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.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
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.
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