Our good friend Jim Miller died, November 25. I've known Jim and Marlene for decades, working closing with them on the Castle Kilbride restoration, sharing dinner and glasses of wine on many occasions, debating and discussing matters of state (Jim was never short of opinions), and often marvelling over the latest absolutely perfect antique or classic car he had acquired and would sell. Or might not sell for a while, because he loved to be surrounded with unique, beautiful things.
He battled cancer we always say that, but in Jim's case it was the utter truth to the end, dealing antiques one week, gone the next.
Several communities came together as one for Jim's funeral. Antique and classic car dealers from across North America showed up. A good proportion of long-time Baden residents were there. And then there were all the others who simply were his friends. It was an eclectic group, and a similarly eclectic funeral.
The gathering was too big for the Millers' Lutheran church in Baden. So, the funeral was held at a Mennonite church, led by my favourite United Church minister (my wife, Nancy), with servers and ushers from several congregations and the community at large.
I went away from a beautiful funeral service thinking about Jim Miller stories. For it seems that everyone who met Jim including the 700 who visited the funeral home and almost 500 who came to the funeral came away with a Jim story to tell. He was that kind of guy.
Speaking at the funeral, one antique dealer recalled buying a trailer of antiques from Jim, sight unseen, because the offer was "$10,000 if you look at the stuff, $8,000 if you buy it sight unseen." He couldn't resist the ridiculous offer, and reluctantly admitted that it had been a good deal.
As I listened to the stories, I was reminded of a whole raft of Jim stories of my own. I laughed about the evening he showed up at our door in a gorgeous classic Packard; he'd been wondering how fast that very heavy automobile would go if you began from a standing start, in neutral, at the top of Bender Hill. So we drove up to the top of that hill, rocked back and forth to start the car moving, and by the time we hit the upslope on Huron, we were going very fast, indeed.
A lot of warm, funny things were shared about Jim. I can think of no better tribute that to remember him as a man who left a story with everyone he met.
The funeral itself was vintage Jim Miller. He had played a large part in planning it. I suspect most of the people who filed into the hall at Steinmann Mennonite had never been to a funeral that was preceded by music by the Dave Clark Five, Madonna, Harry Chapin, the Thompson Twins, Jim Croce, Roy Orbison, and Billy Joel, among others. This menu of music was followed, still pre-service, by a slide show with a soundtrack by the Beatles, Elton John and many more.
In the midst of the service itself, we sat quietly and listened, not to traditional hymns, but to "In My Dreams" by REO Speedwagon.
There were stories, there was music, there were images of Jim's beloved Rudy the Rooster, the fowl-on-the-lam befriended by Jim, even in the face of threats from the township bylaw department. And there were scripture readings and prayer, too, because Jim was a spiritual man, and wanted Nancy to bring those important things to the unique mix of the occasion.
As we left the reception, I realized that Jim had done it, one more time every person at the unique service went away with one more Jim Miller story. What a legacy.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
Kicks to be found in the bucket list
It was like being repeatedly hit over the head with a bucket. Actually, with a bucket list.
That's one of those phrases that has slipped easily into our collective vocabulary that idea of a list of things we would like to do before... well, before we cannot do them, any more. Before we boot the aforementioned water container.
I heard it voiced several times in the past few weeks, during a multiple-stop trip to Florida. Each time someone referred to the idea, it drove home a certain reality even further into my consciousness -- i.e., that I am rapidly approaching the "bucket list" time of my life. More to the point, I have reached my 60th birthday.
Sixty. It comes, not with despair, but certainly with a sense of finiteness. I remember when I thought 50 was old. Nope, it wasn't. And now sixty. Well, maybe. It feels different. Older, perhaps... that would make a certain amount of sense.
The term "bucket list" was used by a number of strangers we encountered, in a variety of locales. We sat on the pier at Key West and watched the sun go down -- a daily ritual in that town, accompanied by street performers, drinks and then a hush followed by applause at the sun dips into the Gulf of Mexico. For a lot of people, enjoying that experience is an item on their bucket list. We heard murmurs to that effect on every side.
A delightful group of ladies aged 70-or-so who we met en route confided over cocktails that they had recently scratched an item off their bucket lists -- they had puffed on a marijuana joint at a birthday party for a septuagenarian.
I am not recommending this, but if anything can make grass cute, that might be it. Most, by the way, didn't inhale -- apparently, simply being in the vicinity of a doobie was enough to eliminate that item from their lists. From what we heard, though, the inherent giggling has lasted for days, perhaps weeks.
They are unlikely to turn into dopers -- their bucket lists are lengthy and creative. I think that's the secret of bucket lists -- make 'em long and whimsical. The saddest thing would be to scratch off the final item, look up, and wonder what else there is to do this week.
So I have begun ruminating about my own, personal list. A few things have been scratched off, mentally, even before I have started writing them down. Sea kayaking, for example -- we were lured into kayaks during a visit to Captiva Island, and spent an enchanting three hours floating inches above sting rays, and gliding silently around islands inhabited by bald eagles. Amazing. It's off the list, but I'd do it again in a second -- so maybe some things can remain as repeat intentions.
Once upon a time, my list would have included running for political office. Well, that's off the list and, unlike sea kayaking, it is gone for good. Really. I have retrieved my hat from the ring, and I'm wearing it to the golf course.
Maybe that will be one item on the list -- to shoot in the 80's. And no -- not on the first nine. I almost broke 100 on our trip, except the borrowed golf clubs were clearly defective.
And let me be clear -- my list will not share the stated item with those partying ladies. I have no wish to revisit that ancient era.
That was a long time ago, wasn't it? Sixty does seem somewhat advanced -- or let's just agree, it's a good time to start making a list.
That's one of those phrases that has slipped easily into our collective vocabulary that idea of a list of things we would like to do before... well, before we cannot do them, any more. Before we boot the aforementioned water container.
I heard it voiced several times in the past few weeks, during a multiple-stop trip to Florida. Each time someone referred to the idea, it drove home a certain reality even further into my consciousness -- i.e., that I am rapidly approaching the "bucket list" time of my life. More to the point, I have reached my 60th birthday.
Sixty. It comes, not with despair, but certainly with a sense of finiteness. I remember when I thought 50 was old. Nope, it wasn't. And now sixty. Well, maybe. It feels different. Older, perhaps... that would make a certain amount of sense.
The term "bucket list" was used by a number of strangers we encountered, in a variety of locales. We sat on the pier at Key West and watched the sun go down -- a daily ritual in that town, accompanied by street performers, drinks and then a hush followed by applause at the sun dips into the Gulf of Mexico. For a lot of people, enjoying that experience is an item on their bucket list. We heard murmurs to that effect on every side.
A delightful group of ladies aged 70-or-so who we met en route confided over cocktails that they had recently scratched an item off their bucket lists -- they had puffed on a marijuana joint at a birthday party for a septuagenarian.
I am not recommending this, but if anything can make grass cute, that might be it. Most, by the way, didn't inhale -- apparently, simply being in the vicinity of a doobie was enough to eliminate that item from their lists. From what we heard, though, the inherent giggling has lasted for days, perhaps weeks.
They are unlikely to turn into dopers -- their bucket lists are lengthy and creative. I think that's the secret of bucket lists -- make 'em long and whimsical. The saddest thing would be to scratch off the final item, look up, and wonder what else there is to do this week.
So I have begun ruminating about my own, personal list. A few things have been scratched off, mentally, even before I have started writing them down. Sea kayaking, for example -- we were lured into kayaks during a visit to Captiva Island, and spent an enchanting three hours floating inches above sting rays, and gliding silently around islands inhabited by bald eagles. Amazing. It's off the list, but I'd do it again in a second -- so maybe some things can remain as repeat intentions.
Once upon a time, my list would have included running for political office. Well, that's off the list and, unlike sea kayaking, it is gone for good. Really. I have retrieved my hat from the ring, and I'm wearing it to the golf course.
Maybe that will be one item on the list -- to shoot in the 80's. And no -- not on the first nine. I almost broke 100 on our trip, except the borrowed golf clubs were clearly defective.
And let me be clear -- my list will not share the stated item with those partying ladies. I have no wish to revisit that ancient era.
That was a long time ago, wasn't it? Sixty does seem somewhat advanced -- or let's just agree, it's a good time to start making a list.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
The dog days of autumn
Sorry. I know it has been a while... I've been sick.
Well, no, I've been campaigning. Which is sometimes equivalent.
When I signed up to run for mayor, I knew some of the things that might be important -- issues, policies, efforts, special events, advertising, that sort of thing.
What I didn't count on was the influence of dogs in the campaign.
Just yesterday, I called at a home where the very active and defensive dog confronted me through the screen door. Which at that time seemed to me to be a very unsubstantial screen door, indeed.
The owner joined us, and his opening remark was, "If my dog doesn't like you, I don't think I can vote for you."
Well, that's discouraging.
But then he added, "Actually, he barks at everyone like that." So unless the owner is looking for a reason not to vote, he's going to have to use some other oracle. The dog has taken a universal scunner to politicians. Not all that unwise, come to think of it, but still not helpful in determining which undesirable politician one is going to support.
I've also encountered the opposite response. In two cases on one day, I heard "My dog doesn't usually like anyone, but she seems to like you. You have my vote."
Who am I to disparage such thinking. I know that people vote for a lot of reasons, and some I have heard are not as well thought through as this, so I'm happy to be the beneficiary of the friendly dog ballot.
I have a friend who is in the dog food business, and believe me, after visiting some thousands of homes, I want a piece of his action. I believe there are about 1.75 dogs for every human in this municipality. Big dogs. Dogs who hit the door at full speed when I ring the bell. Tiny dogs. Friendly dogs. Dogs where, if they act the way they sound, you don't want anyone to be home and open that door.
One thing is clear... as I work my way around our communities each day, meeting voters and canine vote influencers, I become much more interesting to the dogs as the time goes on.
The first dog finds me pretty bland, and is not much interested in my freshly laundered trousers. A casual sniff is the sum total of that relationship.
The second dog... more interest. Not because of me, of course, but because of my recent, brief encounter with Dog One. This level of interest expands geometrically as I meet dog after dog, until by the end of the day, the dogs find me the most interesting man in the world, Dos Equis notwithstanding.
I have no idea how this election will work out, but if I am not the people's choice, I can at least be consoled by the fact that I seem to be the choice of the vast majority of dogs. And I am pretty sure I'm going to invest in a dog food business. Either that, or a company that replaces front doors and door screens.
Well, no, I've been campaigning. Which is sometimes equivalent.
When I signed up to run for mayor, I knew some of the things that might be important -- issues, policies, efforts, special events, advertising, that sort of thing.
What I didn't count on was the influence of dogs in the campaign.
Just yesterday, I called at a home where the very active and defensive dog confronted me through the screen door. Which at that time seemed to me to be a very unsubstantial screen door, indeed.
The owner joined us, and his opening remark was, "If my dog doesn't like you, I don't think I can vote for you."
Well, that's discouraging.
But then he added, "Actually, he barks at everyone like that." So unless the owner is looking for a reason not to vote, he's going to have to use some other oracle. The dog has taken a universal scunner to politicians. Not all that unwise, come to think of it, but still not helpful in determining which undesirable politician one is going to support.
I've also encountered the opposite response. In two cases on one day, I heard "My dog doesn't usually like anyone, but she seems to like you. You have my vote."
Who am I to disparage such thinking. I know that people vote for a lot of reasons, and some I have heard are not as well thought through as this, so I'm happy to be the beneficiary of the friendly dog ballot.
I have a friend who is in the dog food business, and believe me, after visiting some thousands of homes, I want a piece of his action. I believe there are about 1.75 dogs for every human in this municipality. Big dogs. Dogs who hit the door at full speed when I ring the bell. Tiny dogs. Friendly dogs. Dogs where, if they act the way they sound, you don't want anyone to be home and open that door.
One thing is clear... as I work my way around our communities each day, meeting voters and canine vote influencers, I become much more interesting to the dogs as the time goes on.
The first dog finds me pretty bland, and is not much interested in my freshly laundered trousers. A casual sniff is the sum total of that relationship.
The second dog... more interest. Not because of me, of course, but because of my recent, brief encounter with Dog One. This level of interest expands geometrically as I meet dog after dog, until by the end of the day, the dogs find me the most interesting man in the world, Dos Equis notwithstanding.
I have no idea how this election will work out, but if I am not the people's choice, I can at least be consoled by the fact that I seem to be the choice of the vast majority of dogs. And I am pretty sure I'm going to invest in a dog food business. Either that, or a company that replaces front doors and door screens.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Inch by inch, door by door
I'm packed, and ready to go. Except, today, the weather gods have conspired against me.
At this point in the election campaign, I start my day (after coffee and the crossword, of course) by loading my blue satchel with Paul Knowles for Mayor brochures, some buttons (same theme, surprisingly enough), a bottle of water, and some note paper and a pen.
And then I am off to go door to door, meeting the residents of Wilmot township. This was the plan this morning, too... except torrential rains and some thunderstorms have put a bit of a cramp in the schedule. It's supposed to get nicer, though, so I should be able to hit the streets later in the day.
This door to door campaigning is very interesting. A bit unnerving, too -- after all, each new door is an adventure, and you never know what you are going to encounter.
I have found everything from a refusal to meet me ("I don't open my door to solicitors") to warm welcomes from both friends and strangers ("Come in and sit down. Tell us about the election.")
Mostly, when people are home, they are very cordial, and often downright friendly. Most are aware of the election, and I will not be surprised if this time, we see a much higher turnout than we have in recent decades (where in Wilmot we were lucky to have a quarter of eligible voters cast their ballots).
I have already learned about a number of local issues -- and I will be writing a more 'official' news release about these issues, and posting it on paulknowles.ca.
But to be more informal, in this space: here are some of my favourite moments, so far, in the door to door quest for votes:
* A man who refused my brochure, but then explained, "I don't need your brochure. You have our votes, so please use that material to convince someone else to support you. Good luck!"
* Three folks on the same street who greeted me with, "I was just reading about your wife!" -- Nancy was featured in Most magazine, because of the Kitchener-Waterloo Arts Award we won for New Hamburg Live.
* Two people who saw my vague profile through frosted glass beard and belly most obvious, I suppose (I gotta stop standing in profile!), and assumed I was one of my similarly portly competitors.
* A friend who opened the door on one of the hottest afternoons, recognized that I was nearing the end of heat tolerance, and said, "Will you please go home before you kill yourself?"
* A series of women on one street who said, one after another, "You have my vote, because my neighbour has been singing your praises." Yo have to love neighbours like
that.
* Several voters who appear to support me after we discussed, not issues, but gardens. Which seems eminently sensible to me!
In the course of campaigning, I have been invited to meet lovely little dogs including a beagle named Molly (I accepted), to assist one friend in painting his foyer (I declined), and to give a hug to a long-time acquaintance who now lives in a seniors' apartment (I accepted).
I have also realized, as I attend larger events, that political campaigning involves a lot of eating, most of it excellent if not entirely fat-free. Pork chops, corn on the cob, sausages, hot dogs, ice cream, pie... all of which helps to explain why at least two of the candidates look like this. Or, at least, will continue to look like this for the foreseeable future. Maybe the multiple kilometers we will walk will counteract this, but I doubt it.
All in all, although it takes a bit of self-induced oomph to knock on that first door, each time, I am genuinely enjoying the process. And the good news is, there are only several thousand more doors to go.
At this point in the election campaign, I start my day (after coffee and the crossword, of course) by loading my blue satchel with Paul Knowles for Mayor brochures, some buttons (same theme, surprisingly enough), a bottle of water, and some note paper and a pen.
And then I am off to go door to door, meeting the residents of Wilmot township. This was the plan this morning, too... except torrential rains and some thunderstorms have put a bit of a cramp in the schedule. It's supposed to get nicer, though, so I should be able to hit the streets later in the day.
This door to door campaigning is very interesting. A bit unnerving, too -- after all, each new door is an adventure, and you never know what you are going to encounter.
I have found everything from a refusal to meet me ("I don't open my door to solicitors") to warm welcomes from both friends and strangers ("Come in and sit down. Tell us about the election.")
Mostly, when people are home, they are very cordial, and often downright friendly. Most are aware of the election, and I will not be surprised if this time, we see a much higher turnout than we have in recent decades (where in Wilmot we were lucky to have a quarter of eligible voters cast their ballots).
I have already learned about a number of local issues -- and I will be writing a more 'official' news release about these issues, and posting it on paulknowles.ca.
But to be more informal, in this space: here are some of my favourite moments, so far, in the door to door quest for votes:
* A man who refused my brochure, but then explained, "I don't need your brochure. You have our votes, so please use that material to convince someone else to support you. Good luck!"
* Three folks on the same street who greeted me with, "I was just reading about your wife!" -- Nancy was featured in Most magazine, because of the Kitchener-Waterloo Arts Award we won for New Hamburg Live.
* Two people who saw my vague profile through frosted glass beard and belly most obvious, I suppose (I gotta stop standing in profile!), and assumed I was one of my similarly portly competitors.
* A friend who opened the door on one of the hottest afternoons, recognized that I was nearing the end of heat tolerance, and said, "Will you please go home before you kill yourself?"
* A series of women on one street who said, one after another, "You have my vote, because my neighbour has been singing your praises." Yo have to love neighbours like
that.
* Several voters who appear to support me after we discussed, not issues, but gardens. Which seems eminently sensible to me!
In the course of campaigning, I have been invited to meet lovely little dogs including a beagle named Molly (I accepted), to assist one friend in painting his foyer (I declined), and to give a hug to a long-time acquaintance who now lives in a seniors' apartment (I accepted).
I have also realized, as I attend larger events, that political campaigning involves a lot of eating, most of it excellent if not entirely fat-free. Pork chops, corn on the cob, sausages, hot dogs, ice cream, pie... all of which helps to explain why at least two of the candidates look like this. Or, at least, will continue to look like this for the foreseeable future. Maybe the multiple kilometers we will walk will counteract this, but I doubt it.
All in all, although it takes a bit of self-induced oomph to knock on that first door, each time, I am genuinely enjoying the process. And the good news is, there are only several thousand more doors to go.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Venison sausage, pickled eggs: gone fishin'
It worked out to about $10 a fish. And that was just for the fishing license -- I did not have to pay, personally, for the boat, the captain, the bait and other such essentials to a day-long bass fishing trip. That was all supplied by my friend Don, who hosts about 10 of us on such an outing, on Long Point Bay, every summer.
Now, when I say he does this every summer, I am being more presumptuous than I should be. Don keeps careful minutes, each trip, and the minutes always point out that each and every one of us, with the exception of mine host himself, is on probation.
