I went walking in west end Halifax tonight. A clear August evening that reminds you summer is limited. It's leaving. You only get a few perfect days like this.
All my good neighbours are in hiding. Perhaps "cocooning" with their families; or have they merely escaped the city for just one more summer weekend? And I stop and look out over the railroad bridge on Mumford Road...at the cranes in the cove to the south, at the trees and the one guy with his blue bag gathering recyclables. I take a deep breath and taste no salt, and that tells me it will be cool tonight.
As usual, I pause at the graveyard and talk with my old friend Eileen, where she rests amid generations of working class Catholics and the watery home of victims of the Titanic. And in the silence, she tells me "we're doing okay. The fight we fought continues and we will do better." I snort and confess my skepticism, and she tells me "skepticism is good but never be cynical." But we have had this conversation every week for ten years, and still the sense of loss weighs so heavily. Is this what aging is about?
I walk across the transit plaza. Rushing towards the departing buses are a young family; he leading the way, she, wearing a veil and pushing a stroller, ten paces behind. A group of young Tamil males consult their cell phones and try to figure out the routes. A native elder with incredibly long hair and weary eyes climbs aboard the Number 14. Two young men, oblivious to the rest of the world kiss. I breathe deeply again and try not to think that I am merely caught in a Bruce Cockburn song.
I do the sidewalk dance with the guy coming towards me..."keep right" seems to work. I think of the morning and evening strolls I have so enjoyed in New York, Montreal and countless other cities and catch a small--yes it is so small--vibe of being in the world, even here in Halifax.
I ask myself if I will ever find my place. If the poor kid from Southwest Nova Scotia will ever really find comfort--in the words of a wise man I once knew, "be comforted rather than comfortable...". And decide yes, in this moment, I fit in my own skin. After all, it's August.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Filling a hole in the sky
They're filling a hole in the sky over lower Manhattan. Where once stood the massive twin peaks of the World Trade Centre, 10 cranes labour away laying the steel for One World Trade Center, and excavating an even deeper adjacent hole to build the monument in memory of those who died at Ground Zero.
It's a searingly hot July day and the sidewalks are filled with tourists--mostly families--some here to remember and pay their respects and others out of morbid curiosity. I am here, I confess, for both reasons--and more.
I first visited New York City in 1998 with two friends after becoming convinced that there was something amiss, in a life lived for 45 years merely two hours by air from the cultural capital of modern western civilization, with never having visited it. One of my companions pushed hard to tour the World Trade Center, but being short on time, we eventually agreed on "next time". We all know how that worked out. So, I am also visiting to honour that commitment.
I am a firm believer in the reality behind the idea of "hallowed ground". I have experienced it in places as diverse as Chichen Itza and the Vietnam War Memorial. We sit in the shade of a pocket park just north of Ground Zero. A fountain, which surrounds an amazing intensely fuschia-coloured Jeff Koons sculpture, masks the sound of both the crowds and the construction.
I try not to think of the words of Ecclesiastes, the preacher, "All is vanity...". Instead, the lyrics of singer-songwriter Jack Johnson, written days after 9/11, and heard the evening before, come back to haunt me:
"There will always be stop and go
And fast and slow
And action, reaction;
Sticks and stones and broken bones,
Those for peace and those for war,
And God bless these ones, not those ones but these ones.
In times like these.
It's a searingly hot July day and the sidewalks are filled with tourists--mostly families--some here to remember and pay their respects and others out of morbid curiosity. I am here, I confess, for both reasons--and more.
I first visited New York City in 1998 with two friends after becoming convinced that there was something amiss, in a life lived for 45 years merely two hours by air from the cultural capital of modern western civilization, with never having visited it. One of my companions pushed hard to tour the World Trade Center, but being short on time, we eventually agreed on "next time". We all know how that worked out. So, I am also visiting to honour that commitment.
I am a firm believer in the reality behind the idea of "hallowed ground". I have experienced it in places as diverse as Chichen Itza and the Vietnam War Memorial. We sit in the shade of a pocket park just north of Ground Zero. A fountain, which surrounds an amazing intensely fuschia-coloured Jeff Koons sculpture, masks the sound of both the crowds and the construction.
