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.