It's not completely clear what we would have to do in order to lose our probationary rights, but none of us are eager to test the boundaries, at the risk of finding out. So, for example, we agree that Don always catches the biggest fish, and that it would be foolish to actually measure the bass, since Don's catch is demonstrably larger.
This is the only time, all year, that I fish. One day. Actually, by the time we made the trek to Port Rowan, and then took the two-hour boat ride to where the fish were allegedly biting, we probably got no more than about four hours of genuine fishing in.
In that time, I caught three fish, and watched several others escape my line. It's a thoughtful moment, when you realize a bass is smarter than you are. But I did triumph over our finned foes, three times in a day.
While this sounds less than stellar, I actually wound up in the middle of the pack, when it came to production this year. Everyone caught at least one fish, but for some, that was their total. No one caught their personal limit; Dave, our "sleeper" this year, caught nothing for about two and a half hours, and then landed (boated?) five in the last hour and a half to take the title.
This may not be exactly how it appears in the minutes of the meeting, however. Don has a way of massaging the facts, and may, in fact, wind up as the superior fisherman of record. Who are we probationers to argue?
All in all, this is an unusual day. It's always on a weekday, so except for two or three of the assembled multitude who are retired, for the rest of us it carries that special sense of playing hooky. We should be working; instead, to quote an ancient phrase, we have "gone fishin".
We all take along some edibles, which are served starting around 8 a.m. -- and comprise a most unusual breakfast. Venison summer sausage, for example, pickled eggs, limburger cheese with sweet onions; cheese curds (cheese is big with these guys), suicide pepperoni. Not your standard healthy breakfast, but it seems just right, when you are skimming (well, in this boat, perhaps "ploughing" is the more apt phrase) across the waters of Lake Erie.
We get to the area where the fish are hanging out, today - how the captain knows, we don't ask... it would be like asking a Mason to reveal secrets of the order -- and we fish.
Actually, we cast out our lines, and reel them in. Pretty much everything else, except for the eating and drinking part, is handled by the captain. He puts the bait on the hooks, he replaces lost hooks and sinkers, he nets the fish. We take the credit... or give it to Don.
On the way home, we stop at a place where the owners have built a niche businesses, cleaning fish for the likes of us.
Then we finish the homeward trip (this year in a borrowed 1977 camper van with a designated driver), knowing the feast that awaits us once Don fires up the barbecue and concocts his secret bass seasoning.
One bit of that fresh-caught fish, and there is no doubt in anyone's mind that Don caught the most, the biggest, perhaps the only fish of the day! Let the record show it.
Now, when I say he does this every summer, I am being more presumptuous than I should be. Don keeps careful minutes, each trip, and the minutes always point out that each and every one of us, with the exception of mine host himself, is on probation.
It's not completely clear what we would have to do in order to lose our probationary rights, but none of us are eager to test the boundaries, at the risk of finding out. So, for example, we agree that Don always catches the biggest fish, and that it would be foolish to actually measure the bass, since Don's catch is demonstrably larger.
This is the only time, all year, that I fish. One day. Actually, by the time we made the trek to Port Rowan, and then took the two-hour boat ride to where the fish were allegedly biting, we probably got no more than about four hours of genuine fishing in.
In that time, I caught three fish, and watched several others escape my line. It's a thoughtful moment, when you realize a bass is smarter than you are. But I did triumph over our finned foes, three times in a day.
While this sounds less than stellar, I actually wound up in the middle of the pack, when it came to production this year. Everyone caught at least one fish, but for some, that was their total. No one caught their personal limit; Dave, our "sleeper" this year, caught nothing for about two and a half hours, and then landed (boated?) five in the last hour and a half to take the title.
This may not be exactly how it appears in the minutes of the meeting, however. Don has a way of massaging the facts, and may, in fact, wind up as the superior fisherman of record. Who are we probationers to argue?
All in all, this is an unusual day. It's always on a weekday, so except for two or three of the assembled multitude who are retired, for the rest of us it carries that special sense of playing hooky. We should be working; instead, to quote an ancient phrase, we have "gone fishin".
We all take along some edibles, which are served starting around 8 a.m. -- and comprise a most unusual breakfast. Venison summer sausage, for example, pickled eggs, limburger cheese with sweet onions; cheese curds (cheese is big with these guys), suicide pepperoni. Not your standard healthy breakfast, but it seems just right, when you are skimming (well, in this boat, perhaps "ploughing" is the more apt phrase) across the waters of Lake Erie.
We get to the area where the fish are hanging out, today - how the captain knows, we don't ask... it would be like asking a Mason to reveal secrets of the order -- and we fish.
Actually, we cast out our lines, and reel them in. Pretty much everything else, except for the eating and drinking part, is handled by the captain. He puts the bait on the hooks, he replaces lost hooks and sinkers, he nets the fish. We take the credit... or give it to Don.
On the way home, we stop at a place where the owners have built a niche businesses, cleaning fish for the likes of us.
Then we finish the homeward trip (this year in a borrowed 1977 camper van with a designated driver), knowing the feast that awaits us once Don fires up the barbecue and concocts his secret bass seasoning.
One bit of that fresh-caught fish, and there is no doubt in anyone's mind that Don caught the most, the biggest, perhaps the only fish of the day! Let the record show it.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Evening is for the birds
It's a remarkable sight.
Every evening, between 7:30 and 8 p.m., starlings congregate in the giant, old poplar in the field behind our home. They arrive singly, or in small groups, or in flocks of a hundred or more.
The first to come settle on the top, leafless branches of the dying tree. They are soon joined by others, and the noise begins... not singing, because these are starlings, after all, but their best efforts at chirping.
The first large flock to arrive is an amazing sight, as a hundred or more birds glide across the sky, and then swoop to their chosen perches. Then another flock, and another, until the tree contains more than a thousand loud birds, at a conservative estimate.
Sometimes, they spill over into other nearby trees, including our spruces, but if we clap our hands, they soar up out of the spruce trees and elbow their way into spaces on the poplar.
We try to imagine what they are doing in this nightly gathering. Reporting in? Sharing information about the best places to find edible insects? Or is it a singles bar for starlings?
They arrive over the course of a half hour or so; by the end of the exercise, the tree is quivering like a wet Labrador, even though no other tree nearby shows any movement at all.
The noise hits maximum level, everyone is chattering at once, and suddenly, on some signal that you know humans are never going to figure out, they are off, again. This tree is not their night-time perch... it's their after-work pub. They spend anything from forty minutes to 30 seconds, for the latest-comers, and then they are off to destinations we know not of.
It is not rare to see a lone starling or two soar in just as the crowd is departing. These tail-end Charlies never land, they simply tag along at the rear of one of the new flocks heading off to -- to what? A better bar, or a starling restaurant, now that they have had their pre-dinner cocktail?
It's a fascinating phenomenon, all the more so because it lends itself to no easy explanation. Anything we try to figure out smacks of blatant anthropomorphism, so it's probably better to go all the way and call the popular tree Cheers for the Birds.
Whatever the inspiration, it's loud, it's fraught with danger for human observers under the flight paths of these thousand-plus birds, and its absolutely intriguing.
Plenty of people don't have any affection for starlings... I'm thinking they might change their minds if they saw them in this unusual behaviour. Or, they might simply have a dry cleaning bill of major proportions.
Every evening, between 7:30 and 8 p.m., starlings congregate in the giant, old poplar in the field behind our home. They arrive singly, or in small groups, or in flocks of a hundred or more.
The first to come settle on the top, leafless branches of the dying tree. They are soon joined by others, and the noise begins... not singing, because these are starlings, after all, but their best efforts at chirping.
The first large flock to arrive is an amazing sight, as a hundred or more birds glide across the sky, and then swoop to their chosen perches. Then another flock, and another, until the tree contains more than a thousand loud birds, at a conservative estimate.
Sometimes, they spill over into other nearby trees, including our spruces, but if we clap our hands, they soar up out of the spruce trees and elbow their way into spaces on the poplar.
We try to imagine what they are doing in this nightly gathering. Reporting in? Sharing information about the best places to find edible insects? Or is it a singles bar for starlings?
They arrive over the course of a half hour or so; by the end of the exercise, the tree is quivering like a wet Labrador, even though no other tree nearby shows any movement at all.
The noise hits maximum level, everyone is chattering at once, and suddenly, on some signal that you know humans are never going to figure out, they are off, again. This tree is not their night-time perch... it's their after-work pub. They spend anything from forty minutes to 30 seconds, for the latest-comers, and then they are off to destinations we know not of.
It is not rare to see a lone starling or two soar in just as the crowd is departing. These tail-end Charlies never land, they simply tag along at the rear of one of the new flocks heading off to -- to what? A better bar, or a starling restaurant, now that they have had their pre-dinner cocktail?
It's a fascinating phenomenon, all the more so because it lends itself to no easy explanation. Anything we try to figure out smacks of blatant anthropomorphism, so it's probably better to go all the way and call the popular tree Cheers for the Birds.
Whatever the inspiration, it's loud, it's fraught with danger for human observers under the flight paths of these thousand-plus birds, and its absolutely intriguing.
Plenty of people don't have any affection for starlings... I'm thinking they might change their minds if they saw them in this unusual behaviour. Or, they might simply have a dry cleaning bill of major proportions.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Should we welcome Conrad home?
It's hard to feel sorry for Conrad Black. I mean, he was in the newspaper business, he sometimes uses archaic words, he's married to a talented woman... oh, wait, that seems like a terrifically sympathetic person, after all!
At any rate, here's poor Conrad, sent to jail in the US for what may or may not actually have been a crime (I lean toward the "not" option, personally). If there were crimes, they're probably victimless; on the other hand, Black is certainly the victim of the weird American system of "justice" that involves grandstanding public officials, outrageous plea bargaining (where is David Radler these days?), and penalties don't vaguely fit the crime.
But now, Conrad is out on bail, his sentence for most of his convictions is likely to be overturned, and it well may be decided that he has done his time for the final, still-in-effect conviction.
And thus, he says, he wants to return to Canada.
This may be more related to his current housing crisis than his love for his home and native land. He has apparently sold his homes in England, New York and (as of August), Palm Beach, leaving him only with a spacious dwelling in Toronto.
The apparent problem is, he isn't actually allowed to come to Canada. This is temporarily true because of his bail conditions, but even if they are waived, or he is declared a completely free man due to time served, he still may not be able to come home.
That's because, in a fit of pompous arrogance (I suspect that phrase to be redundant, but he can take arrogance to a whole new level), he renounced his Canadian citizenship back when he lusted after his British peerage... which the Queen graciously bestowed on Lord Black of Crossharbour. Of course, he was rather forced to choose because of the enmity of one Jean Chretien, and the entire thing thus becomes as muddy as certain harbours.
So, does Canada forgive and forget? Well, we're unlikely to forget... Mr. Black is not a person to slip out of one's national consciousness.
But forgive? I vote, yes... not that there is a vote involved. He is a Canadian, despite all the political and peerage machinations. He's more than that -- he's a Canadian character, in a era when too many of our national figures are largely character-less.
I think we demand an apology for his abandonment of Canada (which will hurt him much more than an extended prison term, I suspect) and then welcome him home. He can be an ass, but he is our very own ass, and to leave him in suspended animation as a man without a country, when he very clearly is Canadian and nothing but, would be wrong.
He may have set a record as the proudest Canadian to ever give up his Canadian citizenship; when the time comes and the outrageous American legal system says its okay, let's let him back in.
Maybe we could arrange for Chretien to meet him at the Toronto airport since, given the reports of their current financial situation, the Blacks may need to hitch a ride downtown.
At any rate, here's poor Conrad, sent to jail in the US for what may or may not actually have been a crime (I lean toward the "not" option, personally). If there were crimes, they're probably victimless; on the other hand, Black is certainly the victim of the weird American system of "justice" that involves grandstanding public officials, outrageous plea bargaining (where is David Radler these days?), and penalties don't vaguely fit the crime.
But now, Conrad is out on bail, his sentence for most of his convictions is likely to be overturned, and it well may be decided that he has done his time for the final, still-in-effect conviction.
And thus, he says, he wants to return to Canada.
This may be more related to his current housing crisis than his love for his home and native land. He has apparently sold his homes in England, New York and (as of August), Palm Beach, leaving him only with a spacious dwelling in Toronto.
The apparent problem is, he isn't actually allowed to come to Canada. This is temporarily true because of his bail conditions, but even if they are waived, or he is declared a completely free man due to time served, he still may not be able to come home.
That's because, in a fit of pompous arrogance (I suspect that phrase to be redundant, but he can take arrogance to a whole new level), he renounced his Canadian citizenship back when he lusted after his British peerage... which the Queen graciously bestowed on Lord Black of Crossharbour. Of course, he was rather forced to choose because of the enmity of one Jean Chretien, and the entire thing thus becomes as muddy as certain harbours.
So, does Canada forgive and forget? Well, we're unlikely to forget... Mr. Black is not a person to slip out of one's national consciousness.
But forgive? I vote, yes... not that there is a vote involved. He is a Canadian, despite all the political and peerage machinations. He's more than that -- he's a Canadian character, in a era when too many of our national figures are largely character-less.
I think we demand an apology for his abandonment of Canada (which will hurt him much more than an extended prison term, I suspect) and then welcome him home. He can be an ass, but he is our very own ass, and to leave him in suspended animation as a man without a country, when he very clearly is Canadian and nothing but, would be wrong.
He may have set a record as the proudest Canadian to ever give up his Canadian citizenship; when the time comes and the outrageous American legal system says its okay, let's let him back in.
Maybe we could arrange for Chretien to meet him at the Toronto airport since, given the reports of their current financial situation, the Blacks may need to hitch a ride downtown.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Rideau Hall is the Fortress of Solitude
Ran into an intriguing bit of bureaucratic overkill, this week.
You probably know that David Johnston, President of the University of Waterloo, has been named the next Governor General of Canada. That's pretty good news for our area. For some reason, Waterloo Region has been a hotbed of celebrity this summer -- Stephen Hawking is here, the Prime Minister has popped in, the Queen showed up to pick up her new Blackberry at the source.
And then we learned that Johnston is the new GG. Pretty cool, and perhaps this strikes a blow for all of us old, grey-haired guys who are now the forgotten minority. Grey power! Grey power! What was I saying?......
Joking aside, I wanted to interview Johnston for Exchange magazine, the business magazine which I edit.
Turns out, thanks to relentless bureaucratic power games, this cannot be done.
I have interviewed Johnston in the past, on several occasions. He's a personable guy, articulate, extremely intelligent, and very visionary. He's a great person to talk to, and his comments always make for good articles.
He's also been surprisingly accessible for such a busy man. I've met him in his office, but I have also received a call from him as he travelled somewhere, but chose to respond to my message. I've been impressed.
That side of David Johnston was stifled in about three and a half seconds, the moment it became public knowledge that he will be the GG.
When I called the university media relations people, I encountered a fair level of genuine frustration on their part. They're not happy. Here's the deal -- they have always been the ones who set up interviews with their President. Johnston is their President... and the university is in the middle of a huge fundraising drive. However, the moment he because the Governor General-designate, some Ottawa poohbahs took over. The UW folks were told all requests had to come to the people at Heritage Canada. So, the UW-ites reluctantly referred us on to Ottawa.
Here's what happens.
Me: "I'd like to interview David Johnston."
Them: "Can we get all the information about you and your publication?"
Me: "Sure." And I give it to them.
Them: "We will get back to you in a day or two."
Them (a day or two later): "Interviews with Dr. Johnston are not being scheduled
at this time."
I would be personally paranoid, except I know this is happening to every media outlet trying to talk to the guy.
In the past, there has been some evidence that some people who became Governor General also became... how shall we say this... somewhat snobbish. Elitist. Distant. Maybe that shouldn't come as a big surprise, because from the very second David Johnston was announced as the incoming GG, a cloak of secrecy and elitism -- not of his own making, in any way has closed around him.
Personally, I think this is ridiculous.
David Johnston is known by his friends and colleagues to be a personable, friendly, open person. These should be ideal qualifications to be the Governor General, because the GG is most of all a person who leads by example, not by authority.
Let's hope that our new GG's strength of character is sufficient to overcome the fortress of solitude that the bureaucrats are already trying to build around him.
And David... if by some chance you happen to read this, give me a call. There's
nobody here to prevent it.
You probably know that David Johnston, President of the University of Waterloo, has been named the next Governor General of Canada. That's pretty good news for our area. For some reason, Waterloo Region has been a hotbed of celebrity this summer -- Stephen Hawking is here, the Prime Minister has popped in, the Queen showed up to pick up her new Blackberry at the source.
And then we learned that Johnston is the new GG. Pretty cool, and perhaps this strikes a blow for all of us old, grey-haired guys who are now the forgotten minority. Grey power! Grey power! What was I saying?......
Joking aside, I wanted to interview Johnston for Exchange magazine, the business magazine which I edit.
Turns out, thanks to relentless bureaucratic power games, this cannot be done.
I have interviewed Johnston in the past, on several occasions. He's a personable guy, articulate, extremely intelligent, and very visionary. He's a great person to talk to, and his comments always make for good articles.
He's also been surprisingly accessible for such a busy man. I've met him in his office, but I have also received a call from him as he travelled somewhere, but chose to respond to my message. I've been impressed.
That side of David Johnston was stifled in about three and a half seconds, the moment it became public knowledge that he will be the GG.
When I called the university media relations people, I encountered a fair level of genuine frustration on their part. They're not happy. Here's the deal -- they have always been the ones who set up interviews with their President. Johnston is their President... and the university is in the middle of a huge fundraising drive. However, the moment he because the Governor General-designate, some Ottawa poohbahs took over. The UW folks were told all requests had to come to the people at Heritage Canada. So, the UW-ites reluctantly referred us on to Ottawa.
Here's what happens.
Me: "I'd like to interview David Johnston."
Them: "Can we get all the information about you and your publication?"
Me: "Sure." And I give it to them.
Them: "We will get back to you in a day or two."
Them (a day or two later): "Interviews with Dr. Johnston are not being scheduled
at this time."
I would be personally paranoid, except I know this is happening to every media outlet trying to talk to the guy.
In the past, there has been some evidence that some people who became Governor General also became... how shall we say this... somewhat snobbish. Elitist. Distant. Maybe that shouldn't come as a big surprise, because from the very second David Johnston was announced as the incoming GG, a cloak of secrecy and elitism -- not of his own making, in any way has closed around him.
Personally, I think this is ridiculous.
David Johnston is known by his friends and colleagues to be a personable, friendly, open person. These should be ideal qualifications to be the Governor General, because the GG is most of all a person who leads by example, not by authority.
Let's hope that our new GG's strength of character is sufficient to overcome the fortress of solitude that the bureaucrats are already trying to build around him.
And David... if by some chance you happen to read this, give me a call. There's
nobody here to prevent it.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
What? The do-not-call program do-not-work?