I try not to think of the words of Ecclesiastes, the preacher, "All is vanity...". Instead, the lyrics of singer-songwriter Jack Johnson, written days after 9/11, and heard the evening before, come back to haunt me:
"There will always be stop and go
And fast and slow
And action, reaction;
Sticks and stones and broken bones,
Those for peace and those for war,
And God bless these ones, not those ones but these ones.
In times like these.
Friday, April 23, 2010
How the magic of rural life got the city kid a job
There is a magical 13-hectare, century-old homestead that straddles the Queens and Annapolis county lines in the very centre of Nova Scotia. A cleared hectare with a 130-year-old farmhouse surrounded by a dozen more of pine and poplar, marsh and swamp, facing a half kilometer of Pretty Mary Lake.
Pretty Mary Lake…could anyone intentionally name a lake so beautifully?
It has always felt like a magical place, with loons and turtles, bear and pheasants. Even the howl of the coyotes in the distance—although chilling—comforts you with the certainty that you are in a place where the conventions of the 21st century have very little bearing on your day-to-day life.
I am always unusually conscious of the weight of personal history in this place where our family has spent almost 40 summers exploring, loving and living. It’s not just the guest books, which begin their record of visitors the day my late father-in-law bought the place for a ridiculously small amount of money in 1973. There are no comments from the rich and famous, but there are rich, and certainly near-famous, stories recorded in those volumes. And there is a snapshot of a fairly typical eastern Canadian family as the 20th century folded into the 21st.
It’s not a place of convenience. Most of the locals shop at the Foodland or N. F. Douglas Home Hardware in nearby Caledonia. Except when they need mod-cons, then they travel an hour into Bridgewater. But with Kejimkujik National Park ten minutes away, there are summer businesses like the M & W, where Marilyn will serve you coffee, local news and the most wonderful pies, but only between May and October.
A firm—if reluctant—believer in coincidence, time and time again, the coincidences of this place astonish and befuddle me.
First, there was my partner’s mother who discovered shortly after buying the place that she had relatives buried in the local churchyard. Then there was a conversation with a long-time colleague from Prince Edward Island, who revealed he had spent many weekends decades earlier partying with former university roommates at my neighbour’s—the same weekends that dozens of our friends were doing the same just down the road. The final straw (or so I thought) came last summer when, following a weekend of Canada Day celebrations with friends and family, the stragglers who had stayed on were enjoying an evening on the veranda. A friend of my 20-something daughter was distracted by an ongoing text-mail conversation with a woman he had never met. After we had all dispersed, I was called by another the porch-dweller from that night. He had gone to his favourite pub in Yarmouth for lunch and the waitress, noting he had been missing for a few days, learned he had been near Keji. “What a coincidence,” she told him, “I was texting with a guy from near Keji just the other night. He was at a big house party deep in the woods…”
But even my father-in-law must be laughing from his grave tonight.
“Granddad” bought this place as somewhere the family could drop all the stress of modern life and enjoy each other—a place where we could relearn what family and community really meant. My three children grew up here (when they weren’t busy enjoying their real lives in the city) and my youngest, who is just approaching 20, long ago made it clear that he would be the guy who would keep grandfather’s legacy alive.
He finished his formal training as a bricklayer last week. All that remained to ensure his certificate—and 600 hours of apprenticeship credit—was five days of work placement. He called every company on the list given him by his instructor. No opportunities. He called the small company with whom he had done a placement in the fall. No work. He even called the president of the union, who told him that he would hire him if he had work.
Boy’s predicament weighed heavily on his parents. His mother, who works in the mental health care system, was bemoaning her frustration with colleagues last week. A doctor said “Oh, I have a friend with a small masonary company. I’ll call him.” She set it up, and the kid got his week’s placement.
Yesterday, he was offered a labourer’s job on the project, just four days after starting his placement. The offer came during a conversation with the site manager—who is the other partner in the company. When my son admitted that he did need weekends to get down to the country, the manager offering the job suddenly realized that my son was the kid at the old farmhouse from down home, and that his mother, Marilyn, had known him since he was a seven-day-old baby. My son countered with his own terms—hire me as an apprentice mason and give me a few days off in August for a family reunion. The deal was sealed.
