible project to be animated in the classical style of Lotte Reiniger. But I do love the oral flavour of his language, and presently have the leisure to track down his use of the very word for my “spare time”. From his The Book of the Duchesse:

165    Amid the valey, wonder depe.
166    Ther thise goddes laye and slepe,
167    Morpheus, and Eclympasteyre,
168    That was the god of slepes heyre,
169    That slepe and did non other werk.
170      This cave was also as derk
171    As helle pit over-al aboute;
172    They had good leyser for to route
173    To envye, who might slepe beste;

Why not read the whole poem? If you have the time.

Anyway, Kingwell’s article explores J. K. Galbraith’s notion
that increasing affluence and its attendant desire for
material acquisition would taper off as sufficient
goods and services brought about fulfillment of those
needs. He refers briefly to the classical Greek attitudes
to the contemplative life. Although without reference
to a slave society, and to the undoubted fact that
philosophical reflection required collaboration and hard
labour from the local vineyards***.

With insight, although not complete clarity, he examines
why this has not happened. The parameters have changed
as leisure in its many forms has been progressively
redefined and co-opted by commercialism. Leisure now
requires one to buy. The transformation of advertising
raises the question as to whether consumption itself is
consuming us. [see also previous posting
The Cult You're In August 22/07]

In the meantime, even my leisure time requires being
plugged in at a cost. 

***Horace’s Ode to a Wine Jar

Things Happen

It was January 1993, Thursday the 21^st to be precise. I know that’s exact because I usually start out the New Year with my agenda fairly accurate and complete. And I save agendas the way schoolboys used to stuff their pockets with horse chestnuts. I had just finished a meeting with What’s His Name and was killing time before meeting Barry for lunch. At the Irish Pub on Richmond at Victoria where we almost always meet.

My first choice to use up a spare few minutes in the city core is to nip into a bookstore. But there wasn’t one at hand. So instead I checked out the nearby department store book section, and riffled through the reduced price bin. One slim book caught my eye instantly.

Pat and I had just been discussing the general idea of a mystery cartoon series for kids. It would have a stronger narrative line than Scooby Doo, but not the frenetic pace. Of course it would be exciting and with loads of drama and cliffhangers, full of ominous events, but sans blood, violence, or weapons. Something our eight grandchildren would like.

Bicycle to Treachery fairly popped out of the box. Written and illustrated by Robert Quackenbush, it features a world of anthropomorphic ducks. Inspired by Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple, Miss Mallard and her providential nephew Willard search out the wrongdoers every time.

There is much more to this story. Perhaps to be told later. Seven years later there were 26 half-hour episodes of The Miss Mallard Mysteries being shown to children in every continent. Except Antarctica.

There are now fourteen grandchildren who love Miss Mallard. Yes, “things happen”.

Signs & Portents

It’s a pleasant walk most of the time. But today as we set out for the Marché Jean-Talon the weather was perfect. Low humidity, fitful breezes, a cloudless blue sky and the thermometer at 21C. We always take the shortcut through the hole in the fence and over the CPR tracks, rather than using the underpass. Unless of course a string of freight cars blocks our way. Or the ice and winds of winter make it precarious for old folks like us.

After that we cross diagonally through the Parc de la petite Italie which lives up to its name. Often retired men gather there to play cards, swap news from back home, or chat, no doubt, about the years of their youth. When they left their sunny homeland to work in the post-war construction boom in this once foreign land.

A small leaf caught my eye, lying as it was face down on the cobbled walkway. Yes, the red tinge showed through from its obverse. Face up, it became a messenger of things to come. A sign, or perhaps, a portent. I picked it up.

As we dropped in to Milano to get a block of Parmesan Grana Padano Parmigiano, I was mulling these two words over. They are both delicious, magic, and Biblical in their import. But could a little pinky red leaf be a sign or a portent? If Joshua were here might he trumpet, “That this may be a sign among you.......”?

I decided that signs and portents are much in the eye and the mind of the beholder. For me, the little red leaf tells me that in a few weeks I may have to take the underpass on the way to the market.

Seeking Berthold

Maria was a lovely woman. Full of enthusiasm and joy despite a hard life, and having lost her husband. He had died in 1968 I think, just a few years before we met. We had tea, or was it coffee, in their tiny apartment on rue du Vieux-Colombier, not far from St-Sulpice and the trendy cafes of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. The apartment was on the walk-up level, one floor above the elevator limits, as befitted an artistic couple on a sub-modest income. Pat and I met her once again, and she showed us Berthold’s paintings.