I, for one, am shocked. Well, not.
I'm reading a news story, published today, about the national "do not call" list. You know, the one that prevents telemarketers from calling you. Really.
According to this report, 300,000 complaints have been filed by frustrated Canadians, against unwanted telemarketers.
The federal government has responded, sort of. In two years, it has imposed $73,000 in fines.
Here's the good bit -- it has collected $250 of that. That probably didn't come close to covering the coffee bill for the bureaucrats assigned to the job.
I have tried to use the do-not-call list. I notice no impact at all. I still hear the blare of the ship's horn as some cruise captain or other calls to tell me I have won a cruise. I still seem to win the chance to attend a never-ending sales pitch on time-shares on a regular basis.
The news story -- I'm drawing from CBC.ca -- says that "telemarketers are barred from dialing a number once it is on the list." Well, not so much, in reality.
They are also subject to fines up to $15,000 for offending companies.
Doing the math, it would seem, then, that fewer than five companies have even been assessed maximum fines (and none paid), despite 300,000 complaints. And the Conservatives think the long gun registry in ineffective! Heck, it is a glowing example of efficiency, compared to this!
According to the report, there have been 11 fines imposed since Sept., 2008. And I love this comment: "As of March 1, no company has officially refused to pay the imposed administrative monetary penalty."
This is a brilliant approach. Let's use it ourselves, for 407 charges, taxes, speeding tickets. We accept the penalty, we never officially refuse to pay it... we just don't cough up.
In fact, more than 7 million telephone numbers have been registered with the do-not-call registry. People genuinely want to believe this will work, despite all the supper-time and Saturday afternoon evidence to the contrary.
One critic nailed it, listing all the groups that are exempt from the do-not-call registry: charities, political parties, newspapers, and businesses with a prior business relationship. Add to that businesses that don't give a flying leap, and you pretty much have a telephone ringing, all the time.
The situation is pretty clear. We -- I speak for at least seven million Canadians, which is a pretty heady feeling, let me tell you -- don't want to hear from telemarketers. But we do hear the bell tolling for us. Incessantly. Tougher measures are called for.
I'm thinking, put the callers in a room with a hundred telephones, and allow volunteers from the general public to call at whim.
Or put a tracking bracelet on the offenders, and let public volunteers call them when we know they are asleep, or eating dinner, or playing with the kids.
Or issue a referee's whistle to every phone owner, to be kept right beside the telephone, to use in the case of unwanted telemarketing.
Because hangin' up is too good for these varmints.
I'm reading a news story, published today, about the national "do not call" list. You know, the one that prevents telemarketers from calling you. Really.
According to this report, 300,000 complaints have been filed by frustrated Canadians, against unwanted telemarketers.
The federal government has responded, sort of. In two years, it has imposed $73,000 in fines.
Here's the good bit -- it has collected $250 of that. That probably didn't come close to covering the coffee bill for the bureaucrats assigned to the job.
I have tried to use the do-not-call list. I notice no impact at all. I still hear the blare of the ship's horn as some cruise captain or other calls to tell me I have won a cruise. I still seem to win the chance to attend a never-ending sales pitch on time-shares on a regular basis.
The news story -- I'm drawing from CBC.ca -- says that "telemarketers are barred from dialing a number once it is on the list." Well, not so much, in reality.
They are also subject to fines up to $15,000 for offending companies.
Doing the math, it would seem, then, that fewer than five companies have even been assessed maximum fines (and none paid), despite 300,000 complaints. And the Conservatives think the long gun registry in ineffective! Heck, it is a glowing example of efficiency, compared to this!
According to the report, there have been 11 fines imposed since Sept., 2008. And I love this comment: "As of March 1, no company has officially refused to pay the imposed administrative monetary penalty."
This is a brilliant approach. Let's use it ourselves, for 407 charges, taxes, speeding tickets. We accept the penalty, we never officially refuse to pay it... we just don't cough up.
In fact, more than 7 million telephone numbers have been registered with the do-not-call registry. People genuinely want to believe this will work, despite all the supper-time and Saturday afternoon evidence to the contrary.
One critic nailed it, listing all the groups that are exempt from the do-not-call registry: charities, political parties, newspapers, and businesses with a prior business relationship. Add to that businesses that don't give a flying leap, and you pretty much have a telephone ringing, all the time.
The situation is pretty clear. We -- I speak for at least seven million Canadians, which is a pretty heady feeling, let me tell you -- don't want to hear from telemarketers. But we do hear the bell tolling for us. Incessantly. Tougher measures are called for.
I'm thinking, put the callers in a room with a hundred telephones, and allow volunteers from the general public to call at whim.
Or put a tracking bracelet on the offenders, and let public volunteers call them when we know they are asleep, or eating dinner, or playing with the kids.
Or issue a referee's whistle to every phone owner, to be kept right beside the telephone, to use in the case of unwanted telemarketing.
Because hangin' up is too good for these varmints.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Angry at the lot of them
I am saddened, frustrated, and most of all, really angry. And I find my anger is very widely directed.
Like you, I'm sure, I have been watching images from the G20 in Toronto, which continues today. More to the point, watching images of the violence that has destroyed some of the main streets of Toronto... which is also, we're told, likely to continue today.
I'm angry at the thugs and criminals who have seized the opportunity to go on a rampage. They may see some vague connection between terrorizing a city, destroying private property, burning police cars, and achieving world peace... but it is tough to make that connection, isn't it?
I suspect they really only accomplish one thing -- they turn moderate people into right-leaning people. They push many of us who would at least tolerate peaceful protest to become opponents of protest, because of the inherent dangers.
That's an entirely counter-productive result.
I'm also angry at our Prime Minister. He knew -- everyone knew -- that events like the G20 now attract the lunatic fringe, and none the less he invited them to downtown Toronto. He and his advisors created a situation that has led to violence in the streets, destruction of property -- while thousands of Toronto residents hide behind locked doors in the apartments above those very streets.
I recognize that this is not entirely fair to Harper. If we simply re-order our lives to avoid thuggery, eventually we will have surrendered the streets to the thugs. None the less, this seems to have been a circumstance where the outcome was completely predictable, $2 billion for security or not.
It may also be that the $2 billion was focused on the security of the world leaders gathered at the G20 and if things continue as they are this morning, that may be a resounding success. But at what other cost?
I am angry that the business people and residents of downtown Toronto are left completely to their own resources. It has been made clear that, while the feds could foster the situation that led to the violence, the feds will take no responsibility for the outcome. All those who have lost property are on their own -- it's up to them and their insurance companies.
I am angry with the media. I've been following the story in the media, of course -- on TV, on line, in newspapers. I have noticed a couple of things. First, the live television coverage, a voracious consumer of images, keeps showing us the same video, time after time. I think I heard that four Toronto police cars have been burned; I have seen a Toronto police car burning at least two dozen times. The same images recur, and our concept of what is really happening is skewed by this.
But I am more angry at the attention given to those perpetrating the violence, and those who appear to protest for the sake of protesting. This past week, on particular protester managed to have his picture on the front page of the paper about three times.
This same person is notorious for throwing chocolate milk on Stockwell Day, surely a significant moment in Canadian political history. Or not.
I have long been involved with the Stratford Garden Festival; a few years ago, this fine event was to be visited by then-Prime Minister Paul Martin. That would have been a real feather in the caps of the organizers and all the volunteers and participants in an utterly non-political event.
The protester noted above showed up; I saw him walking through the show. He didn¹t look much like a gardener. Sure enough, when Martin's security people spotted him, the entire Prime Ministerial visit was cancelled.
Now there is a victory for the people, wouldn't you say? And that certainly justifies triple exposure on the cover page of our regional daily. No, it doesn't.
That's an inconsequential story, compared to what is happening in Toronto. But it does show the impact a few thoughtless rowdies -- or worse -- can have. They are certainly having an impact today they're drowning out legitimate protest, they're
terrorizing citizens, they're damaging property, they're alienating every sane Canadian... and they're having no impact at all on the G20 itself.
Makes you angry, doesn't it?
Like you, I'm sure, I have been watching images from the G20 in Toronto, which continues today. More to the point, watching images of the violence that has destroyed some of the main streets of Toronto... which is also, we're told, likely to continue today.
I'm angry at the thugs and criminals who have seized the opportunity to go on a rampage. They may see some vague connection between terrorizing a city, destroying private property, burning police cars, and achieving world peace... but it is tough to make that connection, isn't it?
I suspect they really only accomplish one thing -- they turn moderate people into right-leaning people. They push many of us who would at least tolerate peaceful protest to become opponents of protest, because of the inherent dangers.
That's an entirely counter-productive result.
I'm also angry at our Prime Minister. He knew -- everyone knew -- that events like the G20 now attract the lunatic fringe, and none the less he invited them to downtown Toronto. He and his advisors created a situation that has led to violence in the streets, destruction of property -- while thousands of Toronto residents hide behind locked doors in the apartments above those very streets.
I recognize that this is not entirely fair to Harper. If we simply re-order our lives to avoid thuggery, eventually we will have surrendered the streets to the thugs. None the less, this seems to have been a circumstance where the outcome was completely predictable, $2 billion for security or not.
It may also be that the $2 billion was focused on the security of the world leaders gathered at the G20 and if things continue as they are this morning, that may be a resounding success. But at what other cost?
I am angry that the business people and residents of downtown Toronto are left completely to their own resources. It has been made clear that, while the feds could foster the situation that led to the violence, the feds will take no responsibility for the outcome. All those who have lost property are on their own -- it's up to them and their insurance companies.
I am angry with the media. I've been following the story in the media, of course -- on TV, on line, in newspapers. I have noticed a couple of things. First, the live television coverage, a voracious consumer of images, keeps showing us the same video, time after time. I think I heard that four Toronto police cars have been burned; I have seen a Toronto police car burning at least two dozen times. The same images recur, and our concept of what is really happening is skewed by this.
But I am more angry at the attention given to those perpetrating the violence, and those who appear to protest for the sake of protesting. This past week, on particular protester managed to have his picture on the front page of the paper about three times.
This same person is notorious for throwing chocolate milk on Stockwell Day, surely a significant moment in Canadian political history. Or not.
I have long been involved with the Stratford Garden Festival; a few years ago, this fine event was to be visited by then-Prime Minister Paul Martin. That would have been a real feather in the caps of the organizers and all the volunteers and participants in an utterly non-political event.
The protester noted above showed up; I saw him walking through the show. He didn¹t look much like a gardener. Sure enough, when Martin's security people spotted him, the entire Prime Ministerial visit was cancelled.
Now there is a victory for the people, wouldn't you say? And that certainly justifies triple exposure on the cover page of our regional daily. No, it doesn't.
That's an inconsequential story, compared to what is happening in Toronto. But it does show the impact a few thoughtless rowdies -- or worse -- can have. They are certainly having an impact today they're drowning out legitimate protest, they're
terrorizing citizens, they're damaging property, they're alienating every sane Canadian... and they're having no impact at all on the G20 itself.
Makes you angry, doesn't it?
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
I expected the work, but not as much fun
When I agreed to run for mayor, I knew it would be hard work. I didn't, however, realize how much fun it would be.
But believe me, it is. Both hard work, and fun.
Last week, for instance, I participated in my first two coffee and conversation meetings, both in Stonecroft here in New Hamburg. A dozen or so people came to each one, and they came with questions, comments, and issues they wanted to raise. It was invigorating, and challenging, and... I believe I mentioned this... fun. The desserts served by our hostess helped, of course.
I totally enjoyed interacting with two dozen people who are brimming with ideas, issues... and well-thought-through solutions.
Last weekend, I was invited to help judge the dessert contest at the St. Agatha Strawberry Festival. (Add to this my pie-making event earlier on, and it seems that desserts may well become the dominant theme of this election. Heck, we could do worse!)
The Strawberry Festival is really well planned and presented; there's lots for everyone to do, plenty of interesting displays and activities, good food and
I was especially impressed by this wonderful activities for the smallest children. There was one blow-up, climb-in attraction that was surrounded by smiling parents, and contained what seemed at first glance to be an ant colony of pre-schoolers. Terrific.
I shared the judging responsibility with two other judges one of my opponents in the mayoral race, and MP Harold Albrecht, strategically placed between us.
There were five fabulous desserts. As I tasted the final one, and remembered I was going to participate in eliminating two from the prize list, I realized this was an impossible and thankless task.
At the auction that immediately followed the judging, my wife had the great good sense to buy one of the two superb desserts that didn't get a ribbon; it was terrific, and I realized once again that so is she.
I met a lot of interesting people at the Strawberry Festival old friends, acquaintances, and strangers who quickly became friendly acquaintances. I was especially impressed with the work being done by the couple who run the Bella Misty Meadows Animal Sanctuary, just west of St. Agatha. They -- Kara and Kris -- had organized the petting zoo. They deserve our thanks and support for the work they are doing.
All around the grounds in St. Agatha, I found people who were warm and conversational and interested in the unfolding election for mayor. The buzz is pretty substantial already; it's an exciting year to be involved.
We skipped down to Baden later Saturday afternoon for the Baden Family Fun Fair, a free day of activities organized by four local churches. There was a well-produced puppet show, more animals to pet, games and activities and refreshments and still more friendly people to chat with and share opinions with.
Monday, I helped run the New Hamburg Board of Trade golf tournament, at Dundee. Actually, the organizing committee, which I chair, does all the advance work, but when the day comes, our generous wives take over, and the organizers don our golfing hats and play in the tournament. Not well, but we play.
We raised about $10,000 for the community work of the Board of Trade, and had a ton of fun doing it.
I will say this at the community events, I am greeted with kindness; among golfing buddies, the respect is diminished considerably. It's amazing how many golfing insults can contain the word "mayor".
But a good time was had by all -- and again, I got the chance to spend time with great people from this township.
I signed up for this election because I love these communities; every day the campaign continues, I discover more and more evidence to support that position. And I'm having a really good time.
But believe me, it is. Both hard work, and fun.
Last week, for instance, I participated in my first two coffee and conversation meetings, both in Stonecroft here in New Hamburg. A dozen or so people came to each one, and they came with questions, comments, and issues they wanted to raise. It was invigorating, and challenging, and... I believe I mentioned this... fun. The desserts served by our hostess helped, of course.
I totally enjoyed interacting with two dozen people who are brimming with ideas, issues... and well-thought-through solutions.
Last weekend, I was invited to help judge the dessert contest at the St. Agatha Strawberry Festival. (Add to this my pie-making event earlier on, and it seems that desserts may well become the dominant theme of this election. Heck, we could do worse!)
The Strawberry Festival is really well planned and presented; there's lots for everyone to do, plenty of interesting displays and activities, good food and
I was especially impressed by this wonderful activities for the smallest children. There was one blow-up, climb-in attraction that was surrounded by smiling parents, and contained what seemed at first glance to be an ant colony of pre-schoolers. Terrific.
I shared the judging responsibility with two other judges one of my opponents in the mayoral race, and MP Harold Albrecht, strategically placed between us.
There were five fabulous desserts. As I tasted the final one, and remembered I was going to participate in eliminating two from the prize list, I realized this was an impossible and thankless task.
At the auction that immediately followed the judging, my wife had the great good sense to buy one of the two superb desserts that didn't get a ribbon; it was terrific, and I realized once again that so is she.
I met a lot of interesting people at the Strawberry Festival old friends, acquaintances, and strangers who quickly became friendly acquaintances. I was especially impressed with the work being done by the couple who run the Bella Misty Meadows Animal Sanctuary, just west of St. Agatha. They -- Kara and Kris -- had organized the petting zoo. They deserve our thanks and support for the work they are doing.
All around the grounds in St. Agatha, I found people who were warm and conversational and interested in the unfolding election for mayor. The buzz is pretty substantial already; it's an exciting year to be involved.
We skipped down to Baden later Saturday afternoon for the Baden Family Fun Fair, a free day of activities organized by four local churches. There was a well-produced puppet show, more animals to pet, games and activities and refreshments and still more friendly people to chat with and share opinions with.
Monday, I helped run the New Hamburg Board of Trade golf tournament, at Dundee. Actually, the organizing committee, which I chair, does all the advance work, but when the day comes, our generous wives take over, and the organizers don our golfing hats and play in the tournament. Not well, but we play.
We raised about $10,000 for the community work of the Board of Trade, and had a ton of fun doing it.
I will say this at the community events, I am greeted with kindness; among golfing buddies, the respect is diminished considerably. It's amazing how many golfing insults can contain the word "mayor".
But a good time was had by all -- and again, I got the chance to spend time with great people from this township.
I signed up for this election because I love these communities; every day the campaign continues, I discover more and more evidence to support that position. And I'm having a really good time.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
The "award-winning" New Hamburg Live!
Forgive me, but I must go on a bit about the just-completed New Hamburg Live! Festival of the Arts.
Nancy and I started this thing two years ago, with two admitted goals, and one slightly hidden agenda.
The first goal was to bring the best professional performers available to New Hamburg audiences. The second was to give local singers, writers and artists opportunities to shine.
The hidden agenda was to produce concerts and events that we would love to attend.
For two years running, mission accomplished.
As you may have read elsewhere, the success of the 2010 Festival was underscored on Sunday evening as we received the Kitchener-Waterloo Arts Scotiabank Award as Best New Festival or Event in 2009. We couldn't even be there to collect the award -- we were cleaning up after the final New Hamburg Live! concert -- but we could not be more proud of that accomplishment.
The 2010 Festival left us with a lot of things to be proud about, actually. And more importantly, the events once again gave us the chance to work with wonderful, generous people -- the performers and artists, our volunteers, and the people who attended the events.
For me, these were five days filled with highlights, which started well before the Festival opened its doors. As a bunch of us decorated the community centre (guided by the very talented Wayne and Kevin from Urban Country), we already knew something special was happening.
The opening gala was sold out -- a first for New Hamburg Live! -- and the Toronto All-Star Big Band was terrific. On Wednesday afternoon, one of the band's roadies was sweating profusely, hauling heavy equipment, moving risers, working like a fiend. I was impressed with his energy.
I was even more impressed that evening, when the same guy showed up on stage in a very sharp suit as one of their featured singers. That kind of attitude -- "I'll do anything for the cause" -- lies at at the heart of New Hamburg Live! We have volunteers who gladly take on any task, just so the show can go on. It's really impressive.
Thursday's Gilbert & Sullivan night was a delight, as some of my favourite singers (including my voice teacher, Erin Bardua), not only sang astonishingly well, but also showed their comic acting abilities.
The sleeper hit of our festival was the Capella Intima concert Friday afternoon, as six talented musicians entranced a full house at St. George's church with the music sung by nuns in the 1600's in a program created by tenor Bud Roach. People are still taking about the magic of those moments.