Tonight, even the wonderful song of the spring peepers, the sight of my dogs dozing by the stove and the glory of the Lyrid meteor shower overhead in the night sky can only begin to describe why I am in love with this magical, mystical place.
Pretty Mary Lake…could anyone intentionally name a lake so beautifully?
It has always felt like a magical place, with loons and turtles, bear and pheasants. Even the howl of the coyotes in the distance—although chilling—comforts you with the certainty that you are in a place where the conventions of the 21st century have very little bearing on your day-to-day life.
I am always unusually conscious of the weight of personal history in this place where our family has spent almost 40 summers exploring, loving and living. It’s not just the guest books, which begin their record of visitors the day my late father-in-law bought the place for a ridiculously small amount of money in 1973. There are no comments from the rich and famous, but there are rich, and certainly near-famous, stories recorded in those volumes. And there is a snapshot of a fairly typical eastern Canadian family as the 20th century folded into the 21st.
It’s not a place of convenience. Most of the locals shop at the Foodland or N. F. Douglas Home Hardware in nearby Caledonia. Except when they need mod-cons, then they travel an hour into Bridgewater. But with Kejimkujik National Park ten minutes away, there are summer businesses like the M & W, where Marilyn will serve you coffee, local news and the most wonderful pies, but only between May and October.
A firm—if reluctant—believer in coincidence, time and time again, the coincidences of this place astonish and befuddle me.
First, there was my partner’s mother who discovered shortly after buying the place that she had relatives buried in the local churchyard. Then there was a conversation with a long-time colleague from Prince Edward Island, who revealed he had spent many weekends decades earlier partying with former university roommates at my neighbour’s—the same weekends that dozens of our friends were doing the same just down the road. The final straw (or so I thought) came last summer when, following a weekend of Canada Day celebrations with friends and family, the stragglers who had stayed on were enjoying an evening on the veranda. A friend of my 20-something daughter was distracted by an ongoing text-mail conversation with a woman he had never met. After we had all dispersed, I was called by another the porch-dweller from that night. He had gone to his favourite pub in Yarmouth for lunch and the waitress, noting he had been missing for a few days, learned he had been near Keji. “What a coincidence,” she told him, “I was texting with a guy from near Keji just the other night. He was at a big house party deep in the woods…”
But even my father-in-law must be laughing from his grave tonight.
“Granddad” bought this place as somewhere the family could drop all the stress of modern life and enjoy each other—a place where we could relearn what family and community really meant. My three children grew up here (when they weren’t busy enjoying their real lives in the city) and my youngest, who is just approaching 20, long ago made it clear that he would be the guy who would keep grandfather’s legacy alive.
He finished his formal training as a bricklayer last week. All that remained to ensure his certificate—and 600 hours of apprenticeship credit—was five days of work placement. He called every company on the list given him by his instructor. No opportunities. He called the small company with whom he had done a placement in the fall. No work. He even called the president of the union, who told him that he would hire him if he had work.
Boy’s predicament weighed heavily on his parents. His mother, who works in the mental health care system, was bemoaning her frustration with colleagues last week. A doctor said “Oh, I have a friend with a small masonary company. I’ll call him.” She set it up, and the kid got his week’s placement.
Yesterday, he was offered a labourer’s job on the project, just four days after starting his placement. The offer came during a conversation with the site manager—who is the other partner in the company. When my son admitted that he did need weekends to get down to the country, the manager offering the job suddenly realized that my son was the kid at the old farmhouse from down home, and that his mother, Marilyn, had known him since he was a seven-day-old baby. My son countered with his own terms—hire me as an apprentice mason and give me a few days off in August for a family reunion. The deal was sealed.
Tonight, even the wonderful song of the spring peepers, the sight of my dogs dozing by the stove and the glory of the Lyrid meteor shower overhead in the night sky can only begin to describe why I am in love with this magical, mystical place.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Missing the boat to Cuba
When two gardeners at the resort in Varadero split a coconut and stuck a straw in it for a lone Canadian who couldn't find his bungalow, I started to warm to the Cuban people. Within hours, my 19-year-old son was on a first name basis with the pool man, maître d’, poolside bartender, and several waitresses and housekeepers. That's when I really began to enjoy Cuba.