They were stored carefully under the bed. He had suffered from arthritis and his painter’s hands were too crippled to produce the large canvases which were then most popular amongst the art buyers of the day. Besides, he hadn’t had much public exposure. In the one show he had at a provincial gallery in the Pas-de-Calais region, the Curator wrote:

Le Monde a ignore Bertold Bartosch. Parce qu’il ne pouvait plus faire du cinéma, il a consacré les huit dernières années de sa vie à la peinture.

Born in the land of Rilke, he had made his way to Berlin where he was involved with the artistic ferment of the post-WWI era, a period which saw artistic talent crossing all borders. There he became involved in movies and made a remarkable film, l’Idée, based on a story and woodcuts by Masereel. Subsequently his anti-war and anti-fascist stance led him and Maria to settle in Paris, where he worked painstakingly on another film. But war overtook them and it was destroyed before it was completed.

Many months after Pat and I had dined at the Vagenende with Maria, I sent her a letter and received no response. Some time later her neighbours, the Flannerys, kindly sent me a postcard to tell me she had died. But where are the paintings? Some months ago I contacted the current management at the Musée de l’Hotel Sandelin in Saint-Omer, where Berthold’s work had been shown in 1973. There has been no reply.

The Cult You’re In

Well, me too! When we used to study and discuss propaganda I always claimed that it was the subtle stuff that was seductive, infiltrated the mind and senses, and was thus dangerous. It’s come a long way since those heady 60’s. People like John Pilger have added to this category by illuminating the deliberate omission by mass media of crucial matters in favour of gossip and the use of press releases as basic news sources. Oh those lazy journalists! Get the copy in fast and head for the Press Club.

Often it’s a case of details getting more attention than the context. They seem to have more public appeal than those basic social and political structural flaws which lie behind them. Oh that lazy public! Feel informed without pondering the need for basic change.

There is an odd magazine published by Kalle Lasn, called Adbusters. Some years ago it published an article which begins…..

“A long time ago, without even realizing it, you were recruited into a cult. At some indeterminate moment, maybe when you were feeling particularly adrift or vulnerable, a cult member showed up and made a beautiful presentation. "I believe we have something to ease your pain." She made you feel welcome. You understood she was offering something to give your life meaning. She was wearing Nikes and a Planet Hollywood cap”.

It’s worth reading. Of course once you get started you may want to continue to peel this infinite onion.

http://www.adbusters.org/home/

Amélie et sa “puce”

I am very reluctant to tell people what they should do. Or think. Although I’m quite pleased to discuss the pros and cons of a dilemma or contentious issue. To be sure, I wasn’t always like that. It’s a result I imagine of having children and grandchildren who have taught me more than a thing or two. And of having had so many interesting and varied experiences with people and places.

So I was taken aback when Yves sought my advice on an almost spring day in the mid 1980’s. Danielle was pregnant, and they were considering an abortion. They already had Julie, and I suppose the question of staying afloat financially was a prime reason. But I don’t really remember and it doesn’t matter anyway.

In principle I support the position that it’s largely the woman’s decision. Taking into account her partner’s thoughts of course. I’ve even discussed this matter with placard-bearing old folks who regularly parade in front of the Kelowna hospital. I’ve asked them why, given the widely different ideas of when the foetus becomes a human being, they don’t put their energies elsewhere. Like helping to save the lives of hundreds of undeniably human children who die daily in Africa.

Anyway, in Yves and Danielle’s situation I was heavily biased in favour of no abortion. Don’t ask me why because I don’t know. Then Amélie was born in November and I became her godfather. I was pleased. Two weeks ago I was at l'Église Notre-Dame de Fátima in a distant part of Longueuil. Amélie’s daughter, Naomy was baptised. I was very pleased.

Textbooks

As my mother read aloud, the words leapt off the page, transformed into heroic imagery.

“Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,

With all the speed ye may;

I, with two more to help me,

Will hold the foe in play.

In yon strait path a thousand

May well be stopped by three.

Now who will stand on either hand,

And keep the bridge with me?”