Friday night was historic, as the Elmer Iseler Singers came to New Hamburg, happy to be "back home", and introduced by a knowledgeable and enthusiastic talk by author/educator/politician Walter Pitman. We were very touched that Jessie Iseler chose this occasion for a presentation of a significant Canadian literary award to Dr. Pitman, honouring his book, "Elmer Iseler, Choral Visionary".
The four fabulous singers of Quartette were with us on Saturday night. They told us after the well-attended concert that they had had a ball, and would come back any time. I love their music (see "hidden agenda", above), so when I got the chance to talk to Caitlin Hanford for 20 minutes before the show, I was thrilled. I wanted to talk about their music; she wanted to talk about gardening.
We talked about gardening. It was fun. She's a vibrant, interesting person.
And Sunday afternoon was amazing, as Ken Whiteley again brought his band to town to join Vicki St. Pierre and the New Hamburg Live Mass Choir, pianist Caitlin Hayes, and the very talented Tom Cummings on vibraphone. That was an event full of highlights, especially the moment when our great friend Vicki -- a well known operatic mezzo soprano who performs internationally -- set arias aside and belted out an incredible gospel song. It was spellbinding.
There were super author events organized by Kristen Hahn, and a fascinating art show presented by 16 artists in eight New Hamburg businesses. I mention this last because, if you missed the Festival, the art show continues for a week or two in most venues, so you have one more chance to see at least a bit of our award-winning (did I mention "award-winning"?) New Hamburg Live! Festival of the Arts.
And a word to the proactive -- book June 1-5, 2011. We'll be back!
Nancy and I started this thing two years ago, with two admitted goals, and one slightly hidden agenda.
The first goal was to bring the best professional performers available to New Hamburg audiences. The second was to give local singers, writers and artists opportunities to shine.
The hidden agenda was to produce concerts and events that we would love to attend.
For two years running, mission accomplished.
As you may have read elsewhere, the success of the 2010 Festival was underscored on Sunday evening as we received the Kitchener-Waterloo Arts Scotiabank Award as Best New Festival or Event in 2009. We couldn't even be there to collect the award -- we were cleaning up after the final New Hamburg Live! concert -- but we could not be more proud of that accomplishment.
The 2010 Festival left us with a lot of things to be proud about, actually. And more importantly, the events once again gave us the chance to work with wonderful, generous people -- the performers and artists, our volunteers, and the people who attended the events.
For me, these were five days filled with highlights, which started well before the Festival opened its doors. As a bunch of us decorated the community centre (guided by the very talented Wayne and Kevin from Urban Country), we already knew something special was happening.
The opening gala was sold out -- a first for New Hamburg Live! -- and the Toronto All-Star Big Band was terrific. On Wednesday afternoon, one of the band's roadies was sweating profusely, hauling heavy equipment, moving risers, working like a fiend. I was impressed with his energy.
I was even more impressed that evening, when the same guy showed up on stage in a very sharp suit as one of their featured singers. That kind of attitude -- "I'll do anything for the cause" -- lies at at the heart of New Hamburg Live! We have volunteers who gladly take on any task, just so the show can go on. It's really impressive.
Thursday's Gilbert & Sullivan night was a delight, as some of my favourite singers (including my voice teacher, Erin Bardua), not only sang astonishingly well, but also showed their comic acting abilities.
The sleeper hit of our festival was the Capella Intima concert Friday afternoon, as six talented musicians entranced a full house at St. George's church with the music sung by nuns in the 1600's in a program created by tenor Bud Roach. People are still taking about the magic of those moments.
Friday night was historic, as the Elmer Iseler Singers came to New Hamburg, happy to be "back home", and introduced by a knowledgeable and enthusiastic talk by author/educator/politician Walter Pitman. We were very touched that Jessie Iseler chose this occasion for a presentation of a significant Canadian literary award to Dr. Pitman, honouring his book, "Elmer Iseler, Choral Visionary".
The four fabulous singers of Quartette were with us on Saturday night. They told us after the well-attended concert that they had had a ball, and would come back any time. I love their music (see "hidden agenda", above), so when I got the chance to talk to Caitlin Hanford for 20 minutes before the show, I was thrilled. I wanted to talk about their music; she wanted to talk about gardening.
We talked about gardening. It was fun. She's a vibrant, interesting person.
And Sunday afternoon was amazing, as Ken Whiteley again brought his band to town to join Vicki St. Pierre and the New Hamburg Live Mass Choir, pianist Caitlin Hayes, and the very talented Tom Cummings on vibraphone. That was an event full of highlights, especially the moment when our great friend Vicki -- a well known operatic mezzo soprano who performs internationally -- set arias aside and belted out an incredible gospel song. It was spellbinding.
There were super author events organized by Kristen Hahn, and a fascinating art show presented by 16 artists in eight New Hamburg businesses. I mention this last because, if you missed the Festival, the art show continues for a week or two in most venues, so you have one more chance to see at least a bit of our award-winning (did I mention "award-winning"?) New Hamburg Live! Festival of the Arts.
And a word to the proactive -- book June 1-5, 2011. We'll be back!
Monday, May 31, 2010
Digiquette, or e-manners
There must be a word for it, somewhere out in cyberspace. Digiquette, perhaps? E-manners?
I'm referring, of course, to the proper way to conduct email and other digital communication. This is all predicated on the possibility that there is such a proper way which, of late, one would be hard-pressed to demonstrate in any tangible sense.
Perhaps you have noticed this, too, the lack of etiquette among email correspondents. Or is it just my old-fashioned, curmudgeonly spirit shining brightly through, yet again?
F'rinstance, I notice that there is a significant decline in email responses. You send off an email to a friend, asking a question or simply sharing some information. In response you get... nothing.
This always leaves me wondering if they got the doggone thing. Email is, computer technology notwithstanding, an imprecise science. So now, since they have not responded, what do you do? Email again? Assume their lack of response indicates a negative reply, or total lack of interest? What?
There is no code of cyber conduct to tell you (or them, for that matter), how to communicate effectively via email.
That's digiquette problem number one. Problem number two arises, I believe, from the increasing use of tiny little screens upon which to read less than tiny messages. Maybe, you, too, have sent an email raising two or more questions. Almost invariably, the very prompt response (which often indicates someone in the thralls of IPhone addiction) deals only with your first question.
In other words, with whatever immediate issue arose upon their tiny little screen. They read the first sentence or two, answered you, and erased the evidence, utterly unaware that you not only asked if the invitation for tonight was still on, but also where you were meeting, at what time, and should you bring a watermelon.
Crucial information, left wanting.
These are, in fact, pretty simple examples of the etiquette challenges presented by communicating in cyber space. Here are some other conundrums which have no currently agreed upon answers:
* What do you do when someone skypes you, and you don't want to talk? Their computer has already told them you are on line.
* Speaking of Skype, what do you do when that video link is indicated, and you are sitting at your computer in your underwear? Nobody wants to see that.
* How do you politely end a computer correspondence with an inveterate responder you know, the folks who simply have to reply to every email. Do you just quit answering when everything important has been said? Does that put you in the category noted early in this column the people who don't reply, and thus leave you in the dark?
* How do you reject a friend request on Facebook, without appearing to be unkind? But then there is the related digiquette no-no of randomly friending people.
* Diverging from etiquette to grammar for a moment, I know "befriending" is a recognized word of long-standing, but "friending"? Really? Let alone its
opposite, "unfriending". Which I did, last week, and I have felt guilty ever since.
All of this talk about proper online manners leaves me feeling confused. But that's not as bad as the way I felt last week, when our modem failed, and I could not get on line for almost 24 hours.
Speaking of addictions. Perhaps I need to seek help. I'll look it up, on line.
I'm referring, of course, to the proper way to conduct email and other digital communication. This is all predicated on the possibility that there is such a proper way which, of late, one would be hard-pressed to demonstrate in any tangible sense.
Perhaps you have noticed this, too, the lack of etiquette among email correspondents. Or is it just my old-fashioned, curmudgeonly spirit shining brightly through, yet again?
F'rinstance, I notice that there is a significant decline in email responses. You send off an email to a friend, asking a question or simply sharing some information. In response you get... nothing.
This always leaves me wondering if they got the doggone thing. Email is, computer technology notwithstanding, an imprecise science. So now, since they have not responded, what do you do? Email again? Assume their lack of response indicates a negative reply, or total lack of interest? What?
There is no code of cyber conduct to tell you (or them, for that matter), how to communicate effectively via email.
That's digiquette problem number one. Problem number two arises, I believe, from the increasing use of tiny little screens upon which to read less than tiny messages. Maybe, you, too, have sent an email raising two or more questions. Almost invariably, the very prompt response (which often indicates someone in the thralls of IPhone addiction) deals only with your first question.
In other words, with whatever immediate issue arose upon their tiny little screen. They read the first sentence or two, answered you, and erased the evidence, utterly unaware that you not only asked if the invitation for tonight was still on, but also where you were meeting, at what time, and should you bring a watermelon.
Crucial information, left wanting.
These are, in fact, pretty simple examples of the etiquette challenges presented by communicating in cyber space. Here are some other conundrums which have no currently agreed upon answers:
* What do you do when someone skypes you, and you don't want to talk? Their computer has already told them you are on line.
* Speaking of Skype, what do you do when that video link is indicated, and you are sitting at your computer in your underwear? Nobody wants to see that.
* How do you politely end a computer correspondence with an inveterate responder you know, the folks who simply have to reply to every email. Do you just quit answering when everything important has been said? Does that put you in the category noted early in this column the people who don't reply, and thus leave you in the dark?
* How do you reject a friend request on Facebook, without appearing to be unkind? But then there is the related digiquette no-no of randomly friending people.
* Diverging from etiquette to grammar for a moment, I know "befriending" is a recognized word of long-standing, but "friending"? Really? Let alone its
opposite, "unfriending". Which I did, last week, and I have felt guilty ever since.
All of this talk about proper online manners leaves me feeling confused. But that's not as bad as the way I felt last week, when our modem failed, and I could not get on line for almost 24 hours.
Speaking of addictions. Perhaps I need to seek help. I'll look it up, on line.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
A perfect Canadian afternoon, eh?
Ah, the perfect Saturday. A leisurely brunch with friends. A trip to a garden centre. And a Stanley Cup playoff game.
Quintessentially Canadian, eh?
The garden centre was, of course, packed with people. This is the May 24 weekend.
May 24 has a variety of meanings, depending on your hobbies. To a fair number of people, "24" is an obvious reference to the number of bottles contained in a case of beer. Or, the number of empties in that same case, a few hours later.
What we're actually celebrating is Queen Victoria's birthday, an odd reason for a Canadian holiday, since the British know of no such thing. So we in the colonies continue to remember an occasion long forgotten by her more immediate, if less perpetually loyal, subjects.
I do find it a pleasant irony that our friend Nigel, currently back in his native Britain, gets no holiday on Monday, while we Canadians can relax in honour of the late, great monarch.
For gardeners, May "24" refers to the number of hours we will have to work, without a break, to plant all the flowers, veggies and other plants we succumbed to in the heady environment of the garden centre.
The place was as packed as a mall on Christmas Eve, but a heck of a lot friendlier. When I speak to garden groups, I always comment on the pleasant, friendly and even generous nature of gardeners, and that part of my talk, at least, is the unvarnished truth.
In a May 24th weekend garden centre, the aisles are overfull of plants, and then more plants to replace the rapidly depleted stock, and large shopping carts filled to overflowing with plants, and shoppers, and staff... well, you get the crammed, jammed picture.
Today, at Colour Paradise, not one person was rude; people yielded the aisle to others; people smiled ruefully when in the midst of a seven-cart jam, with no obvious solution in sight.
We -- like everyone else in sight, by my reckoning -- bought far more than we could ask or imagine. So many things look so great, and we know where we can put them in the garden.
Of course, when it comes time to actually do the planting, we invariably discover we have purchased at least three plants for each available space. No matter -- we have plenty of pots, and places to put them.
And so, home. But not straight into the garden this time because it is a)drizzling and much more importantly, b) time for the Montreal-Philadelphia hockey game.
This is a very congenial period in our home. During the regular season, things are not always entirely friendly I am a life long Toronto Maple Leafs fan, while my spouse (and several of her closest friends) have roots in Quebec, and cheer for the Canadiens.
Normally, this causes a certain amount of friction, not to mention downright abuse. But as usual, the Leafs have solved this contention by disappearing like smoke on the breeze even before the playoffs started, leaving me free to cheer for the Habs from the get-go. (They are my second team. All hockey fans have a descending panoply of teams, at least six deep, right?)
I finish this column in hope and optimism, during the first intermission of Game Four. The score, at this moment, is 0-0.
I write it now because at the end of the game, if the Habs don't prevail, I will be too depressed to write; not that this is an outcome even to be considered.
And also because, if the game doesn't go into overtime, I may have time to get out into the garden and plant some of the new stuff, just before we fire up the barbecue.
Ah, Canada on the May 24 weekend. There's no place like it, eh?
Quintessentially Canadian, eh?
The garden centre was, of course, packed with people. This is the May 24 weekend.
May 24 has a variety of meanings, depending on your hobbies. To a fair number of people, "24" is an obvious reference to the number of bottles contained in a case of beer. Or, the number of empties in that same case, a few hours later.
What we're actually celebrating is Queen Victoria's birthday, an odd reason for a Canadian holiday, since the British know of no such thing. So we in the colonies continue to remember an occasion long forgotten by her more immediate, if less perpetually loyal, subjects.
I do find it a pleasant irony that our friend Nigel, currently back in his native Britain, gets no holiday on Monday, while we Canadians can relax in honour of the late, great monarch.
For gardeners, May "24" refers to the number of hours we will have to work, without a break, to plant all the flowers, veggies and other plants we succumbed to in the heady environment of the garden centre.
The place was as packed as a mall on Christmas Eve, but a heck of a lot friendlier. When I speak to garden groups, I always comment on the pleasant, friendly and even generous nature of gardeners, and that part of my talk, at least, is the unvarnished truth.
In a May 24th weekend garden centre, the aisles are overfull of plants, and then more plants to replace the rapidly depleted stock, and large shopping carts filled to overflowing with plants, and shoppers, and staff... well, you get the crammed, jammed picture.
Today, at Colour Paradise, not one person was rude; people yielded the aisle to others; people smiled ruefully when in the midst of a seven-cart jam, with no obvious solution in sight.
We -- like everyone else in sight, by my reckoning -- bought far more than we could ask or imagine. So many things look so great, and we know where we can put them in the garden.
Of course, when it comes time to actually do the planting, we invariably discover we have purchased at least three plants for each available space. No matter -- we have plenty of pots, and places to put them.
And so, home. But not straight into the garden this time because it is a)drizzling and much more importantly, b) time for the Montreal-Philadelphia hockey game.
This is a very congenial period in our home. During the regular season, things are not always entirely friendly I am a life long Toronto Maple Leafs fan, while my spouse (and several of her closest friends) have roots in Quebec, and cheer for the Canadiens.
Normally, this causes a certain amount of friction, not to mention downright abuse. But as usual, the Leafs have solved this contention by disappearing like smoke on the breeze even before the playoffs started, leaving me free to cheer for the Habs from the get-go. (They are my second team. All hockey fans have a descending panoply of teams, at least six deep, right?)
I finish this column in hope and optimism, during the first intermission of Game Four. The score, at this moment, is 0-0.
I write it now because at the end of the game, if the Habs don't prevail, I will be too depressed to write; not that this is an outcome even to be considered.
And also because, if the game doesn't go into overtime, I may have time to get out into the garden and plant some of the new stuff, just before we fire up the barbecue.
Ah, Canada on the May 24 weekend. There's no place like it, eh?
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Equal parts elation and full-blown panic
I'm thrilled. Excited, panic-stricken, elated, worried, and most of all, thrilled.
The second New Hamburg Live! Festival of the Arts is two and a half weeks away. Nancy and I started this thing... with a lot of help from our friends... last year, taking an enormous chance, financially backing the thing ourselves with no guarantees.
We broke even, which allowed me to again sleep at night.
This year, the only things that have changed are 1) we have a good reputation based on last year and 2) our budget is about 25% higher. We still have no financial guarantees, and we're still praying to break even (thus, the panicky
and worried part of the equation).
Some people assume we're nuts... for the second straight year, we've done this as volunteers, putting in an enormous number of hours for free (along with, as noted above, other volunteers who also make a big commitment).
Nuts? Maybe. Except we really believe we are building something tremendous for and in this community.
The excited and elated and downright thrilled part comes in when I look at the program we're presenting this year.
Full disclosure: I'm not the sole decision-maker -- Nancy and our music director and friend, Vicki St. Pierre have a huge role in deciding who we bring to the Festival. In fact, they have veto over any of my suggestions, and they have been known to use it.
None the less, one of my goals each year is to bring some acts that are, quite simply, performers I have always wanted to hear. Or, in the case of one particular guy this year, to hear again.
Nancy and Vicki proceed on the same basis, as does Kristen Hahn, who arranges the literary events, and the result is a dynamic, eclectic, wonderful menu of music, art and literature.
I cannot wait to enjoy the Toronto All Star Big Band -- and I have just learned that some swing dancers are planning to dance their socks off at the opening gala, Wednesday. That's gonna be a tonne of fun.
The professional performers involved in the Best of Gilbert and Sullivan night (Thursday) have been rehearsing assiduously -- they see our Festival as an important and high-end event, and they're preparing appropriately. On the other hand, our MC for that evening, actor Barry MacGregor, emailed to ask if he should wear a suit or a dress, so there is apparently some room for the outrageous. Hurrah.
We have one afternoon concert Friday afternoon, with Capella Intima. I had the good luck to see and hear this concert performed a few months ago, and I promise that all of you who seize this unique opportunity will be very pleased.
Many long-time New Hamburg people are delighted that we're bringing the Elmer Iseler singers to town I have heard from several people about their early musical connection with the late Elmer Iseler. That is going to be a special Friday evening.
Saturday, one of my long-time wishes comes true. I first heard Quartette on CBC Radio, and immediately bought a CD. They have a wonderful, authentic sound --
four talented women, each a star in her own right, together one of those occasional bright constellation that musical collaborations can cause. I cannot wait.
I'm just as eager to see what the amazing Ken Whiteley brings to us, this time around, in the choral workshop and the Sunday afternoon gospel/bluegrass concert at Steinmann church. As I write, we have more than three dozen local singers signed by for the workshop and the choir; all are welcome, and I hope we can double that number.
I haven't even mentioned the 17 artists (whose work I have seen on line, and I think you're gonna like the talent and the variety) or the two author events -- and I commend Kristen for snagging some of the hottest fiction novelists on the best-seller lists right now.
Buy your tickets, and come to the best five-day music, art and book party anywhere. Like me, you'll be thrilled. Promise.