I fell in love with the island partly because it is gorgeous, but mostly I fell in love with a generation of Cubans that is on the cusp of leading their country. Remember, Cuba has one of the most well developed public education systems in the Caribbean. Attendance is compulsory until the end of Grade 9, and most Cubans continue through high school with many going on to university. There are more than 800 Cuban-trained doctors working in South America alone.
But a huge divide is opening up in Cuban society. It is fostered by the “convertible peso”; the currency every visitor must buy (but never sell) in order to purchase anything in the country. The convertible peso is worth about 25 times the Cuban peso, the currency used to pay workers their monthly wages, and with which they must buy fuel, electricity and food. Food is rationed and the rations usually last the average family 24 days out of each month. Food and lodging aside (God bless the socialist state), the average Cuban makes about 60 convertible pesos. A convertible peso is currently worth about $1.15 Canadian. One young, well-educated Cuban I spoke with told me that he believes the convertible peso must eventually become the currency of Cuba.
To be fair, the recent history of Cuba has been cast by two events—the fall of the Soviet Union and the American blockade. The first brought to an end an era of dependency on the aid, foreign investment and trade that the Cuban economy relied on. The second has throttled virtually every aspect of daily life on the island.
Quite accidentally (at least from the viewpoint of America), the embargo has also fostered a spirit of self-reliance, deepened patriotic fervour and led to a burgeoning business sector. The latter has been greatly bolstered by tourism, which today is Cuba's largest industry.
Those Cubans who serve the tourist industry—whether as direct employees of the state-owned resorts, taxi and tour companies or as artisans, musicians and entertainers—not only often earn significant incomes in convertible pesos, but are also exposed to visitors from many different cultures, offering them an enticing glimpse of the world outside their own society.
One might think that young Cubans would resent America for the current sanctions, but as my new friend told me “You have to remember that there are millions of Cubans living in the United States. Every Cuban is related to someone in the US. We are family.” He also doubts, despite promising signals, that President Obama will be able to thaw relations between the two nations.
“The current political reality for any president is that Florida has become the tail that wags the electoral dog. Without Florida, you cannot govern and some 40 per cent of Florida politicians are Cuban-Americans,” he says and shrugs.
Meanwhile, fueled largely by the demands of the tourist industry, trade patterns continue to strengthen with South America, Europe and Asia; patterns that will over time become so ingrained in the economy that the US business community may never be able to overcome them in a post-blockade world.
Ironically, at a time when a free enterprise sector is flourishing in Cuba and a young, well-educated generation is poised to move into leadership roles in both government and the economy, America is missing the boat.
I fell in love with the island partly because it is gorgeous, but mostly I fell in love with a generation of Cubans that is on the cusp of leading their country. Remember, Cuba has one of the most well developed public education systems in the Caribbean. Attendance is compulsory until the end of Grade 9, and most Cubans continue through high school with many going on to university. There are more than 800 Cuban-trained doctors working in South America alone.
But a huge divide is opening up in Cuban society. It is fostered by the “convertible peso”; the currency every visitor must buy (but never sell) in order to purchase anything in the country. The convertible peso is worth about 25 times the Cuban peso, the currency used to pay workers their monthly wages, and with which they must buy fuel, electricity and food. Food is rationed and the rations usually last the average family 24 days out of each month. Food and lodging aside (God bless the socialist state), the average Cuban makes about 60 convertible pesos. A convertible peso is currently worth about $1.15 Canadian. One young, well-educated Cuban I spoke with told me that he believes the convertible peso must eventually become the currency of Cuba.
To be fair, the recent history of Cuba has been cast by two events—the fall of the Soviet Union and the American blockade. The first brought to an end an era of dependency on the aid, foreign investment and trade that the Cuban economy relied on. The second has throttled virtually every aspect of daily life on the island.
Quite accidentally (at least from the viewpoint of America), the embargo has also fostered a spirit of self-reliance, deepened patriotic fervour and led to a burgeoning business sector. The latter has been greatly bolstered by tourism, which today is Cuba's largest industry.