These lines, read to a five year old from Poems for the Lower School, were an inspiration. Despite them being clad in dull olive brown covers inscribed with “Stuart Martin, NTHS, 1919 ” What a glorious introduction to the world of textbooks which I came to hate! Apart from a Geography of Canada textbook with it’s coloured maps and a photo of the Venetia Group which showed Pine Island in Lake Rousseau where we stayed one summer, the rest were either deadly or just plain pitiable.

So 27 years after my rapt engagement with Macauley’s Horatius, I was faced with a dilemma. I was forced to name a textbook which my students in an education course would be required to buy. Recommending books to others to read is one thing. Forcing them to buy a book is quite another.

The criteria came to mind quickly though. A volume that would likely resonate through time. With interesting and rich insights and provocations to haunt the reader. A reasonable price. And pertinent to the themes of our course. The chosen book was a paperback anthology with essays by the likes of Northrop Frye, Marshall McLuhan, and Siegfried Giedion, who for some reason always wanted to be known as S. Giedion.

I hope the students kept the book and read it again when exams where over and essays handed in. Maybe their children will be inspired by Jacqueline Tyrwhitt’s description of a visit to Fatephur Sikri. And at very least, if they still have it they will find that their $2.00 investment is now selling at the online bookshops for $25.00.

Joy

Not the kind that is “to the world” and sung by choirs worldabout at Christmastime. The personal kind. To be experienced as a song welling up inside oneself. Yesterday the first notes came when I sat down in the bus. Almost across from me were three young children. The little girl with her father, and the two boys with their nanny.

The older boy caught my attention immediately with his curly hair, clear bright eyes, and loving kindness to his young brother sitting in a stroller. The little girl was full of mischief and good humour. And the father was in animated discussion with the nanny.

As we moved along from stop to stop the five of them were blissfully unaware of all but their own good fellowship. In my imagination I pieced together the relationships. The older boy and the girl had obviously been buddies in a day care or entry level school class. The group had met by chance on the bus. The father and nanny were immigrants I would guess. He of Asian descent, and she with roots in Africa.

The little one sat enchanted with the chatter, laughter and actions of big brother and friend. While the two adults enthusiastically swapped experiences about their journeys to this foreign shore.

French, English, smiles and laughter mingled. And joy was no abstraction. It was bubbling up within.

Around the Corner

It had been another boring Sunday afternoon. Were they discussing Ezekiel? The sins of the Moabites? The transgressions of the Ammonites? My brother swears that Mr. K. once waxed eloquent and at length about the word "the" in one of these "reading meetings". It was an obligation for this thirteen year old. But also an opportunity to take the imagination for a long walk, against the background of this Brethren hum flummery.

The real fun was in the coming, and especially the going. Navigating the city on my own was exciting. And coming from a northern residential area to the heart of the city offered new learning experiences. But often it's the casual and the unexpected which counts for most.

I hurried quickly from the exit of the Bathurst streetcar and crossed the road to intercept a St. Clair car heading east. Good, there was an empty seat on the left side which would afford me a view of the Peter Pan monument, an exact replica of the one in Kensington Gardens. At Spadina a crowd boarded leaving no empty seats. As they moved back in search of breathing space, an elderly silver-gray haired gent came by. Instinctively I offered him my seat.

He smiled broadly and rummaging in his satchel, pulled out a small mimeographed sheet. It was a short poem by Charles Hanson Towne. It became more a part of my life than the entire book of Ezekiel. Thank you Charles H. Haight, wherever you are. Learning is always just around the corner.

[Click on poem to read]

Yearnings

I'm not interested in nobility in its formal sense. My ancestors were rather ordinary. I too am removed from both fortune and fame. I haven't even had my fifteen minutes of the latter as articulated by Andy Warhol. So when I dive into the murky dustbins of family history I'm not the least bit interested in finding title or notoriety. But the shards from the midden heaps found when digging about the gene pool are very rewarding. Touching too.

My mother is listed in the January 1, 1901 British census as being two years old at her last birthday. Her residence? The Gateshead Union Workhouse. Her occupation? "Pauper". Shades of Charles Dickens!

Then there are the other more distant rellies. Pat and I walked through the Mont-Royal Cemetery the other day. It was so leafy green and tranquil that I thought about changing my will so that I'd be buried rather than incinerated. We found the Carpenter tombstone. My great-uncle Silas H. who married my granny's sister Clara. But before that event Silas' first wife, Phoebe, had borne them a son named Gordon. Am I his namesake or is he mine?