The second New Hamburg Live! Festival of the Arts is two and a half weeks away. Nancy and I started this thing... with a lot of help from our friends... last year, taking an enormous chance, financially backing the thing ourselves with no guarantees.
We broke even, which allowed me to again sleep at night.
This year, the only things that have changed are 1) we have a good reputation based on last year and 2) our budget is about 25% higher. We still have no financial guarantees, and we're still praying to break even (thus, the panicky
and worried part of the equation).
Some people assume we're nuts... for the second straight year, we've done this as volunteers, putting in an enormous number of hours for free (along with, as noted above, other volunteers who also make a big commitment).
Nuts? Maybe. Except we really believe we are building something tremendous for and in this community.
The excited and elated and downright thrilled part comes in when I look at the program we're presenting this year.
Full disclosure: I'm not the sole decision-maker -- Nancy and our music director and friend, Vicki St. Pierre have a huge role in deciding who we bring to the Festival. In fact, they have veto over any of my suggestions, and they have been known to use it.
None the less, one of my goals each year is to bring some acts that are, quite simply, performers I have always wanted to hear. Or, in the case of one particular guy this year, to hear again.
Nancy and Vicki proceed on the same basis, as does Kristen Hahn, who arranges the literary events, and the result is a dynamic, eclectic, wonderful menu of music, art and literature.
I cannot wait to enjoy the Toronto All Star Big Band -- and I have just learned that some swing dancers are planning to dance their socks off at the opening gala, Wednesday. That's gonna be a tonne of fun.
The professional performers involved in the Best of Gilbert and Sullivan night (Thursday) have been rehearsing assiduously -- they see our Festival as an important and high-end event, and they're preparing appropriately. On the other hand, our MC for that evening, actor Barry MacGregor, emailed to ask if he should wear a suit or a dress, so there is apparently some room for the outrageous. Hurrah.
We have one afternoon concert Friday afternoon, with Capella Intima. I had the good luck to see and hear this concert performed a few months ago, and I promise that all of you who seize this unique opportunity will be very pleased.
Many long-time New Hamburg people are delighted that we're bringing the Elmer Iseler singers to town I have heard from several people about their early musical connection with the late Elmer Iseler. That is going to be a special Friday evening.
Saturday, one of my long-time wishes comes true. I first heard Quartette on CBC Radio, and immediately bought a CD. They have a wonderful, authentic sound --
four talented women, each a star in her own right, together one of those occasional bright constellation that musical collaborations can cause. I cannot wait.
I'm just as eager to see what the amazing Ken Whiteley brings to us, this time around, in the choral workshop and the Sunday afternoon gospel/bluegrass concert at Steinmann church. As I write, we have more than three dozen local singers signed by for the workshop and the choir; all are welcome, and I hope we can double that number.
I haven't even mentioned the 17 artists (whose work I have seen on line, and I think you're gonna like the talent and the variety) or the two author events -- and I commend Kristen for snagging some of the hottest fiction novelists on the best-seller lists right now.
Buy your tickets, and come to the best five-day music, art and book party anywhere. Like me, you'll be thrilled. Promise.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Living in a really great neigbourhood
Just is case we forgot how puny we mortals be... came the wind, on Saturday.
It was, as Maggie Muggins used to observe sometime in a previous millennium, quite a day.
It began with an auction, just down the street, as Christine's house and most of her worldly goods were up for purchase. Christine is an old friend of mine in every sense of the word -- she is, I believe, 97 or so; until her knees finally failed her a few months ago, she had lived on this street since 1934. Again, until the legs went completely, she managed to work as an archivist for an insurance company, and a volunteer for the local Wilmot Family Resource Centre, several days a week.
Working, in her mid-90s. Christine knew no other way.
So it was sad, to huddle against the elements in a tent, with a collection of strangers and neighbours (in about equal parts), and see Christine's stuff be sold. It was the right thing to do, of course, but it was sad, none the less.
Piece by piece, the auctioned continued. There was plenty of good news in the midst of the sorrow. Most of the neighbours picked up something of Christine's, and carried their treasurers one, two or a few houses away to continue her presence on our street. We personally got some bookcases, some books, and a couple of lovely pieces of jewelry Nancy will treasure.
Eventually, the house itself was sold, to a young couple from Kitchener. They seemed quite surprised when, as soon as the gavel went down, eight or ten people within touching distance reached out friendly hands and welcomed them to the neighbourhood.
The weather was miserable, but the tented auction was able to finish.
Then, things got worse.
As we began to take our purchases home, bent against the wind, a neighbour's tree split in half, and the broken half crashed down on a passing car. Nancy was first to the car, and found the driver -- a neighbour -- in shock but amazingly unhurt, although the sunroof was smashed, the windshield was smashed, and the car was bashed in from stem to stern. I called the police, other neighbours appeared with chainsaws and manoeuvered the tree off the road, and all of us marvelled that the driver had escaped, unscathed.
That was before he told his wife -- it was her new car. I'm joking; they dropped in later, both much relieved at the outcome.
As we scurried around to deal with that crisis, someone noticed my garden shed, and its contents. This sounds like a pretty mundane sight, but what was remarkable was, the shed was upside down, the contents were distributed rather far and wide, and most of the above was no longer on our property. The wind had struck again.
I was walking back to survey that damage, when someone's patio chair cover, followed by the chair itself, blew past. Oh, wait, that was my patio chair. Some remedial stacking and covering was clearly called for.
And so it went, a day of wind and rain and sleet and snow and near disasters. By the end of the day, all those neighbours who had welcomed the young couple were back in their own homes, listening to the wind howl and... I'm guessing... wondering how the heck the tent had stayed up for the entire auction.
That would certainly have pulled the neighbourhood together... rolling about in a fallen tent!
But this neighbourhood doesn't need much encouragement to pull together. Just to see the shared sense of loss caused by Christine's departure; the friendly welcome offered the soon-to-be-new residents; and the concern and care shown to the driver of the car smashed by the tree.... well, those were great reminders of how lucky we are to live in a community like this.
Although my immediate neighbours might not agree, at least until I figure out how to get the wreck of a garden shed off their lawn.
It was, as Maggie Muggins used to observe sometime in a previous millennium, quite a day.
It began with an auction, just down the street, as Christine's house and most of her worldly goods were up for purchase. Christine is an old friend of mine in every sense of the word -- she is, I believe, 97 or so; until her knees finally failed her a few months ago, she had lived on this street since 1934. Again, until the legs went completely, she managed to work as an archivist for an insurance company, and a volunteer for the local Wilmot Family Resource Centre, several days a week.
Working, in her mid-90s. Christine knew no other way.
So it was sad, to huddle against the elements in a tent, with a collection of strangers and neighbours (in about equal parts), and see Christine's stuff be sold. It was the right thing to do, of course, but it was sad, none the less.
Piece by piece, the auctioned continued. There was plenty of good news in the midst of the sorrow. Most of the neighbours picked up something of Christine's, and carried their treasurers one, two or a few houses away to continue her presence on our street. We personally got some bookcases, some books, and a couple of lovely pieces of jewelry Nancy will treasure.
Eventually, the house itself was sold, to a young couple from Kitchener. They seemed quite surprised when, as soon as the gavel went down, eight or ten people within touching distance reached out friendly hands and welcomed them to the neighbourhood.
The weather was miserable, but the tented auction was able to finish.
Then, things got worse.
As we began to take our purchases home, bent against the wind, a neighbour's tree split in half, and the broken half crashed down on a passing car. Nancy was first to the car, and found the driver -- a neighbour -- in shock but amazingly unhurt, although the sunroof was smashed, the windshield was smashed, and the car was bashed in from stem to stern. I called the police, other neighbours appeared with chainsaws and manoeuvered the tree off the road, and all of us marvelled that the driver had escaped, unscathed.
That was before he told his wife -- it was her new car. I'm joking; they dropped in later, both much relieved at the outcome.
As we scurried around to deal with that crisis, someone noticed my garden shed, and its contents. This sounds like a pretty mundane sight, but what was remarkable was, the shed was upside down, the contents were distributed rather far and wide, and most of the above was no longer on our property. The wind had struck again.
I was walking back to survey that damage, when someone's patio chair cover, followed by the chair itself, blew past. Oh, wait, that was my patio chair. Some remedial stacking and covering was clearly called for.
And so it went, a day of wind and rain and sleet and snow and near disasters. By the end of the day, all those neighbours who had welcomed the young couple were back in their own homes, listening to the wind howl and... I'm guessing... wondering how the heck the tent had stayed up for the entire auction.
That would certainly have pulled the neighbourhood together... rolling about in a fallen tent!
But this neighbourhood doesn't need much encouragement to pull together. Just to see the shared sense of loss caused by Christine's departure; the friendly welcome offered the soon-to-be-new residents; and the concern and care shown to the driver of the car smashed by the tree.... well, those were great reminders of how lucky we are to live in a community like this.
Although my immediate neighbours might not agree, at least until I figure out how to get the wreck of a garden shed off their lawn.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Sometimes, expectations cannot be low enough
I finally played my first golf game of the season today.
Now the important question is, 'why?'
I have no idea.
I knew it would not be pretty. I played exactly one round of golf in the sunny south this year where it was, frankly, not at all sunny, and only south, on that particular day. No sun, no heat, plenty of howling wind, and four wrong-headed golfers determined to struggle through, no matter what nature threw our way.
Apart from that, it has been at least six months since I have played golf, so my expectations should have been low, as I hoisted the bag of clubs into the back of my friend's SUV.
And they were. Just not nearly low enough.
We play with a couple of kind, local rules. One is, on the first tee, 'hit 'til you're happy.' This allows a golfer who arrives in a rush, with the day's anxieties still sitting on his shoulder, to pound a couple of mistakes, shake off the tension, and get into the game without penalty.
What no one imagined in inventing this rule is that a) each subsequent drive might, in fact, be worse, and b) you might never, ever be happy.
I eventually went with my original drive, which at least had the happy advantage that I could find it, and actually swing a club in its vicinity.
And so, hole by hole, it went.
We were playing a course I know really well, and one that, while challenging, I have performed adequately on, from time to time. Or at least, on some of the holes. Really.
Not today.
I drove (that is way too forceful a word; truth is, there was much more squibbing, duffing, blipping and bopping than driving) the ball into the woods (several times), into the fields abutting the course, into the water (fish were taking to dry land to avoid the danger), and on one memorable hole, almost through the peak of my cap as I managed the remarkable feat of blipping the ball almost straight up.
And those were just the drives.
My other clubs were more predictable, in that I could predict with great accuracy that I had no idea what they might do next. My three-wood might produce a nice, straight, 190 yard second shot right down the fairway (which happened at least twice, I swear) or it might send the ball on a right wing arc into the woods, onto other fairways, or into parts unknown.
My pitching wedge was good for 90 yards, or three.
My sand wedge... well, when it comes to the sand wedge, I cannot bring myself even to write of these things. I dissolve into tears. I may need to seek professional, psychological help.
I finished with a miserable score, but my buddy looked back, and said, 'I don't think there's anyone playing the 17th and 18th behind us. Want to try those two holes again?'
I agreed with alacrity. The 17th had been particular gruesome in my first attempt, involving two shots in the sand trap (not into, in), and the famous Knowles double chip shot that flies completely over the green, and then (next shot), back again.
So we played it again, John. And I played the hole well, a long part five that I conquered with panache.
Who says this game is tough? I can't wait to play again.
Now the important question is, 'why?'
I have no idea.
I knew it would not be pretty. I played exactly one round of golf in the sunny south this year where it was, frankly, not at all sunny, and only south, on that particular day. No sun, no heat, plenty of howling wind, and four wrong-headed golfers determined to struggle through, no matter what nature threw our way.
Apart from that, it has been at least six months since I have played golf, so my expectations should have been low, as I hoisted the bag of clubs into the back of my friend's SUV.
And they were. Just not nearly low enough.
We play with a couple of kind, local rules. One is, on the first tee, 'hit 'til you're happy.' This allows a golfer who arrives in a rush, with the day's anxieties still sitting on his shoulder, to pound a couple of mistakes, shake off the tension, and get into the game without penalty.
What no one imagined in inventing this rule is that a) each subsequent drive might, in fact, be worse, and b) you might never, ever be happy.
I eventually went with my original drive, which at least had the happy advantage that I could find it, and actually swing a club in its vicinity.
And so, hole by hole, it went.
We were playing a course I know really well, and one that, while challenging, I have performed adequately on, from time to time. Or at least, on some of the holes. Really.
Not today.
I drove (that is way too forceful a word; truth is, there was much more squibbing, duffing, blipping and bopping than driving) the ball into the woods (several times), into the fields abutting the course, into the water (fish were taking to dry land to avoid the danger), and on one memorable hole, almost through the peak of my cap as I managed the remarkable feat of blipping the ball almost straight up.
And those were just the drives.
My other clubs were more predictable, in that I could predict with great accuracy that I had no idea what they might do next. My three-wood might produce a nice, straight, 190 yard second shot right down the fairway (which happened at least twice, I swear) or it might send the ball on a right wing arc into the woods, onto other fairways, or into parts unknown.
My pitching wedge was good for 90 yards, or three.
My sand wedge... well, when it comes to the sand wedge, I cannot bring myself even to write of these things. I dissolve into tears. I may need to seek professional, psychological help.
I finished with a miserable score, but my buddy looked back, and said, 'I don't think there's anyone playing the 17th and 18th behind us. Want to try those two holes again?'
I agreed with alacrity. The 17th had been particular gruesome in my first attempt, involving two shots in the sand trap (not into, in), and the famous Knowles double chip shot that flies completely over the green, and then (next shot), back again.
So we played it again, John. And I played the hole well, a long part five that I conquered with panache.
Who says this game is tough? I can't wait to play again.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Simple Knowles was a pieman
It was supposed to be a quick hour or so in the kitchen, but it turned into a scavenger hunt. All this as I assembled the ingredients for a pie.
Not just any pie, of course. If you have been following the recent, odd path of my life (and I don't blame you if you have been focused on the Canadiens, the Canucks, Helena Geurgis or other issues of great import, instead), you know that I was offered the assignment of making a pie, to be sold at auction.
This is all in a good cause, of course -- it will raise money for the New Hamburg Interfaith Counselling Centre. It should also (vested interest is never far away, is it?) raise awareness of my campaign for mayor.
It's because of the latter that I was fingered as a pastry chef. Each of the candidates for Wilmot mayor was invited to bake a pie, to be sold in this event. Also on hand will be well-known piemen Mayor Wayne Roth and Harold Albrecht, MP.
I think the Silent Auction organizers figured the mayoral candidates would see
this as a bit of a competition, and urge their friends to rally around and bid. Which will, in the end, fatten the take for this worthwhile charity. Good thinking.
One cannot simply jump in and make a pie, though. It takes planning and forethought. I decided to make a "community minded pie", which is tough, since pies have neither community nor, come to think of it, a mind.
But I gave it my best shot, and this is where the scavenging bit comes in. After consulting with my sous-chef (she said it's okay if I call her that), I decided to make an apple pie. Nothing says "home" like an apple pie, in my opinion. So I wandered over to Pfennings and asked if I could get some organic apples. They were very kind, loading up a small box with organic spies, and then refusing payment because the cause is worthwhile. So I had my apples, from Wilmot township.
But in the spirit of "community", I wanted to add other touches of the township to the pie. So I was off to collect a couple of free range eggs from New Dundee area chickens -- I'm told I have a corner on the poultry vote, supported by chickens in Dundee and that rogue rooster in Baden I have defended in print. However, I'm also told that chickens can't actually vote, so this is a moral victory at best.
I adapted the recipe to include a splash of maple syrup -- not only is this as Canadian as rolling up a rim, this is maple syrup made from the trees along our very own Shade Street, and boiled up to perfection by my friend and neighbour Paul Mackie.
Finally, what is apple pie without cheese? So I dropped by Oak Grove Cheese and picked up a pound or so of their old Cheddar. Finer cheddar you won't find, anywhere. This is a nice dessert combo, but, to tell the truth, I was also covering my bets -- if no one thinks my pie is worth a bid, at least they will be willing to buy the cheese!
All the assembling completed, I started to peel and slice apples. A lot of apples. And to make the crust (using lard, on the rather insistent advice of my mother-in-law, who proclaimed that flaky crust demands lard). Nancy and I worked together to weave the pastry lattice atop the pie, and popped it into the oven.
Then, she had to make me stop opening the oven every three minutes to make sure it wasn't burning. Eventually, I left the kitchen for a while, to avoid that particular compulsion.
A few hours after I write this, it will be sold at auction, along with the pies made by the other guys. Tell you what... I'll report back after the fact, with an up to the minute comment about the proceeds from the pie.
Not just any pie, of course. If you have been following the recent, odd path of my life (and I don't blame you if you have been focused on the Canadiens, the Canucks, Helena Geurgis or other issues of great import, instead), you know that I was offered the assignment of making a pie, to be sold at auction.
This is all in a good cause, of course -- it will raise money for the New Hamburg Interfaith Counselling Centre. It should also (vested interest is never far away, is it?) raise awareness of my campaign for mayor.
It's because of the latter that I was fingered as a pastry chef. Each of the candidates for Wilmot mayor was invited to bake a pie, to be sold in this event. Also on hand will be well-known piemen Mayor Wayne Roth and Harold Albrecht, MP.
I think the Silent Auction organizers figured the mayoral candidates would see
this as a bit of a competition, and urge their friends to rally around and bid. Which will, in the end, fatten the take for this worthwhile charity. Good thinking.
One cannot simply jump in and make a pie, though. It takes planning and forethought. I decided to make a "community minded pie", which is tough, since pies have neither community nor, come to think of it, a mind.
But I gave it my best shot, and this is where the scavenging bit comes in. After consulting with my sous-chef (she said it's okay if I call her that), I decided to make an apple pie. Nothing says "home" like an apple pie, in my opinion. So I wandered over to Pfennings and asked if I could get some organic apples. They were very kind, loading up a small box with organic spies, and then refusing payment because the cause is worthwhile. So I had my apples, from Wilmot township.
But in the spirit of "community", I wanted to add other touches of the township to the pie. So I was off to collect a couple of free range eggs from New Dundee area chickens -- I'm told I have a corner on the poultry vote, supported by chickens in Dundee and that rogue rooster in Baden I have defended in print. However, I'm also told that chickens can't actually vote, so this is a moral victory at best.
I adapted the recipe to include a splash of maple syrup -- not only is this as Canadian as rolling up a rim, this is maple syrup made from the trees along our very own Shade Street, and boiled up to perfection by my friend and neighbour Paul Mackie.
