A Day of Remembrance

Nov.  11 2014

At the bottom of the hill where you turn the corner onto Beecher, on the right, between the road and the water, is Midden Harbour’s war memorial.  It’s not large, but impressive nonetheless;  a granite wreath and cross with the names of all those lost in the two world wars plus one name—Gerald Field Martin—from Afghanistan.  There are none from Vietnam despite the fact that two young men volunteered and died in that fight.  Lots of debate over that at the time and still.

Today the memorial will have a fresh wreath laid at its base in a small ceremony attended by a few people.  No official functions, but you see lots of poppies around town, and the post office and market always have the donation pot set up to collect for veterans’ programs.     When you think about it, seems a meagre reverence to a great sacrifice, but it’s been a long time. 

Have always been torn about all this.  On the one hand, there can be no doubt about the value and heroism of the individuals, both survivors and casualties, who were sent onto the battlefield.  Their personal sacrifice cannot be overstated.  But on the other hand, the  homage almost seems to celebrate war.  Focusing on the gallantry of warriors obscures the horrors and the folly of war.  It is a barbaric, simplistic, pathological expression of failure.  Violence has to be considered in any supposed civilized society as an admission that we couldn’t come up with anything better.  And it should never be celebrated.

So, today I will salute and celebrate those who put themselves in harm’s way on my behalf.  But at the same time I will acknowledge my anger and sadness over the human failure which spawned such waste.

Climate

Nov. 9 2014

There’s an old joke told by west coast residents when asked about the rain:

“Doesn’t it rain a lot out there?”

“Only rains twice a year.”

“Twice a year?”

“Yup.  Once for two months and once for four months.  Twice a year.”

Today it rained for two months.  At least that’s what it felt like.  But for all that, it’s reassuring that the weather here is sticking close to form, it sure doesn’t appear to be doing that in other places.  The litany of Once in a Century global weather events is long and growing—years of drought in Southern California, record rains in Britain, record heat in Australia,  snowfall in Jerusalem. 

Yet as all this happens, as seas rise and glaciers thaw, we remain embroiled in a debate over whether the climate is changing, and if it is, whether or not human activity is a significant factor.  Really?  The argument is that because there might be a doubt about whether what humans are doing is making matters worse, we’re going to do nothing!  Shouldn’t it be that if there is any chance that humans are contributing to the problem, we should be doing whatever we can to stop?

And if matters aren’t bad enough, after this week’s election in the U.S. there’s a good chance that Republican climate-denial cheerleader James Inhofe is going to be made chair of the Senate Committee on the Environment.  Add this to the inevitability that the Republican Congress will approve the Keystone pipeline to carry millions of barrels of tar sand oil through the American heartland.

Ain’t we a grand species.

Cold and Wet Democracy

Nov. 1 2014

It’s fall.  It’s cold and wet and dark and… I’m inside dressed in a flannel shirt and wool socks with some shed-dried alder burning quietly in the fireplace and in the Puffin’ Billy.  “Fireplace” doesn’t need explanation; maybe a description:  It’s large, built of river rock—those round ones about the size of a large loaf of sourdough. When I built it—well, handed rocks to Thomas Littlebear while he built it—I insisted that the hearth be off the ground a couple of feet so I could sit on it.  The mantle is one ten foot piece of cedar wide enough for Butkus to sleep on if he could get up there.  

“Puffin’ Billy” is another matter.  These stoves have been around since the gold rushes of the late 19^th century.  They’re oval in shape and come in a variety of sizes that will heat anything from a standup tent to a 1000 square foot house.  Miners loved them because they’re made of tin and weigh almost nothing.  They could be strapped on the back of a horse or mule or thrown into a wagon, hardly increasing the load being carried.  Now, they’re popular with back to the landers and survivalists.  I’m neither, but the stove is cheap and so am I.  The stove has some quirks.  If you let the fire get too hot, the sides of the stove will glow bright red, and have been known to ignite a newspaper or book or cloth left too close.  If you get the fire really cooking, the top, a round piece of bent tin sitting on top of the stove, has a tendency to bounce with the result that both cacophony and smoke are released into the room in great qualities.