C. Gordon Carpenter. "Killed in action at Paschendale, 6th November 1917". Aged 18 years." "Greater love hath no man than this".

I yearn to know this young man; his loves and hopes and dreams. And hold him dying in my arms. As I yearn to know all about the little "pauper" who became my mother. I can only imagine.

Understandings

"Fie, fie how franticly I square my talk!"

I actually saw the animated film some time before reading the book. I always thought that Eliot Noyes made it, but can no longer find his name in references to the short, made in the 1960s. It was simply called Flatland, the title of the book published some eighty years earlier. It’s simple yet powerful illustration of the difficulty we have in entering into other people’s ways of seeing and understanding made quite a contribution to my education.

Edwin Abbott, author of the original text, long dead when I emerged from the womb, was my master teacher. Noyes, if indeed it was him, was a superb translator.

This first person account from an inhabitant of a two-dimensional country struggling with dreams and encounters which suggest another dimension of reality, is an encouragement to the heretic in us. Yet piercing the veil of established wisdom causes him great discomfort and alienation from family and society.

Edwin Abbott was not only a schoolmaster, but a theologian of note. His book can be read online.

Personally I prefer to explain my present state of grace in terms of “understandings” rather than “beliefs”. The latter often seems so final, absolute, and inflexible.

Just do it!

It was always pleasant to chat with Lyle. He was not only business-like, but was very perceptive. Very human too. His work in film distribution put him in touch with people in far away places. Passing his office one morning in early May, I popped in for a momentary “hello”. He had something on his mind. And as a freelancer I was always conscious of people’s needs and interests. They could put bread, and sometimes butter on our table.

Peter had just called Lyle from London. He had an urgent need. His monthly magazine, TV World was featuring Canada in its June issue. Three pages of adverts had been sold to Canadian companies on this promise. The deadline loomed and the Toronto correspondent had dropped out. Where to find a replacement?

Despite the queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach I piped up “That’s me!”. Then my customary self kicked in and I explained to Lyle that I knew nothing about the business of television, and rarely even watched the tube. A quick call to London and my own doubts were reflected in Peter’s uneasy response. “Tell him I’ll do it on spec,” I said. Peter, over the proverbial barrel, had no choice.

Paul succeeded Peter as editor and we got along well. One day when I was at their basement quarters on Wilfred Street, Paul took me in his Rolls to a prestigious Oxford Street club. That was a first for me, but not the last.

Those initial three articles with the seductive titles Challenge of the New Technology, Quiet Revolution that Brings the $’s In, and Keeping Canada for Canadians made me a sort of journalist. After that I churned out copy by the lorryload and met some interesting people in the process. And I learned that mystiques are meant to be shattered. There will always be more.

Reading Between the Lines

In the fifties my father made them for his own use. Plastic shopping bags were not known at the time, although a very few people here followed European custom and fait le tour with string carrier bags. But dad found the common brown paper bags to be wasteful so he bought some sturdy canvas and had permanent bags made for carrying home the groceries. These bags are still in use.

I was reminded of them when reading an article by George Monbiot in a recent issue of The Guardian. It brought to mind the commercial fad for promoting non-plastic tote bags. They have become status symbols, even for the elite. Apparently the upper-crust leave their tony shoppes with one of Anya Hindmarsh’s limited edition I’m Not a Plastic Bag carefully wrapped in the store’s own elegant paper bags. What irony!

Having bought reusable bags we are supposed to bask in a halo of Green. Fully redeemed. All the while of course, filling them full of non-essentials! Years ago I cottoned on to the wiles of the product pushers. I sat in the library perusing thirty or forty issues of that respectable American magazine, Consumer Reports. CR gives lots of useful attention to which car or van is better this way or that way. But never did I come across a caveat that any car is addictive. That perhaps one ought to consider other options. Of course if CR were able to persuade many people that life would be better without a car, it would be committing corporate suicide!

Monbiot goes well beyond shopping bags. He puts the lie to “green consumerism” in Eco-junk. Well worth a read! My father would have agreed. And so do I.

Border crossings

The trio left in high spirits an hour or so before midnight. At this moment, barring unforseen problems, they should be in the final stretch. Barreling down 87 somewhere south of Albany. With early dawn revealing the Catskills, and the windows on the driver’s side of the Greyhound giving fragmentary views out onto the broad sweep of the Hudson River.