Those Cubans who serve the tourist industry—whether as direct employees of the state-owned resorts, taxi and tour companies or as artisans, musicians and entertainers—not only often earn significant incomes in convertible pesos, but are also exposed to visitors from many different cultures, offering them an enticing glimpse of the world outside their own society.
One might think that young Cubans would resent America for the current sanctions, but as my new friend told me “You have to remember that there are millions of Cubans living in the United States. Every Cuban is related to someone in the US. We are family.” He also doubts, despite promising signals, that President Obama will be able to thaw relations between the two nations.
“The current political reality for any president is that Florida has become the tail that wags the electoral dog. Without Florida, you cannot govern and some 40 per cent of Florida politicians are Cuban-Americans,” he says and shrugs.
Meanwhile, fueled largely by the demands of the tourist industry, trade patterns continue to strengthen with South America, Europe and Asia; patterns that will over time become so ingrained in the economy that the US business community may never be able to overcome them in a post-blockade world.
Ironically, at a time when a free enterprise sector is flourishing in Cuba and a young, well-educated generation is poised to move into leadership roles in both government and the economy, America is missing the boat.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
How ice dancing costumes exploit men
At first I subscribed to the popular idea that, like women's ice-dancing coaches, there existed only a handful of costume designers "qualified" to create women's figure skating costumes. My received wisdom was "if you are serious about your sport, you really, really have to be good enough to land yourself with one of these seamstresses". But then I asked:
Who are these freaks that are still foisting 1970's misogyny on these poor young women? And why do women, in particular, not just tolerate this but defend it?
I found no answer, but the question led to the more important consideration of why such immensely talented athletes would wear costumes that even a self-respecting Playboy bunny would consider "way over the top"…if the world still had bunnies and if they actually had thoughts.
Why would any self-respecting woman wear a full-body suit replete with flesh-coloured panels suggesting that her decoulletage extended below her (non-existent) navel? Or wear a costume where her legs appeared to be real skin but, on close examination, turned out to be flesh-coloured spandex? Why not just suit up like a speedskater and do your sport?
The women in my life appeared to be very taken with the costumes of these athletes. They patiently explained that this is part of the tradition; the "art" of the sport.
Myself, I argued that the costumes detracted from the art, citing the skater whose glittering waistband moved in a completely different orbit from her body during a crucial part of her dance. I got nowhere. Apparently I just didn't get it.
Perhaps, I argued, these costumes are just another example of the exploitation of women. My female friends were outraged about this idea. So, finally, alone and nursing my wounds, a realization as thick and heavy as a quarterback's bark stunned me…these costumes are not about the skaters or their art; they are, at a deep level, about attracting men, not just to the sport, but to some fashionable ideal of "femininity", and that's why so many women, particularly, defend them.
To me, the inevitable conclusion is that they are more about the exploitation of men than women. Worse, sadly, they exploit each of us, regardless of gender.
Who are these freaks that are still foisting 1970's misogyny on these poor young women? And why do women, in particular, not just tolerate this but defend it?
I found no answer, but the question led to the more important consideration of why such immensely talented athletes would wear costumes that even a self-respecting Playboy bunny would consider "way over the top"…if the world still had bunnies and if they actually had thoughts.
Why would any self-respecting woman wear a full-body suit replete with flesh-coloured panels suggesting that her decoulletage extended below her (non-existent) navel? Or wear a costume where her legs appeared to be real skin but, on close examination, turned out to be flesh-coloured spandex? Why not just suit up like a speedskater and do your sport?
The women in my life appeared to be very taken with the costumes of these athletes. They patiently explained that this is part of the tradition; the "art" of the sport.
Myself, I argued that the costumes detracted from the art, citing the skater whose glittering waistband moved in a completely different orbit from her body during a crucial part of her dance. I got nowhere. Apparently I just didn't get it.
Perhaps, I argued, these costumes are just another example of the exploitation of women. My female friends were outraged about this idea. So, finally, alone and nursing my wounds, a realization as thick and heavy as a quarterback's bark stunned me…these costumes are not about the skaters or their art; they are, at a deep level, about attracting men, not just to the sport, but to some fashionable ideal of "femininity", and that's why so many women, particularly, defend them.
