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