I’ve done that overnighter many times in the past. And it was always accompanied by an exhilarating sense of adventure. Even on business trips, the treasures of Manhattan were there for the taking. Now it’s the grandchildren’s turn. Kyle is an old hand at dealing with this powerful magnet. Seven years ago when she was just 15 she went with Pat and I for her first visit. On arrival we sat in one of those dark oak-trimmed bars in a quiet corner, she sipping on a pina colada. Only grandparents can get away with things like that.

Her mother was like that too. When she was barely 16 she headed West alone, through the winter landscape of the Great Canadian Shield. Then on the Prairies her train was snowed-in for 48 hours. Finally she made it through the Rockies and the other ranges to do a stint in the Pacific on an inshore fishing boat.

Then Kyle’s cousin Megan got the bug. Meg is 16 now so she can cross borders without written parental permission. She’s a bold adventurer too, excited by the scent of new discoveries and pleased to revisit old haunts. I don’t think anything will hold her back.

The initiate on this trip is Kyle’s thirteen year old brother, Dylan. My guess is that he’ll find the East Village and the Guggenheim even more fascinating than video games. After five nights in a youth hostel he’ll be prepared to take on the world too.

There’s a slight personal nostalgia in all this. A flashback to 56 years ago when I first crossed the country. Under steam. The dream lives on. Borders are there to be crossed.

Silent vocabulary

It was long after I evaporated from the habit of going to meeting. Or church as some more forthright religions call their Christian places of worship. But it was worth the wait to learn to sort out mouthings from really useful expressions. There were lots of the former, but my real interest is in the latter. They became a part of my self. So much so that I can only identify two or three at this moment.

One was "conscience". My mother actually used it a lot. She said, "Let your conscience be your guide." At meeting it was rarely spoken. There wasn't much place for the individual even in those kinder days. They were kinder though. Another expression, if in fact it is a single word, used often by the lay preachers, was "lovingkindness". I still use it when I'm thinking, but would never utter it. I'm conscious of being pleasantly old, but still wish to avoid being thought of as archaic. Nonetheless, it's a warm thought which I'm pondering when lovingkindness comes to mind.

Another really important word which rests in the fore of my mind is "stewardship". I understood it to mean that since I'm a temporary resident of this planet I don't really own anything. But I do have a responsibility to behave properly with all those things which aren't really mine. And since I have a conscience, which in my opinion is quite active, I remind myself of this fairly often. Sometimes I find the word "stewardship" in print. And then I am delighted.

In this age of sometimes superficial ecological concern, I wish lots of people thought about stewardship, were pricked often by their consciences, and practised plenty of lovingkindness. Even if they never spoke these silent words.

Along the Trail

I was thinking about Ulmer Bird and the strange way we met. It was just 23 years ago to the month. He met me in his church. A white clapboard building with a small peaked tower, standing in solitary desolation on the plain. Near the banks of the Yellow Wolf River, and some distance from the Sunday House in Sweetwater. But just a short drive in the spirit of West Texans.

We sat alone and austere amongst the wooden folding chairs. Eyeing each other nervously. Each with a mission. And the sense that maybe our missions were incongruent. I knew enough of country life to not blurt out my intent. That I learned years earlier in the Edgeley post office and general store. Now swallowed whole in the Toronto megalopolis.

Nonetheless, my purpose was simple and direct. And so was Ulmer’s, I was to discover. But only later. We talked about the country and how Sanco had become a ghost town. Years before there had been boll weevils. And now drought, in its seventh year. There was something Biblical in the conversation. Then a cautious bit of talk about our families. I think Ulmer was pleased that I had six children. He probably thought that the whole film crew were licentious gadabouts. Then I told him that we wanted to use his old Sanco filling station as a location. And that overgrown and dilapidated, with rusting gasoline pumps, it was perfect for a scene in Red Desert Penitentiary.

My request, because it really was a request, was answered with some comments about his dear wife Josephine and her skills as a cook. At respectful intervals thereafter, I raised the subject again. We needed that location badly, and right away. And again. Dusk was approaching and I knew the moment of truth had arrived. I lied to the preacher. A cock and bull tale that we had another site available at Maryneal, and I must rush off to make final arrangements there.

Ulmer looked me straight in the eye, and said, “Is it a dirty film?” Knowing full well that the nude bathing scene with Cathryn Bissell playing Myrna would qualify it as X-rated to his Methodist understandings, I emphasized only the international reputation of Director George Sluizer. And Ulmer said “yes”.