To me, the inevitable conclusion is that they are more about the exploitation of men than women. Worse, sadly, they exploit each of us, regardless of gender.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Three clicks and you're dead
There is a maxim in website design--"three clicks and you're dead." This design rule means that if any user has to navigate through more than three different links, you are likely to lose them.
It's time to apply this to health care.
My 80-year-old father was taken by ambulance to Yarmouth Regional Hospital (45 minutes away from his home) a week before Christmas. The problem--gall bladder--was diagnosed very quickly, and a surgical remedy agreed to on the spot. Then Dad reminded them that he has had clotting problems during most surgeries. In their patient-centered way, they did all the blood work and sent it off but, since it was one week until Christmas, it never came back. He was "stabilized" and sent home on Boxing Day...click one.
On January 4th, he suffered a second attack at home and was rushed back to Yarmouth. Again, they stabilized him and, since the blood work results still weren't available, decided to send him to Halifax for surgery. Four hours by ambulance and he was into an admitting crisis at Capital Health. He was given a bed eventually, dog-tired from the trip and hours of waiting...click two.
After several futile trips to the operating room--and several days of no solid food--he finally had surgery on Friday and, despite the haphazard care of the past two weeks, it went well. He was sent back to his bed at the Halifax Infirmary site. The challenge then became how to get him up and moving. The moving part was solved Sunday, when he was shipped across the city to the old Victoria General site...click three.
Now, more than a little confused by being moved time and time again, Dad found himself in a bed that may or may not be his for a few days and was finally faced with the challenge of cooperating in a regime that might get him home again. Except, being of full mental faculties, he is understandably sceptical about any advice his health care team might offer and therefore no longer fully cooperating in his care.
This is a fiercely independent man, who worked as a minister, teacher and union activist. He and his partner--now living in an institution in the last phases of Alzheimer Syndrome--raised four children who all went on to university and successful professional careers. He is as mentally acute as he was at age 30, looks after himself and has a wonderful private care-giver who will care for him if and when he ever escapes our health care system.
His family awaits click four and hopes that, unlike websites, 80-year-old humans can survive the poor design of our health care system.
It's time to apply this to health care.
My 80-year-old father was taken by ambulance to Yarmouth Regional Hospital (45 minutes away from his home) a week before Christmas. The problem--gall bladder--was diagnosed very quickly, and a surgical remedy agreed to on the spot. Then Dad reminded them that he has had clotting problems during most surgeries. In their patient-centered way, they did all the blood work and sent it off but, since it was one week until Christmas, it never came back. He was "stabilized" and sent home on Boxing Day...click one.
On January 4th, he suffered a second attack at home and was rushed back to Yarmouth. Again, they stabilized him and, since the blood work results still weren't available, decided to send him to Halifax for surgery. Four hours by ambulance and he was into an admitting crisis at Capital Health. He was given a bed eventually, dog-tired from the trip and hours of waiting...click two.
After several futile trips to the operating room--and several days of no solid food--he finally had surgery on Friday and, despite the haphazard care of the past two weeks, it went well. He was sent back to his bed at the Halifax Infirmary site. The challenge then became how to get him up and moving. The moving part was solved Sunday, when he was shipped across the city to the old Victoria General site...click three.
Now, more than a little confused by being moved time and time again, Dad found himself in a bed that may or may not be his for a few days and was finally faced with the challenge of cooperating in a regime that might get him home again. Except, being of full mental faculties, he is understandably sceptical about any advice his health care team might offer and therefore no longer fully cooperating in his care.
This is a fiercely independent man, who worked as a minister, teacher and union activist. He and his partner--now living in an institution in the last phases of Alzheimer Syndrome--raised four children who all went on to university and successful professional careers. He is as mentally acute as he was at age 30, looks after himself and has a wonderful private care-giver who will care for him if and when he ever escapes our health care system.
His family awaits click four and hopes that, unlike websites, 80-year-old humans can survive the poor design of our health care system.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