Finally, what is apple pie without cheese? So I dropped by Oak Grove Cheese and picked up a pound or so of their old Cheddar. Finer cheddar you won't find, anywhere. This is a nice dessert combo, but, to tell the truth, I was also covering my bets -- if no one thinks my pie is worth a bid, at least they will be willing to buy the cheese!
All the assembling completed, I started to peel and slice apples. A lot of apples. And to make the crust (using lard, on the rather insistent advice of my mother-in-law, who proclaimed that flaky crust demands lard). Nancy and I worked together to weave the pastry lattice atop the pie, and popped it into the oven.
Then, she had to make me stop opening the oven every three minutes to make sure it wasn't burning. Eventually, I left the kitchen for a while, to avoid that particular compulsion.
A few hours after I write this, it will be sold at auction, along with the pies made by the other guys. Tell you what... I'll report back after the fact, with an up to the minute comment about the proceeds from the pie.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
An exercise in obfuscation
Obfuscate.
That is a great word. It means, according to a readily accessible on-line dictionary, "to darken, make obscure, confuse."
It may also, although this did not come up in the brief web dictionary, mean "to be the Prime Minister of Canada."
Let me digress for a moment. A week ago, I was invited to appear on Brent Hanson's CTV debating program, "What's Your Point?" I've been on this show about four times, including during its previous incarnation as "Final Round."
"Final Round" was staged in a mock boxing ring; "What's Your Point" sees verbal war waged from comfortable leather couches. Apart from that, the premise is pretty much the same -- four people, clearly not expert on every topic, debate five issues of the day for up to about four minutes for each topic. That's not a lot of time to solve the problems of the world, but it is plenty of time to hurl epithets and accusations at one another, and a good time is had by all.
Except for the shy people, but Brent seems to weed them out pretty well before anybody of that ilk makes it onto the set.
One of our topics had to do with the currently notorious Helena Guergis -- the question was, "Should she quit or should she be fired?" This was taped about two days before she left cabinet and caucus; it aired a couple of days after her departure, so we either appeared prophetic or passé.
I took the position that Stephen Harper should turf her, and so show some much-needed commitment to integrity.
Instead... you knew I would get back to this, eventually... we have mostly seen obfuscation. She did leave cabinet, apparently asked to resign, a sort of terminal middle ground. And Harper kicked her out of the Conservative caucus.
But... you know this, too... he won't actually say why. And in the week since Helena's change of status, we the people have been handed obfuscation after obfuscation. Her lawyer says she hasn't even been told the reason for her ouster; Harper's office says, "has, too!"
The ethics commissioner says she hasn't the grounds to investigate Guergis.
Harper's people say she has all the information. The ethics commissioner then says she has not been asked to investigate. Harper's people say she has, sort of, but not entirely.
The RCMP has been asked to investigate, and have said very little. It has been pointed out that some such investigations can last for years.
The news media are digging and scavenging for scraps, and uncovering all manner
of rumours and hearsay about Guergis and her fallen-from-grace husband, former
Conservative MP Rahim Jaffer. The stories mention, among other things, cocaine,
alcohol and "busty hookers".
These reports raise a couple of questions for me; mainly, if this represents the night life of leading members of Stephen Harper's Conservative Party, what the heck are the Liberals, the Bloc, or those wild and crazy New Democrats up to, anyway? How nuts do those MPs get when Parliament is done for the day?
And second -- I merely muse about this for linguistic clarity -- isn't the phrase "busty hooker" by and large redundant?
In a strange way, Helena Guergis presented the Prime Minister with an unusually clear opportunity. This was his chance to be unequivocally ethical, to state what he is doing and why, to make clear the integrity of his party.
Instead, we have a fairly high level of obfuscation. Good word. Bad policy.
That is a great word. It means, according to a readily accessible on-line dictionary, "to darken, make obscure, confuse."
It may also, although this did not come up in the brief web dictionary, mean "to be the Prime Minister of Canada."
Let me digress for a moment. A week ago, I was invited to appear on Brent Hanson's CTV debating program, "What's Your Point?" I've been on this show about four times, including during its previous incarnation as "Final Round."
"Final Round" was staged in a mock boxing ring; "What's Your Point" sees verbal war waged from comfortable leather couches. Apart from that, the premise is pretty much the same -- four people, clearly not expert on every topic, debate five issues of the day for up to about four minutes for each topic. That's not a lot of time to solve the problems of the world, but it is plenty of time to hurl epithets and accusations at one another, and a good time is had by all.
Except for the shy people, but Brent seems to weed them out pretty well before anybody of that ilk makes it onto the set.
One of our topics had to do with the currently notorious Helena Guergis -- the question was, "Should she quit or should she be fired?" This was taped about two days before she left cabinet and caucus; it aired a couple of days after her departure, so we either appeared prophetic or passé.
I took the position that Stephen Harper should turf her, and so show some much-needed commitment to integrity.
Instead... you knew I would get back to this, eventually... we have mostly seen obfuscation. She did leave cabinet, apparently asked to resign, a sort of terminal middle ground. And Harper kicked her out of the Conservative caucus.
But... you know this, too... he won't actually say why. And in the week since Helena's change of status, we the people have been handed obfuscation after obfuscation. Her lawyer says she hasn't even been told the reason for her ouster; Harper's office says, "has, too!"
The ethics commissioner says she hasn't the grounds to investigate Guergis.
Harper's people say she has all the information. The ethics commissioner then says she has not been asked to investigate. Harper's people say she has, sort of, but not entirely.
The RCMP has been asked to investigate, and have said very little. It has been pointed out that some such investigations can last for years.
The news media are digging and scavenging for scraps, and uncovering all manner
of rumours and hearsay about Guergis and her fallen-from-grace husband, former
Conservative MP Rahim Jaffer. The stories mention, among other things, cocaine,
alcohol and "busty hookers".
These reports raise a couple of questions for me; mainly, if this represents the night life of leading members of Stephen Harper's Conservative Party, what the heck are the Liberals, the Bloc, or those wild and crazy New Democrats up to, anyway? How nuts do those MPs get when Parliament is done for the day?
And second -- I merely muse about this for linguistic clarity -- isn't the phrase "busty hooker" by and large redundant?
In a strange way, Helena Guergis presented the Prime Minister with an unusually clear opportunity. This was his chance to be unequivocally ethical, to state what he is doing and why, to make clear the integrity of his party.
Instead, we have a fairly high level of obfuscation. Good word. Bad policy.
Friday, April 9, 2010
When large garbage was a really big show
The innovation is probably an improvement, but I miss the old ways. Today is large garbage day on my street. That's the new policy here in Wilmot township -- the first week of the month means the collection of "large garbage", on whatever day your refuse is usually collected.
This is a welcome service, of course, and doing it once a month is undoubtedly a good idea. It may even be more efficient.
But once upon a time, not so many years ago, large garbage day was just a semi-annual event, and, boy, did that result in enormous piles of cast-offs sitting in front of homes all over town.
It was a bonanza for garbage pickers, metal scavengers, and anyone looking for a beat up old table for a work room, garage or potting shed. Trucks, vans and even wagons toured the town, salvaging hither and yon. Drivers and their passengers would prowl past, checking out the discarded junk. It actually hurt a bit when they didn't stop, and you realized that nothing in your pile was of interest, even to a junk collector. That cuts deep.
Those of us without larger vehicles would wander our own streets on foot, looking for overlooked and unwanted potential treasures. To this day, my front garden, in summer, is decorated with an antique push cultivator a neighbour had put out for collection. I would venture to guess that most people on our street have neighbourhood cast-offs somewhere in their garage or shed.
In fact, some of those items may have been recycled through local homes three or four times, because, let's face it, not everything that seems a good idea at the time turns out to be a positive, long-term strategy. I still wonder about the guy who took my canoe after the craft had been crushed to kindling by a higher-than-expected ice jam on the Nith. If he managed to restore it, I'm impressed. Or maybe he wanted it for a chaise longue, like Joey and Chandler on Friends.
It was fun to cruise the streets of town on large garbage night, "window shopping" the curbside detritus, commenting on the wisdom or lack thereof involved in throwing away such valuable stuff. "I can't believe they're throwing that out -- there are plenty of years left in that couch." Worse, "I can't believe anyone ever thought that colour was a good idea!"
Your foibles are revealed to the world, on large garbage day.
But now that this happens 12 times a year instead of only two, the critical mass has been lost. There may still be salvagers, but the sheer mass of the discards is no longer overwhelming. Gone are the days when a pile of large garage could completely block the view of the home involved, when removing an item meant you were risking a life-threatening avalanche of abandoned furniture and appliances.
Not every large garbage event was positive, mind you. Once upon a time, I put out an old barbecue, which we had replaced with a newer model. It immediately attracted salvagers... and I have no problem with that.
What I do have a problem with is, they took out all the greasy, ashy, rusty bits they didn't want, and dumped them willy nilly on my lawn, making off only with the parts they wanted. That, it seems to me, breaks the unwritten rule of large garbage, which is, "Take anything you want, but take the whole thing."
I'm going to stop writing now, and go outside to haul my large garbage to the street. I'm betting the rotting, wooden garden obelisk is gone within half an hour.
This is a welcome service, of course, and doing it once a month is undoubtedly a good idea. It may even be more efficient.
But once upon a time, not so many years ago, large garbage day was just a semi-annual event, and, boy, did that result in enormous piles of cast-offs sitting in front of homes all over town.
It was a bonanza for garbage pickers, metal scavengers, and anyone looking for a beat up old table for a work room, garage or potting shed. Trucks, vans and even wagons toured the town, salvaging hither and yon. Drivers and their passengers would prowl past, checking out the discarded junk. It actually hurt a bit when they didn't stop, and you realized that nothing in your pile was of interest, even to a junk collector. That cuts deep.
Those of us without larger vehicles would wander our own streets on foot, looking for overlooked and unwanted potential treasures. To this day, my front garden, in summer, is decorated with an antique push cultivator a neighbour had put out for collection. I would venture to guess that most people on our street have neighbourhood cast-offs somewhere in their garage or shed.
In fact, some of those items may have been recycled through local homes three or four times, because, let's face it, not everything that seems a good idea at the time turns out to be a positive, long-term strategy. I still wonder about the guy who took my canoe after the craft had been crushed to kindling by a higher-than-expected ice jam on the Nith. If he managed to restore it, I'm impressed. Or maybe he wanted it for a chaise longue, like Joey and Chandler on Friends.
It was fun to cruise the streets of town on large garbage night, "window shopping" the curbside detritus, commenting on the wisdom or lack thereof involved in throwing away such valuable stuff. "I can't believe they're throwing that out -- there are plenty of years left in that couch." Worse, "I can't believe anyone ever thought that colour was a good idea!"
Your foibles are revealed to the world, on large garbage day.
But now that this happens 12 times a year instead of only two, the critical mass has been lost. There may still be salvagers, but the sheer mass of the discards is no longer overwhelming. Gone are the days when a pile of large garage could completely block the view of the home involved, when removing an item meant you were risking a life-threatening avalanche of abandoned furniture and appliances.
Not every large garbage event was positive, mind you. Once upon a time, I put out an old barbecue, which we had replaced with a newer model. It immediately attracted salvagers... and I have no problem with that.
What I do have a problem with is, they took out all the greasy, ashy, rusty bits they didn't want, and dumped them willy nilly on my lawn, making off only with the parts they wanted. That, it seems to me, breaks the unwritten rule of large garbage, which is, "Take anything you want, but take the whole thing."
I'm going to stop writing now, and go outside to haul my large garbage to the street. I'm betting the rotting, wooden garden obelisk is gone within half an hour.
Friday, April 2, 2010
So, how's the campaign going?
"So," say folks I meet on the street, "How's the campaign going?"
"By the way," add friends and colleagues who email me about something totally
unrelated, "How's the election campaign going?"
My immediate reaction is to be self-deprecating, to say that I really don't know
how it is going, to point out that it's really early in the process that will
stretch nearly a year from first stirrings and private conversations to the
voting on October 25.
Self-deprecation, however, is apparently not an attribute in a candidate for
political office. So I could say, "Fabulous. I've got this thing in the bag."
However, over-confidence is also not an attribute in a candidate for political
office. Neither is stupidity, and the preceding response would fall well within
that category.
So my answer, for the time being, is that it seems to be going well. How do I
know this? All the evidence is anecdotal, of course, and based on interaction
with a a few hundred of the 19,000 residents of Wilmot, the township I hope to
lead as mayor in the next term.
But those interactions are really very positive. I'm getting a lot of supportive
comments, and not only from friends. Acquaintances and strangers are also
telling me that a) they're glad I am running; b) they hear other people saying
positive things about my campaign; and c) they have some issues they'd like to
see discussed. Often, they also ask how they can help.
This is all good news.
What they are not saying, because I don't ask, is that they will vote for me. I
don't ask because I really do believe our system is properly based on a secret
ballot, and what happens in the privacy of a polling booth is between a voter
and her or his personal convictions.
I hope that their positive comments translate into votes, of course. My campaign
will need a lot of them to win this thing.
The other answer to "how is the campaign going?" is, quite honestly, "it's going
in unexpected directions."
By this, I refer to events I had never dreamed of -- for instance, the
Interfaith Silent Auction, 2 p.m., April 24, where a pie I'm going to bake will
be auctioned off for charity, along with pies baked by my opponents and other
local politicians. I have been invited to participate, I said yes, I can bake a
pie. Type to be determined.
Also unexpected -- but very welcome -- are the phone calls and emails I am receiving about fascinating and very specific concerns ranging from turkey hunting to transportation for children. It is clear that a pre-packaged campaign will not do the job in the election... I have to be open and flexible, and willing to listen.
What other unexpected events or questions will arise mid-campaign? I can only wait and see.
I'm hoping for no dunks tanks.
In the meantime, I am talking to people and, more importantly, I am trying to
listen. I am frankly surprised that, at this relatively early date, residents
of Wilmot township are talking about the election. But they are, and a fair amount
from what I can determine. More and more of the comments I am hearing include
the statement, "I was talking to a group of friends about the election, the
other day, and they think..."
What they think varies, of course, but there is a lot about the need for
leadership, for an articulate voice to stand up for the interests of the
township, and for someone to care about the needs of our individual
communities, from flood control in New Hamburg, to good sports fields in
Petersburg and New Dundee, to maintaining the threatened sense of local spirit
in Baden.
These are all important things.
People also talk about the impact of bigger governments on our relatively small
township, especially the Region and the province. That's a major concern of mine,
too.
So when I'm asked, "How's the campaign going?" another good answer would be, "I
believe it's on the right track. People are concerned about things that I think
are important. I think we're on the road to some solutions."
If that sounds like political speechmaking, I don't apologize. Because politics,
at its best, is a means to find solutions for the problems facing the people.
And that's also where this campaign is going.
"By the way," add friends and colleagues who email me about something totally
unrelated, "How's the election campaign going?"
My immediate reaction is to be self-deprecating, to say that I really don't know
how it is going, to point out that it's really early in the process that will
stretch nearly a year from first stirrings and private conversations to the
voting on October 25.
Self-deprecation, however, is apparently not an attribute in a candidate for
political office. So I could say, "Fabulous. I've got this thing in the bag."
However, over-confidence is also not an attribute in a candidate for political
office. Neither is stupidity, and the preceding response would fall well within
that category.
So my answer, for the time being, is that it seems to be going well. How do I
know this? All the evidence is anecdotal, of course, and based on interaction
with a a few hundred of the 19,000 residents of Wilmot, the township I hope to
lead as mayor in the next term.
But those interactions are really very positive. I'm getting a lot of supportive
comments, and not only from friends. Acquaintances and strangers are also
telling me that a) they're glad I am running; b) they hear other people saying
positive things about my campaign; and c) they have some issues they'd like to
see discussed. Often, they also ask how they can help.
This is all good news.
What they are not saying, because I don't ask, is that they will vote for me. I
don't ask because I really do believe our system is properly based on a secret
ballot, and what happens in the privacy of a polling booth is between a voter
and her or his personal convictions.
I hope that their positive comments translate into votes, of course. My campaign
will need a lot of them to win this thing.
The other answer to "how is the campaign going?" is, quite honestly, "it's going
in unexpected directions."
By this, I refer to events I had never dreamed of -- for instance, the
Interfaith Silent Auction, 2 p.m., April 24, where a pie I'm going to bake will
be auctioned off for charity, along with pies baked by my opponents and other
local politicians. I have been invited to participate, I said yes, I can bake a
pie. Type to be determined.
Also unexpected -- but very welcome -- are the phone calls and emails I am receiving about fascinating and very specific concerns ranging from turkey hunting to transportation for children. It is clear that a pre-packaged campaign will not do the job in the election... I have to be open and flexible, and willing to listen.
What other unexpected events or questions will arise mid-campaign? I can only wait and see.
I'm hoping for no dunks tanks.
In the meantime, I am talking to people and, more importantly, I am trying to
listen. I am frankly surprised that, at this relatively early date, residents
of Wilmot township are talking about the election. But they are, and a fair amount
from what I can determine. More and more of the comments I am hearing include
the statement, "I was talking to a group of friends about the election, the
other day, and they think..."
What they think varies, of course, but there is a lot about the need for
leadership, for an articulate voice to stand up for the interests of the
township, and for someone to care about the needs of our individual
communities, from flood control in New Hamburg, to good sports fields in
Petersburg and New Dundee, to maintaining the threatened sense of local spirit
in Baden.
These are all important things.
People also talk about the impact of bigger governments on our relatively small
township, especially the Region and the province. That's a major concern of mine,
too.
So when I'm asked, "How's the campaign going?" another good answer would be, "I
believe it's on the right track. People are concerned about things that I think
are important. I think we're on the road to some solutions."
If that sounds like political speechmaking, I don't apologize. Because politics,
at its best, is a means to find solutions for the problems facing the people.
And that's also where this campaign is going.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Robins rule -- and do a fair Baywatch impression
This was a Pamela Anderson of a robin. Originally, I was going to write, "a Mae West of a robin," and while I still think that is marginally more accurate, it is also entirely obscure to the majority of people currently alive and well and capable of reading my column. So, I copped out and opted to invoke the pneumatic Pam.
At any rate, whether Pam or Mae, the robin certainly had the posture right, and the shape was unquestionably reminiscent.
Not that one usually thinks of Ms. Anderson hopping through a shade garden, carrying an insect in her mouth. This is what is called, in my trade, beating an image to death. Let's leave Canada's contribution to high culture behind, and focus entirely on the real birds.
This is the time of year when robins rule. They arrived home some weeks ago, of course -- and did so, once again, mysteriously en masse. I no longer believe that robins migrate, at least in the traditional sense of the word. Instead, I am highly suspicious that they charter -- a plane, a train, perhaps a bus -- and arrive back in southern Ontario all at once, get off the bus at some secret location, collect their bags, and show up in enormous groups in our neighbourhoods announcing "we're home! Are the worms ready, yet?"