Over the following years we kept up a sporadic correspondence. The last letter from Sanco reported on Ulmer’s physical decline. It closed with “Your coming our way was a high point in our lives, and we are richer for it. Love from both of us, Josephine”. The feeling was mutual.

The Hasidim

One winter day Kyle and I were walking to 4 Frères to buy a few things for dinner. It was a Saturday and it was quite cold. Suddenly a man dressed in the garb of a Hasidic Jew rushed out of his house and asked me to “fix his furnace”. Taken aback, I mumbled something about my incompetence in such matters. But he ushered both of us in and told us that his furnace was malfunctioning and he needed to turn on the auxiliary electrical heating.

Kyle was just visiting then from Vancouver. So she was totally mystified. But I suddenly understood. On their Sabbath the Hasidim must not touch anything mechanical. Not light switches, or stoves, or cars. The latter is the main reason they live within walking distance of their places of worship.

So round the house we went flicking switches as directed. You can imagine Kyle’s confusion about what was going on, until we left and I explained things to her!

These people remind me of the Christian group in which I was raised. They are quite separate from non-Hasidim. They have large families. And they work for each other. Also, it seems, that they are people of the Book. Quite literal in their interpretations of the sacred text. They also know how to stretch their own rules for convenience. Such as when they construct “erouvs”. This irritates some other citizens, particularly, I suspect, those with slight anti-semitic sentiments. We all try at times to justify our actions, so I simply find it amusing.

When Lotte Reiniger lived with us in the 1970s she would stand on the balcony and watch the Hasidim go to worship. It made her recall her home in Berlin in the 1930s. There were tears in her eyes.

Time........ and Roger

Pat's high school math teacher said that time itself was changing. Not just an individual's perception of time. I sometimes wonder if Mr. Howard was right. Yes, I know there are all kinds of ways of measuring it accurately. But suppose those methods and techniques themselves were adjusting to some cosmic force. Eluding the best that science has to offer. And how to put the measure to fleeting moments, aeons, eras, or perpetual?

Roger understood those things better than most. When he was on the brink of leaving, we had an exciting conversation over the miles about eternity. I say exciting because we confirmed our presence in what some may consider a void. Or others may have it populated with harps and angels and many mansions. Still others expect a future on the wrong side of the River Styx.

One of his favourite poems was Ralph Hodgson's Time, You Old Gypsy Man. Since Roger told me about it years ago, it has also become special to me. When I leave I too will join Roger and the old fellow and become time itself. Yes, Mr. Howard is right.

TIME, you old gipsy man,

Will you not stay,

Put up your caravan

Just for one day?

All things I'll give you

Will you be my guest,

Bells for your jennet

Of silver the best,

Goldsmiths shall beat you

A great golden ring,

Peacocks shall bow to you,

Little boys sing.

Oh, and sweet girls will

Festoon you with may,

Time, you old gipsy,

Why hasten away?

Last week in Babylon,

Last night in Rome,

Morning, and in the crush

Under Paul's dome;

Under Pauls' dial

You tighten your rein --

Only a moment,

And off once again;

Off to some city

Now blind in the womb,

Off to another

Ere that's in the tomb.

Time, you old gipsy man,

Will you not stay,

Put up your caravan

Just for one day?

Good Intentions

Newspapers here use the term friendly fire to describe the wounding or killing of soldiers by allied gunmen. At one time this might have been described as deadly error, fatal incompetence, or in the case of a civilian, manslaughter. While a touch of gentility often betrays kindness, the euphemisms for killing or maiming are nothing but a whitewash.

And there are lots of them. Others that come quickly to mind include fallout, side-effects, collateral damage, and unintended consequences. They’re all designed to let the perpetrators off the hook, or to excuse innovation and action without foresight.

An article called Good Intentions begins;

Must we persist in innovating without anticipating the broad consequences of our actions? It as if good intentions alone excuse narrow vision. Doctors and drug companies were not driven by malice to profer Thalidomide to pregnant women. Henry Ford’s wildest dreams failed to reveal the social fallout which would accompany his production system. And the corporate innovators of television technology and broadcasting were only “doing their thing”

From Media & Education, April 15, 1976.