I love my Puffin’ Billy.

Anyway…

I’ve spent today on the couch reading and napping and watching TV.  Don’t have TV on the boat, and as strange as this seems I never miss it.  Strange I suppose because I am technically in the news business, and should be keeping up with what’s going on in the world.  But I find all I need online when I’m in the office.  If something occurs between Wednesday afternoon and Monday, I assume someone will wander down to the dock or pick up a cell phone, and let me know. 

What I learned today was that the American electoral process is even more screwed than it was two years ago.  The United States of America, the global posterboy for democracy has let it’s process become so twisted that there’s an argument to be made that it is a democracy in default.  Will have more to say about this when I’ve watched more 24 hours cable news.

Halloween

Friday Oct. 31, 2014

Halloween. 

I grew up in a large eastern city, in a working class neighbourhood where everyone lived in apartment blocks—some might have called them tenements—or fourplexes.  None of my friends lived in houses with lawns and garages and their own side walk.  The nearest park to my home was right blocks away, so we played in the lanes and on the grounds of the mental hospital at the end of the street.

We did this sans parents or babysitters or guardians.  By the time we were 6, the routine on Saturdays during the school year and every day in summers was to be out the front door by 9 and not return until lunch or dinner.  We played endless games of cowboys and Indians, and stando, and horse, all impromptu, all without adult supervision or intervention.  We entertained ourselves ourselves.  No one felt the need to organize our time or our activities, and no one worried about us coming to harm—beyond the odd skinned knee or chipped tooth.

On Halloween, from the age of 6, all the kids in the neighbourhood tricked and treated with their friends.  My memories of those times are filled with images of streets filled with children dancing around and singing or shouting, and consulting about which homes had the best treats.  Candy apples were especially coveted, and no one bothered to check them for razor blades.  And there were no adults.  Parents didn’t feel the need to hover over their children, and if the child was not old enough to go out alone, then an older brother or sister or cousin was recruited to let their younger sibling tag along on their candy search.

Amazingly, a similar scenario played out here in Midden Harbour tonight.  There were some parents out with their kids, but very few.  I find that strangely heartwarming; a confirmation of the value of small town life.  Places like this have retained so much of what we used to see as the hallmarks of our society.  We don’t have a Starbucks or an Apple store or a Montessori school, but we do have a community.

American Democracy

Thursday Oct. 30 2014

Move all done.  Took the whole of Tuesday to transport my stuff from the boat, and settle it and myself into the cabin.  Wednesday was spent draining, flushing and stowing, and otherwise winterizing the boat.  Felt too warm to be doing it, but better sweat than sleet.  Have tempted the weather gods a few times over the years, and inevitably they pull the old bait and switch—cloudless late fall warmth for gale driven icy rain.  The work still has to be done, only it has to be done with frozen hands in soaking clothes while storm swells make what should have been a few easy hours of pleasant tasks into a day or more of torture.

Enjoying my week off.  Only get a couple a year, my time to become vegetative.  Gives me time to peek over the coastal mountains for a glimpse of what the rest of the planet is doing.  One of these times I’ll be pleasantly surprised, but not this week.

With the American mid-term election less than a week away, it seems that democracy’s “Shining city on the hill” has become a ghetto.  With electoral districts gerrymandered to ensure maximum power for powerful groups by locking minorities into meandering patchworks of districts, there is no chance that the Democrats can retake the House of Representatives now or at any time in the future. 

Making matters worse is the campaign to change voter registration processes and the rules around advanced voting.  Without exception, the registration changes have made it more difficult to vote, particularly for the poor and the elderly, both Democratic constituencies.  The advance voting rule changes have also impacted these groups, but reducing voter access to alternative times and means for casting a ballot.  

And if all this wasn’t discouraging enough, there is the spectre of the Citizen’s United Supreme Court ruling that essentially opened the flood gates for special interest money—read “corporate”—to spend as much as they want to influence the outcomes of elections.  

Congratulations America!  At a time in human history when oligarchy, ideological, political and corporate, is making its boldest move since Mao and Stalin, you have managed to discredit the best hope we had against these powerful forces. 

There are times when I wish the mountains were higher.