This is the only possible explanation for the complete absence of robins, one spring day, followed by a torrential deluge of robins one day later. Hordes of robins. Gangs. Herds.
Upon their return, they are initially pretty docile. Happy to be home, confused to find bits of ground still frozen, a little displeased with gardeners who had not yet filled the bird baths, but generally peaceful.
Then, they built their nests, lay their eggs, and turn into Billy Jack, ready to defend hearth and home against all incursions. They take no flak from anyone
crow, blue jay, squirrel; heck, I imagine them driving off hippos if hippos could climb trees and took a liking to raw egg.
Perhaps you have deduced that I have a certain affection for Canadian robins. As well as a certain antagonism toward those who officially named it the American Robin, for, while we Canucks are certainly legitimate residents of the Americas, that term has been co-opted by a certain nation I have no intention of discussing further at this point. Besides, I am too embarrassed by our own political mess to start throwing stones southward. I digress horribly.
I like robins. I like their cheeky attitudes, I appreciate their role as the harbinger of spring, I enjoy watching them, I am fascinated by their odd ability to seek and decant subterranean worms.
Robins carry hope. Every spring, for sure, they bring hope of warm breezes and blue skies. But they also convey hope in the same way other flourishing fauna do. Healthy and plentiful robins give us reason to believe that, just maybe, there may be hope for the environment. We are still in plenty of ecological trouble, but at least humankind has had the foresight to abandon the use of certain chemicals that were laying waste many of our songbirds.
Robins abound. They find food in our lawns and gardens. Where there are robins, there is reason to think all is not lost.
Perhaps you, too, read the news reports some time ago about the discovery in the US of the ivory-billed woodpecker, long thought extinct. Did you get that frisson of excitement -- a sudden surge of hope?
Well, I get that every time a robin looking like a Baywatch babe hops across my lawn. All may not be well with our natural world, but here is one more reason for activist optimism.
At any rate, whether Pam or Mae, the robin certainly had the posture right, and the shape was unquestionably reminiscent.
Not that one usually thinks of Ms. Anderson hopping through a shade garden, carrying an insect in her mouth. This is what is called, in my trade, beating an image to death. Let's leave Canada's contribution to high culture behind, and focus entirely on the real birds.
This is the time of year when robins rule. They arrived home some weeks ago, of course -- and did so, once again, mysteriously en masse. I no longer believe that robins migrate, at least in the traditional sense of the word. Instead, I am highly suspicious that they charter -- a plane, a train, perhaps a bus -- and arrive back in southern Ontario all at once, get off the bus at some secret location, collect their bags, and show up in enormous groups in our neighbourhoods announcing "we're home! Are the worms ready, yet?"
This is the only possible explanation for the complete absence of robins, one spring day, followed by a torrential deluge of robins one day later. Hordes of robins. Gangs. Herds.
Upon their return, they are initially pretty docile. Happy to be home, confused to find bits of ground still frozen, a little displeased with gardeners who had not yet filled the bird baths, but generally peaceful.
Then, they built their nests, lay their eggs, and turn into Billy Jack, ready to defend hearth and home against all incursions. They take no flak from anyone
crow, blue jay, squirrel; heck, I imagine them driving off hippos if hippos could climb trees and took a liking to raw egg.
Perhaps you have deduced that I have a certain affection for Canadian robins. As well as a certain antagonism toward those who officially named it the American Robin, for, while we Canucks are certainly legitimate residents of the Americas, that term has been co-opted by a certain nation I have no intention of discussing further at this point. Besides, I am too embarrassed by our own political mess to start throwing stones southward. I digress horribly.
I like robins. I like their cheeky attitudes, I appreciate their role as the harbinger of spring, I enjoy watching them, I am fascinated by their odd ability to seek and decant subterranean worms.
Robins carry hope. Every spring, for sure, they bring hope of warm breezes and blue skies. But they also convey hope in the same way other flourishing fauna do. Healthy and plentiful robins give us reason to believe that, just maybe, there may be hope for the environment. We are still in plenty of ecological trouble, but at least humankind has had the foresight to abandon the use of certain chemicals that were laying waste many of our songbirds.
Robins abound. They find food in our lawns and gardens. Where there are robins, there is reason to think all is not lost.
Perhaps you, too, read the news reports some time ago about the discovery in the US of the ivory-billed woodpecker, long thought extinct. Did you get that frisson of excitement -- a sudden surge of hope?
Well, I get that every time a robin looking like a Baywatch babe hops across my lawn. All may not be well with our natural world, but here is one more reason for activist optimism.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Ciao, Stephen. Come stai?
Perhaps we should all be taking Italian lessons. Not only would this make us seem sexier -- and who among us could not use a little of that? -- but it would also help us to be more comfortable with the new style of Canadian government.
Like Italy, we are gridlocked in an era of perpetual minority governments, in which every political party seems content with the status quo. Unlike Italy, our Prime Minister is not all that interesting, although I'm not suggesting that Stephen Harper adopt the lifestyle of Silvio Berlusconi.
It would make life in Canada a bit more intriguing though, wouldn't it? Imagine if our national symbols during the Olympic extravaganzas had been runway models, wine and extravagant dinners, instead of wheatfields, maple leaves and whales.
The beavers work either way, of course. I digress.
The Italian connection comes, not with playboy Prime Ministers, but through our descent into permanent Parliamentary deadlock. It would be easy to blame this on Harper -- everything is easy to blame on Harper, come to think of it -- but probably unfair.
Harper is at least interested in being in power, and he has been uniquely successful at attaining and maintaining that objective. To watch him lead the country, you might not even realize that he is the leader of a minority government, which could fall at the whim of the Opposition.
Compare his efforts to that of a Conservative predecessor, Joe Clark, also PM in a minority, also eager to lead as though he had real power, and gone in the blink of Pierre Tudeau's eye.
It's not all Harper's doing though, and this is why I think we may be in real trouble. Sure, Harper prorogued Parliament... but the MPs did come back, and have been in the House for weeks now. The Opposition raised verbal hell about Harper's move, but once they were back in their seats in the Chamber, did anyone move a vote of non-confidence because of Harper's tactic?
Nope.
Do any of the opposition parties have any intention of defeating the government?
Nope.
Is this because they have genuine faith in the Conservatives and their agenda? Actually, that would be refreshing, wouldn't it? Once upon a time, the Leader of the Opposition would actually support an action of the government, because it was patently the right thing to do. All of that sense of cooperation is long gone from our Parliament.
The real reason the opposition won't take action is because they like things just the way they are, completely for their own purposes. This has nothing to do with what is right for Canada -- it is all about what works for the parties.
The Liberals continue to struggle, and are unwilling to face any kind of election. They would probably not do better, they might do worse (the Conservatives are again climbing in the polls), and so, what they have is maybe the best they can hope for. So Ignatieff once again becomes a source of sound and fury signifying nothing.
The NDP know that the Conservatives have somehow managed to occupy the political middle ground while retaining the right, and that the Liberals -- if they are to achieve any success at all -- will need to poach as much left wing support as they can. So the NDP are squeezed, and this, coupled with their leader's health battle, leave them uninterested in any political conflict.
And the Bloc? Their cause is lost, but their jobs are secure, and so it is all about drawing salaries and eventual pensions from a country they don't believe in. Nothing could be fairer than that.
If this was all working, who could complain? But precious little is being done (did you see that the feds were unable to spend half of the infrastructure money they allocated last year, ending the year with over a billion dollars in surplus in that department?)
I'm signing up for Italian lessons, today.
Like Italy, we are gridlocked in an era of perpetual minority governments, in which every political party seems content with the status quo. Unlike Italy, our Prime Minister is not all that interesting, although I'm not suggesting that Stephen Harper adopt the lifestyle of Silvio Berlusconi.
It would make life in Canada a bit more intriguing though, wouldn't it? Imagine if our national symbols during the Olympic extravaganzas had been runway models, wine and extravagant dinners, instead of wheatfields, maple leaves and whales.
The beavers work either way, of course. I digress.
The Italian connection comes, not with playboy Prime Ministers, but through our descent into permanent Parliamentary deadlock. It would be easy to blame this on Harper -- everything is easy to blame on Harper, come to think of it -- but probably unfair.
Harper is at least interested in being in power, and he has been uniquely successful at attaining and maintaining that objective. To watch him lead the country, you might not even realize that he is the leader of a minority government, which could fall at the whim of the Opposition.
Compare his efforts to that of a Conservative predecessor, Joe Clark, also PM in a minority, also eager to lead as though he had real power, and gone in the blink of Pierre Tudeau's eye.
It's not all Harper's doing though, and this is why I think we may be in real trouble. Sure, Harper prorogued Parliament... but the MPs did come back, and have been in the House for weeks now. The Opposition raised verbal hell about Harper's move, but once they were back in their seats in the Chamber, did anyone move a vote of non-confidence because of Harper's tactic?
Nope.
Do any of the opposition parties have any intention of defeating the government?
Nope.
Is this because they have genuine faith in the Conservatives and their agenda? Actually, that would be refreshing, wouldn't it? Once upon a time, the Leader of the Opposition would actually support an action of the government, because it was patently the right thing to do. All of that sense of cooperation is long gone from our Parliament.
The real reason the opposition won't take action is because they like things just the way they are, completely for their own purposes. This has nothing to do with what is right for Canada -- it is all about what works for the parties.
The Liberals continue to struggle, and are unwilling to face any kind of election. They would probably not do better, they might do worse (the Conservatives are again climbing in the polls), and so, what they have is maybe the best they can hope for. So Ignatieff once again becomes a source of sound and fury signifying nothing.
The NDP know that the Conservatives have somehow managed to occupy the political middle ground while retaining the right, and that the Liberals -- if they are to achieve any success at all -- will need to poach as much left wing support as they can. So the NDP are squeezed, and this, coupled with their leader's health battle, leave them uninterested in any political conflict.
And the Bloc? Their cause is lost, but their jobs are secure, and so it is all about drawing salaries and eventual pensions from a country they don't believe in. Nothing could be fairer than that.
If this was all working, who could complain? But precious little is being done (did you see that the feds were unable to spend half of the infrastructure money they allocated last year, ending the year with over a billion dollars in surplus in that department?)
I'm signing up for Italian lessons, today.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Driving Miss Nancy
You learn a lot of stuff, driving to and from Florida with your beloved.
By "beloved," I refer to my wife, Nancy, not to my car, because I'm not that kind of macho guy, and couldn't be, even if I tried. The only kinds of cars I can identify with 100% certainty are Volkswagen Beetles, and even then, I seem to be the only person of my acquaintance who plays the game by saying "Volkswagen, no rebounds."
Everyone else, including my travelling companion to and from the sunshine state, believes the line begins with "Punchbuggy". This was a source of considerable controversy, as we made our way southward through the US of A.
I digress.
We logged about 5400 kilometers, all told, as we drove down the I-75 to Marco Island, visited sundry parts of Florida including Pompano Beach, Disney and Saint Augustine (the latter of which was a wonderful revelation to me), and then headed back for the border crossing at Detroit and points Canadian.
One thing I learned was that it is better to have a GPS (which we did, this year) than not to have one (which was the case last year, a contributing factor in our journey to Fort Lauderdale from Disney via Tampa. Okay, so I was listening to old time rock 'n' roll and not reading road signs. Sorry! Did that give our impatient, eventual hosts the right to eat all the appetizers, just because we were several hours late for dinner? Well? I digress, again).
I learned -- too late, unfortunately -- that picking the tunes for a four-day round trip should be a consultative effort, not a unilateral process. I did try to include something for all tastes, but it became clear -- as someone who will not be named read out the title of each and every CD -- that my preferences dominated.
On the other hand, everyone should be exposed to the timeless, classical work of The Association and Procol Harum, shouldn't they?
We learned that the mountains of Kentucky and Tennessee look pretty much the same, whether viewed from the north or the south, especially since our precise schedule planning left us driving through said mountains in the pitch dark, both ways.
We learned that the southern US is undoubtedly the billboard capital of the world. We especially enjoyed the juxtapositions, like the two adjacent signs that read: "Prepare to meet your God"... "Strippers! Need we say more?"
We learned once again -- not the hard way, that was an experience from my past that shall not be repeated -- that speeding tickets are a major source of governmental funding in Georgia and other southern states. I don't know who was chasing the criminals, because every police officer in the state appeared to be concealed along the I-75. Those that weren't concealed were parked, lights blazing, behind the next poor sucker who got caught in the ubiquitous speed traps.
We learned that when you find a bargain hotel room for the night in transit, you get exactly what you pay for. We did. There was actually a bed, but towels, soap and curtains would have been nice. We changed our approach on the way back.
I learned that you cannot assume anything in a restaurant. Heading south, we stopped at a Cracker Barrel -- a slice of Americana if ever there was one. Even on holiday, I was trying to watch my weight (which is easy, considering where most of it is located. Rim shot.)
I ordered the catfish special, and it came with grilled fish and veggies... a generally low-fat and delicious meal. So I repeated my order on the way home... or thought I did. The result was deep fried catfish, a huge plate of fries, rolls, and biscuits. Perfect. I didn't try to send it back, because apparently, this was indeed what I had ordered. Maybe my Canadian accent confused them.
We learned that everyone in the south calls everyone else "Hon." I think we should adopt this is Canada. Especially in Parliament, where if Harper and Ignatieff had to refer to one another as "Hon," the level of debate might just be elevated a bit.
Mostly, though, I learned that driving Miss Nancy is a lovely experience. I know I am supposed to say that, but it's true, none the less. Honest, Hon.
By "beloved," I refer to my wife, Nancy, not to my car, because I'm not that kind of macho guy, and couldn't be, even if I tried. The only kinds of cars I can identify with 100% certainty are Volkswagen Beetles, and even then, I seem to be the only person of my acquaintance who plays the game by saying "Volkswagen, no rebounds."
Everyone else, including my travelling companion to and from the sunshine state, believes the line begins with "Punchbuggy". This was a source of considerable controversy, as we made our way southward through the US of A.
I digress.
We logged about 5400 kilometers, all told, as we drove down the I-75 to Marco Island, visited sundry parts of Florida including Pompano Beach, Disney and Saint Augustine (the latter of which was a wonderful revelation to me), and then headed back for the border crossing at Detroit and points Canadian.
One thing I learned was that it is better to have a GPS (which we did, this year) than not to have one (which was the case last year, a contributing factor in our journey to Fort Lauderdale from Disney via Tampa. Okay, so I was listening to old time rock 'n' roll and not reading road signs. Sorry! Did that give our impatient, eventual hosts the right to eat all the appetizers, just because we were several hours late for dinner? Well? I digress, again).
I learned -- too late, unfortunately -- that picking the tunes for a four-day round trip should be a consultative effort, not a unilateral process. I did try to include something for all tastes, but it became clear -- as someone who will not be named read out the title of each and every CD -- that my preferences dominated.
On the other hand, everyone should be exposed to the timeless, classical work of The Association and Procol Harum, shouldn't they?
We learned that the mountains of Kentucky and Tennessee look pretty much the same, whether viewed from the north or the south, especially since our precise schedule planning left us driving through said mountains in the pitch dark, both ways.
We learned that the southern US is undoubtedly the billboard capital of the world. We especially enjoyed the juxtapositions, like the two adjacent signs that read: "Prepare to meet your God"... "Strippers! Need we say more?"
We learned once again -- not the hard way, that was an experience from my past that shall not be repeated -- that speeding tickets are a major source of governmental funding in Georgia and other southern states. I don't know who was chasing the criminals, because every police officer in the state appeared to be concealed along the I-75. Those that weren't concealed were parked, lights blazing, behind the next poor sucker who got caught in the ubiquitous speed traps.
We learned that when you find a bargain hotel room for the night in transit, you get exactly what you pay for. We did. There was actually a bed, but towels, soap and curtains would have been nice. We changed our approach on the way back.
I learned that you cannot assume anything in a restaurant. Heading south, we stopped at a Cracker Barrel -- a slice of Americana if ever there was one. Even on holiday, I was trying to watch my weight (which is easy, considering where most of it is located. Rim shot.)
I ordered the catfish special, and it came with grilled fish and veggies... a generally low-fat and delicious meal. So I repeated my order on the way home... or thought I did. The result was deep fried catfish, a huge plate of fries, rolls, and biscuits. Perfect. I didn't try to send it back, because apparently, this was indeed what I had ordered. Maybe my Canadian accent confused them.
We learned that everyone in the south calls everyone else "Hon." I think we should adopt this is Canada. Especially in Parliament, where if Harper and Ignatieff had to refer to one another as "Hon," the level of debate might just be elevated a bit.
Mostly, though, I learned that driving Miss Nancy is a lovely experience. I know I am supposed to say that, but it's true, none the less. Honest, Hon.
Friday, March 5, 2010
I think we've got the wrong droid
Luke Skywalker always seemed to have such wonderful conversations with R2-D2. So why is it that I cannot manage the same feat when I am conversing with cyber-creatures?
I was thinking about this after a recent bout with Emily, the cyber-receptionist at Bell. My frustration was augmented by whoever the robot girl is who handles customer calls at Disney... let's call her Mini. And then there was the digital woman who fields calls for the circulation department of a local daily newspaper.
All of this came about because we are planning a vacation. So we had to suspend our newspaper subscription, buy some American plan minutes for our phones, and confirm a short stay at Disney World, because I happen to share my life with a Disneyphile. Who has demonstrated to me, by the way, that Disney can be a tonne of fun for two silly adults, and we certainly meet the full quota in that department.
First call was the Bell Mobility, to buy the minutes. Thus, the conversation with Emily.
"Conversation" is not really the right word, is it? It's more, "battle of wits," which I am perennially doomed to lose. I know, when I make the call, that I am going to have to talk to a real, live human being. This person may well be somewhere west of the international date line, but no matter... Emily ain't gonna sell me American minutes.
But she doesn't know that. She also knows she is supposed to engage me in sprightly conversation, point out many wonderful opportunities for me to purchase services, and basically try to keep me well out of the way of real human Bell employees, wherever they are positioned on the globe.
Eventually, after hitting the 0 key a number of times, I got to a real person. But it took effort and ingenuity on my part, and I suspect Emily won, on points.
After that battle of cyber-wit vs. nitwit, I called Disney to confirm our two-day stay, and encountered "Mini: -- my choice of name, not hers -- who is right up there with the holographic doctor on Voyager in terms of conversational ability. I actually fell into the trap, and had a long talk with Mini -- we didn't discuss politics or religion, but her questions and well-programmed answers lured me into a false sense of confidence. False, because I could not actually get the information I needed, and eventually Mini gave up, passed me along, and I was transferred to the front desk of the Disney resort where we have our booking. The delightful woman there confirmed the booking for one Paul Knowles and his companion, whose name is "Unknown." She read it aloud, expecting a human name, and collapsed in giggles when she realized what she had done. I assured her my companion was certainly known, and that she is my wife, Nancy. She appreciated the information, but with great glee continued to refer to Paul and "Miss Unknown" Knowles.