Ach mein Gott! When one begins quoting oneself it must be an early sign of senility (<;

Fire and Water

After two years, it had become a tradition. So, this third year, after unloading our bags, Ellis and Julian immediately joined me in the search. This year Megan was with us too. The beach was mostly pebbly, but rocky in some spots. Easy to spot the driftwood bleached white from the sun. First we collected the kindling. Then later the more substantial bits and pieces of limbs and lumber washed ashore by Lake Ontario’s “tides”.

Then, as the sun began to set on the landward horizon the next step in the holiest of holy rituals began. Our techniques and successes would win the approval of even the most demanding Scoutmaster. Very quickly flames were a’dance in the stone-lined pit.

Little Lylo, too young yet to gather the makings, was as entranced as anyone. None of them really likes eating marshmallows, but they all love toasting them over the open fire.No waiting for the embers either.

As darkness settled it was totally therapeutic to loll about, enchanted by the sights, sounds, and smells of campfire and the rhythmic beat of the waves gently breaking on the shore.

Fire and water, the sometime foes. Joined in complementary harmony. A rustic Yin and Yang.

Whistlin' in the Wind

My neighbour whistles. She just began to do this about six weeks ago, I was quite startled the first time I heard her warbling away as she hung her laundry out to dry. Actually, I was shocked. Was she in love? Or had she consciously set upon a desperate course to revive the long-lost art of schoolboys?

It conjured up memories which were at once pleasant. But also disconcerting. Recollections of youthful days when whistlers were abundant, and displayed their varied talents without a shred of self-consciousness. Walking to school. Cycling in the countryside. Standing by the lathe while producing parts for Lancaster bombers. Yes, we used to whistle God Save the King and even ditties about whistling itself, like Whistle while you work. Hitler is a jerk.

What has brought about not only the decline, but the fall of this widespread folk art? Air and sound pollution in the cities? The Walkman and its descendents? Then the ipod? Perhaps the culprit is all in our minds. Preoccupation with mutual funds and pensions. Consumed by the seduction of consumption itself. Even whistling to bring your pet pooch back to heel has been replaced by leads and leashes, or a plastic toy which blasts forth an unmelodious note.

Or is it feminism? It’s no longer correct behaviour to let out a phew...eet, phoo..ee...oo at a pretty gal walking on the other side of the street. On second thought it could be that’s this loss to humanity is related to the disappearance of the steam engine. That bold and mighty inspiration to musical sibilation. Whatever.... whistling’s gone.....caput....fini.

Unless my neighbour’s cheery notes are contagious, trend-setting, or even become the basis for another reality show.

Will the Boat Sink the Water?

This book about the life of China's peasants is remarkable. Although the Middle Kingdom pundits have seized upon it to justify their own political views, often at polar opposites, it's richness lies in its style rather than its statements. Written by Chen Guidi and Wu Chuntao, a husband and wife investigative journalist team, it fulfills and then transcends the reportage with a delightful, yet low-key, literary manner. Further, the book's translator, Zhu Hong, has retained the nuances of the original Chinese language edition.

And the subject? In a word, the plight of impoverished peasants who are often ruled in feudal manner by corrupt, self-serving, tyrannical and brutal officials, far from the bright lights of Shanghai and other burgeoning cities.

The title is drawn from a typical Chinese aphorism attributed to Emperor Taizong (Tang Dynasty 600-649). Writers Chen and Wu’s publishing experience illustrates the erratic loosening up of information control as China experiments with its entry onto the world stage. Publishing initiatives in China, as with other media, are subject to approval by officials at various levels. The official edition sold over 250,000 copies prior to being banned. Following its withdrawal from shops, pirated copies were made and are estimated to have reached up to twelve million units.

This is not samizdat, handwritten or typed, and furtively passed around to trusted recipients! Which in itself speaks volumes (no pun intended) about the changing censorship situation in China!

But the real joy contained in these pages is to be found in the authors’ empathy with and understanding of the victims, and their commitment to shine the light on these horrors. The fact too, that despite official harassment, they continue to pursue their mission. Implicit in their experience is that the State is not monolithic. But diverse, and in many cases officials are very sympathetic. It is the system itself which is flawed. And the very fact that Will the Boat Sink the Water? was legally published indicates a positive trend.

Will the Boat Sink the Water? [ Zhongguo Nongmin Diaocha]

Written by Chen Guidi and Wu Chuntao

Published in English by Public Affairs, New York [2006]

ISBN-13: 978-1-58648-358-6