That's my kind of telephone correspondent. I liked her instantly.
Then came the call to the newspaper. I loved the sequence. The digital voice -- let's call her "Lois" -- first informed me that "there will be a 15 second wait for a representative," and then took much more than 15 seconds to offer me sundry cyber-choices, so I could register a holiday break in my subscription without dealing with an actual human. There were a couple of other announcements, too, before I made it to a human being. Who took care of the cancellation in about 12 seconds.
These digital beings -- most of whom appear to be female, probably because they are designed by cyber-geek males who can't get dates -- are nothing like R2D2. But wait a minute -- they certainly do bear an uncanny resemblance to the annoying, cloying, and verbose C3PO. I've got a bad feeling about this.
I was thinking about this after a recent bout with Emily, the cyber-receptionist at Bell. My frustration was augmented by whoever the robot girl is who handles customer calls at Disney... let's call her Mini. And then there was the digital woman who fields calls for the circulation department of a local daily newspaper.
All of this came about because we are planning a vacation. So we had to suspend our newspaper subscription, buy some American plan minutes for our phones, and confirm a short stay at Disney World, because I happen to share my life with a Disneyphile. Who has demonstrated to me, by the way, that Disney can be a tonne of fun for two silly adults, and we certainly meet the full quota in that department.
First call was the Bell Mobility, to buy the minutes. Thus, the conversation with Emily.
"Conversation" is not really the right word, is it? It's more, "battle of wits," which I am perennially doomed to lose. I know, when I make the call, that I am going to have to talk to a real, live human being. This person may well be somewhere west of the international date line, but no matter... Emily ain't gonna sell me American minutes.
But she doesn't know that. She also knows she is supposed to engage me in sprightly conversation, point out many wonderful opportunities for me to purchase services, and basically try to keep me well out of the way of real human Bell employees, wherever they are positioned on the globe.
Eventually, after hitting the 0 key a number of times, I got to a real person. But it took effort and ingenuity on my part, and I suspect Emily won, on points.
After that battle of cyber-wit vs. nitwit, I called Disney to confirm our two-day stay, and encountered "Mini: -- my choice of name, not hers -- who is right up there with the holographic doctor on Voyager in terms of conversational ability. I actually fell into the trap, and had a long talk with Mini -- we didn't discuss politics or religion, but her questions and well-programmed answers lured me into a false sense of confidence. False, because I could not actually get the information I needed, and eventually Mini gave up, passed me along, and I was transferred to the front desk of the Disney resort where we have our booking. The delightful woman there confirmed the booking for one Paul Knowles and his companion, whose name is "Unknown." She read it aloud, expecting a human name, and collapsed in giggles when she realized what she had done. I assured her my companion was certainly known, and that she is my wife, Nancy. She appreciated the information, but with great glee continued to refer to Paul and "Miss Unknown" Knowles.
That's my kind of telephone correspondent. I liked her instantly.
Then came the call to the newspaper. I loved the sequence. The digital voice -- let's call her "Lois" -- first informed me that "there will be a 15 second wait for a representative," and then took much more than 15 seconds to offer me sundry cyber-choices, so I could register a holiday break in my subscription without dealing with an actual human. There were a couple of other announcements, too, before I made it to a human being. Who took care of the cancellation in about 12 seconds.
These digital beings -- most of whom appear to be female, probably because they are designed by cyber-geek males who can't get dates -- are nothing like R2D2. But wait a minute -- they certainly do bear an uncanny resemblance to the annoying, cloying, and verbose C3PO. I've got a bad feeling about this.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Carry your hockey bag, ma'am?
So the gold-medal-winning, Canadian women's hockey team members returned to the ice in an empty arena, smoked a cigar or two, and celebrated. They even popped the corks on some fine champagne.
And the media and self-appointed moral authorities were on them like ugly on an ape.
This -- let me be forthright -- is not only overkillingly ridiculous. It is also entirely sexist.
Let's imagine... and maybe, by the time you read this, it won't be imagination... that the Canadian men win Olympic gold. What do we expect in the dressing room following the game? Lollipops?
Nope, the cameras of CTV and assorted associates will be right there, in the dressingroom, capturing the emotional celebration, punctuated, I'm guessing, with cigars and champagne (an odious combination, if you like champagne, but I digress), and maybe even beer.
And all will be well.
But let our women light up a celebratory stogie, or sip some champers, and all hell breaks loose.
Has anyone checked the history of the Stanley Cup, recently? The places it's been, the excesses which it has endured, the beverages that have been sipped from Lord Stanley's contribution to Canadian identity?
Heaven help us if any of those sippers had been women, apparently.
So, enough. Too much.
I was disappointed to see that the Canadian women's hockey team had to offer an explanation, which was close to (but not exactly, thank goodness, an apology). That was entirely unfair, and should never have happened.
We Canadians, proud and free, obviously place too much national self-identity on hockey, but what the heck, this is who we are. Polite, helpful, not terribly influential, but doggone dedicated to the best game in the world.
Me, too.
So we Canadians need to say to the women who won the gold wearing Canadian uniforms: 1) Hurrah, at the top of our lungs and 2) Sorry for treating you like children. Worse, sorry for treating you like men have treated women for too damned long.
You are champions. Sip proudly, have a foolish cigar if you want (but just one, okay), and know that you have every right to celebrate an incredible accomplishment.
And the media and self-appointed moral authorities were on them like ugly on an ape.
This -- let me be forthright -- is not only overkillingly ridiculous. It is also entirely sexist.
Let's imagine... and maybe, by the time you read this, it won't be imagination... that the Canadian men win Olympic gold. What do we expect in the dressing room following the game? Lollipops?
Nope, the cameras of CTV and assorted associates will be right there, in the dressingroom, capturing the emotional celebration, punctuated, I'm guessing, with cigars and champagne (an odious combination, if you like champagne, but I digress), and maybe even beer.
And all will be well.
But let our women light up a celebratory stogie, or sip some champers, and all hell breaks loose.
Has anyone checked the history of the Stanley Cup, recently? The places it's been, the excesses which it has endured, the beverages that have been sipped from Lord Stanley's contribution to Canadian identity?
Heaven help us if any of those sippers had been women, apparently.
So, enough. Too much.
I was disappointed to see that the Canadian women's hockey team had to offer an explanation, which was close to (but not exactly, thank goodness, an apology). That was entirely unfair, and should never have happened.
We Canadians, proud and free, obviously place too much national self-identity on hockey, but what the heck, this is who we are. Polite, helpful, not terribly influential, but doggone dedicated to the best game in the world.
Me, too.
So we Canadians need to say to the women who won the gold wearing Canadian uniforms: 1) Hurrah, at the top of our lungs and 2) Sorry for treating you like children. Worse, sorry for treating you like men have treated women for too damned long.
You are champions. Sip proudly, have a foolish cigar if you want (but just one, okay), and know that you have every right to celebrate an incredible accomplishment.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
And the gold goes to... really?
Yes, I am enjoying the Olympics. I'm cheering for Canadians, I'm moved by the emotional moments, I like seeing all the flags waving. There... full disclosure.
This is not to say I am blind. Unlike most of the Canadian commentators! (Surely there is an extra syllable in that word. What would be the difference between a commentator and a commentor? I digress).
It is hard not to notice what they appear not to notice.
Consider the opening ceremonies, where a great many of the singers were clearly lipsynching, and doing so badly. The gold for worst lip syncher has to go to the usually solid Bryan Adams; silver to Nellie Furtado, his duet partner. Bronze? Well, there's a wide selection of candidates, but I'd give it to whoever decided not to trust Measha Brueggergosman, an excellent singer who should have been allowed to go live.
On the other hand, k.d. lang did sing live, and brilliantly. Wow! So it could be done.
It was cute, in an anxious sort of way, when the five torch lighters remained at attention for what was clearly way too long, while the announcers didn't acknowledge that something had gone wrong for what felt like an hour and a half.
On the other hand, the commentators clearly did notice, but declined to comment on, one of the most appalling moments in Canadian sportscasting, as -- while the American feed was showing beautiful Canadian vistas, and basically reporting wonderful things about us -- we were showing pre-Olympic scenes of apparently teenage girls in hot tubs, and then -- for the gold -- other apparently teenage girls about to do body shots off some hot guy.
That's what we're best known for... elegance and class.
I'm sure we all agree that the gold for most hackneyed phrase has to go jointly to the 1,275 broadcasters who mouthed the words "... has never won gold on Canadian soil". My goodness.
Speaking of all things Canadian, you gotta wonder who arranged that funereal tempo for our national anthem at the opening ceremonies. O Canada! indeed. It took longer to finish the song that it did to complete the Canadian Pacific Railway.
I don't recall hearing any commentator point out that although we are an officially bilingual country, it was not clear which second language the VANOC head was speaking in when he fell out of English and into what one can only assume was an attempt at French.
Vancouver has been swarming with people from all over the world, for months. Could John Furlong not have found someone to tell him that "una kip" is not how you pronounce the phrase meaning "a team" in French? Or is Una Kip a Finnish snowboarder? It's unclear.
And then there's a second mystery surrounding the clearly talented and committed Mr. Furlong... and again, nobody has pointed it out. When he was addressing the world at the opening ceremony (in English; we'll let the failed attempt at French go, now), he had a clear, if wooden, Canadian accent.
But when they showed the pre-recorded features about him, Furlong has an undeniable Irish lilt. Hey -- maybe they have spirited away the real Furlong and replaced him with a clone. It may be a North Korean plot. Stay tuned.
Speaking of staying tuned -- this is not the first time I have watched figure skating. And therefore, it is not the first time I have been utterly baffled by the judging. Is there any "sport" where the judging is more opaque?
People fell down, and won. They fell twice, and scored well. They skated beautifully, and came in seventh or 15th. And nobody said, "What the....??" Does everybody except me understand this? Do the cumulative scores of the last 12 years figure in? It's as though the Canadian hockey team, for instance, won 3-2 in the gold match, but gold is awarded to the US anyway, because the judges... well, because they can.
There. The gold in being a curmudgeon goes to Knowles. Let the Games continue.
This is not to say I am blind. Unlike most of the Canadian commentators! (Surely there is an extra syllable in that word. What would be the difference between a commentator and a commentor? I digress).
It is hard not to notice what they appear not to notice.
Consider the opening ceremonies, where a great many of the singers were clearly lipsynching, and doing so badly. The gold for worst lip syncher has to go to the usually solid Bryan Adams; silver to Nellie Furtado, his duet partner. Bronze? Well, there's a wide selection of candidates, but I'd give it to whoever decided not to trust Measha Brueggergosman, an excellent singer who should have been allowed to go live.
On the other hand, k.d. lang did sing live, and brilliantly. Wow! So it could be done.
It was cute, in an anxious sort of way, when the five torch lighters remained at attention for what was clearly way too long, while the announcers didn't acknowledge that something had gone wrong for what felt like an hour and a half.
On the other hand, the commentators clearly did notice, but declined to comment on, one of the most appalling moments in Canadian sportscasting, as -- while the American feed was showing beautiful Canadian vistas, and basically reporting wonderful things about us -- we were showing pre-Olympic scenes of apparently teenage girls in hot tubs, and then -- for the gold -- other apparently teenage girls about to do body shots off some hot guy.
That's what we're best known for... elegance and class.
I'm sure we all agree that the gold for most hackneyed phrase has to go jointly to the 1,275 broadcasters who mouthed the words "... has never won gold on Canadian soil". My goodness.
Speaking of all things Canadian, you gotta wonder who arranged that funereal tempo for our national anthem at the opening ceremonies. O Canada! indeed. It took longer to finish the song that it did to complete the Canadian Pacific Railway.
I don't recall hearing any commentator point out that although we are an officially bilingual country, it was not clear which second language the VANOC head was speaking in when he fell out of English and into what one can only assume was an attempt at French.
Vancouver has been swarming with people from all over the world, for months. Could John Furlong not have found someone to tell him that "una kip" is not how you pronounce the phrase meaning "a team" in French? Or is Una Kip a Finnish snowboarder? It's unclear.
And then there's a second mystery surrounding the clearly talented and committed Mr. Furlong... and again, nobody has pointed it out. When he was addressing the world at the opening ceremony (in English; we'll let the failed attempt at French go, now), he had a clear, if wooden, Canadian accent.
But when they showed the pre-recorded features about him, Furlong has an undeniable Irish lilt. Hey -- maybe they have spirited away the real Furlong and replaced him with a clone. It may be a North Korean plot. Stay tuned.
Speaking of staying tuned -- this is not the first time I have watched figure skating. And therefore, it is not the first time I have been utterly baffled by the judging. Is there any "sport" where the judging is more opaque?
People fell down, and won. They fell twice, and scored well. They skated beautifully, and came in seventh or 15th. And nobody said, "What the....??" Does everybody except me understand this? Do the cumulative scores of the last 12 years figure in? It's as though the Canadian hockey team, for instance, won 3-2 in the gold match, but gold is awarded to the US anyway, because the judges... well, because they can.
There. The gold in being a curmudgeon goes to Knowles. Let the Games continue.
Friday, February 12, 2010
25% vote; 100% bear the consequences
It's an intriguing experience, this political thing.
If you're reading this column, you probably already know that I am a candidate for the position of Mayor of Wilmot Township in the 2010 municipal election. I announced my intentions a couple of weeks ago, and the response has been very interesting.
(If you're not reading this column.... no, that won't work. Never mind).
A lot of people have contacted me since the announcement, mostly folks I have encountered on the street or in the grocery store or at a local restaurant.
I've been very impressed that at least half have not only congratulated me -- which is quite premature, unless the congratulations are for being brave and/or foolish enough to run, in which case, thank you -- but have also offered to help in the campaign.
Some, of course, simply say, "So, you're running..." and then look down at an imaginary speck on the sidewalk, so I suspect they are not among my most ardent supporters. This response, too, is to be expected.
What I didn't expect is the level of engagement of a lot of people, this early on. The nomination period is open, but the election doesn't take place until October 25. That's a geological age away, in political terms.
None the less, many people are engaged and eager to participate.
This is tremendous. One of the reasons I am running is because I believe that municipal government is where most of the things happen that affect our daily lives.
Of course, the feds make important decisions -- or don't, in the case of a lengthy prorogation -- and so do our provincial leaders. They do things that impact us every day, from instituting the HST to funding community facilities.
But it's at the municipal level that we feel the impact, most regularly. If you doubt that, imagine discovering your garbage at the end of your driveway, two days after it was supposed to be picked up. Think about what would happen if your taps no longer produced water, or your toilet no longer flushed; if huge sinkholes in your street were left un-repaired, or a rendering plant opened in the middle of your subdivision.
These are all municipal concerns, at the township and/or regional level. These things matter.
Listen when you are having coffee with some friends -- many of the complaints will be about all things municipal. Delays in getting approval from the GRCA? Your mayor is your only rep on that board. Electricity bills? Your mayor is your only rep on that board. Limited hours at your library? Your mayor.... this is becoming needlessly repetitive. The point is, our municipal representatives have a lot to do with how we live on a day to day basis.
I'm going on about this, this week -- and no, this will not be my weekly column topic, I assure you -- because many people still don't really know who does what, when it comes to supplying services to the people of our communities.
Odds are good, if you raise an issue, the trail will lead right to municipal or regional council. Part of my goal (in addition to the "get elected" part) is to inform as many people as possible about the importance of our township council and regional council.
But what I am celebrating, these days, is the number of people who do know, who do care, and who are eager to get involved.
As this campaign unfolds, if you are one of these, I encourage you to go beyond urging support for individual candidates. Talk to your friends and neighbours about the roles and responsibilities of municipal governments. Encourage them to get involved.
Only about 25% of voters participate in municipal elections. But 100% of voters are impacted by their results.
Get involved. Thus endeth the lesson.
If you're reading this column, you probably already know that I am a candidate for the position of Mayor of Wilmot Township in the 2010 municipal election. I announced my intentions a couple of weeks ago, and the response has been very interesting.
(If you're not reading this column.... no, that won't work. Never mind).
A lot of people have contacted me since the announcement, mostly folks I have encountered on the street or in the grocery store or at a local restaurant.
I've been very impressed that at least half have not only congratulated me -- which is quite premature, unless the congratulations are for being brave and/or foolish enough to run, in which case, thank you -- but have also offered to help in the campaign.
Some, of course, simply say, "So, you're running..." and then look down at an imaginary speck on the sidewalk, so I suspect they are not among my most ardent supporters. This response, too, is to be expected.
What I didn't expect is the level of engagement of a lot of people, this early on. The nomination period is open, but the election doesn't take place until October 25. That's a geological age away, in political terms.
None the less, many people are engaged and eager to participate.
This is tremendous. One of the reasons I am running is because I believe that municipal government is where most of the things happen that affect our daily lives.
Of course, the feds make important decisions -- or don't, in the case of a lengthy prorogation -- and so do our provincial leaders. They do things that impact us every day, from instituting the HST to funding community facilities.
But it's at the municipal level that we feel the impact, most regularly. If you doubt that, imagine discovering your garbage at the end of your driveway, two days after it was supposed to be picked up. Think about what would happen if your taps no longer produced water, or your toilet no longer flushed; if huge sinkholes in your street were left un-repaired, or a rendering plant opened in the middle of your subdivision.
These are all municipal concerns, at the township and/or regional level. These things matter.
Listen when you are having coffee with some friends -- many of the complaints will be about all things municipal. Delays in getting approval from the GRCA? Your mayor is your only rep on that board. Electricity bills? Your mayor is your only rep on that board. Limited hours at your library? Your mayor.... this is becoming needlessly repetitive. The point is, our municipal representatives have a lot to do with how we live on a day to day basis.
I'm going on about this, this week -- and no, this will not be my weekly column topic, I assure you -- because many people still don't really know who does what, when it comes to supplying services to the people of our communities.
Odds are good, if you raise an issue, the trail will lead right to municipal or regional council. Part of my goal (in addition to the "get elected" part) is to inform as many people as possible about the importance of our township council and regional council.
But what I am celebrating, these days, is the number of people who do know, who do care, and who are eager to get involved.
As this campaign unfolds, if you are one of these, I encourage you to go beyond urging support for individual candidates. Talk to your friends and neighbours about the roles and responsibilities of municipal governments. Encourage them to get involved.
Only about 25% of voters participate in municipal elections. But 100% of voters are impacted by their results.
Get involved. Thus endeth the lesson.
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