The kids aren't just okay...so why don't we listen?

The kids aren't just okay...so why don't we listen?

My arms hurt from pounding in election signs. My head rattles all night long with questions such as "could you do more?" I awaken from my sleep, counting signs, counting marks.

Because I am on the election trail. Something I've done now for 25 years (though never this intensely). The one thing I've ever done that I believe makes a real difference to the community in which I live.

And, hey! I'm the old guy with time...and a truck; and a thirty-something candidate that just, well, blows this old guy out of the water. Every day. For the last six weeks, and, hopefully, for many more years. This young, brilliant teacher who quit his job to use dance, music and theatre to help at-risk kids find their way. This guy who would rather become an entrepreneur than toil away into oblivion as an English/French teacher...even though he held a job that most of his fellow graduates would die for (and, to his credit, Drew Moore would probably berate me for ending a sentence in a preposition).

And every day, one of the smartest--and as Jason Townsend calls himself--most unemployed post-graduate thirty-somethings ever, shows up at my house and we go out and work for Drew. We erect signs, we repair and replace them. Sometimes we remove them...though not too often, and usually due to a mistake. And Jason impresses me almost as much as Drew.

Here I am at 60, working with people half my age who still believe in our political system; who still believe in social justice; who still believe that politics is not just a cynical system of marketing your candidate, but the foundation of this wonderful place and time in which we live (note, Drew, no dangling preposition).

And I am so tired...and so impressed by Jason, Drew, young Abad Khan in Fairview and my dear friend Tanis Crosby--another 30-something candidate in the adjacent riding. You kids...Wow! You are so inspiring!

Tomorrow, the election results may show that our generation has failed. Polling shows we may get results that are anathema to everything we have fought for (but not that I have wrongly dangled another preposition). But there are so many bright lights that shine through this, no matter the results.

The kids are not just okay. They are our future. And though we may reject them, this old guy is so invigorated by this new, very smart generation.

Just the Sign Guy

“This election sign business is turning you back into an A-type person,” says my partner of 35 years.

“Jeez, Paul,” says my best friend, “it's just like you’re working again. You’d almost become likeable.”

Yes. I retired four years ago because even I had begun to dislike the professional “me”. While I felt whole because I had a philosophy justified by my work for a public sector union, and I could measure my personal impact on society through my pursuit of that philosophy by just doing my job, I had become so focused, so humourless and so blind to those around me that, in reality, it no longer mattered. So I took the retirement pill at the earliest opportunity, fought those demons and changed my life focus. Over time, I returned to being a nice guy.

Until two weeks ago.

Sitting at a party constituency association meeting, the chair asked “who is going to do campaign signs?” and I slowly and thoughtfully raised my hand.  I raised my hand for Alexa McDonough who fought for my family provincially and federally—who my children call “Aunt Alexa” and who, though heir to the mantle of Canadian greats like Tommy Douglas and J. S. Woodsworth, still hugs each of us when we meet—I raised my hand for my dear late friends Eileen, who taught me to “always go back to your principles” and Mary Jane, who taught me more about election campaign mechanics than any average citizen ever needs to know…

I raised my hand because politics does matter. It matters because there are so many unbelievers who have given up. And if you give up, you only enable the glory seekers and carpet baggers who, realizing an economic opportunity, rush in to fill the void.

The job I took on was practical. I’m the guy who pounds signs into your front lawn. 

I hate it and love it. I fear the door knocking; the nasty old ladies who call for a sign twice and then berate you for pounding it into their lawns; the feuding couple in which one partner orders a sign, the other cancels, the ordering partner calls you back and then you’re sent out to remove it again. But this is how life is lived. The dedicated people called “politicians”, who disrupt their lives to run for a higher calling, represent each and every one of us. And regardless of how the news media spins it, I have met very few politicians from any party who are not the most dedicated, caring and concerned men and women. Although I no longer want the terror of guiding the strategy that goes into the structure of a political campaign, I realize that in retirement, I still have a responsibility and duty to make our society a better place. And that is why I have put everything on hold for a month. That’s why I get up every morning, nail signs together and then pound them into strangers’ front lawns. It may seem like a small gesture, but that’s about the best thing I can do for this country that has given me so much.

It seems like such a small act of thanks for the benefits of living in this glorious corner of an awful world.

But hey, what do I know? I’m just the sign guy.

My toast to my daughter, the bride

I am not someone who struggles with words. For forty years, words have served me well. I’ve turned a handy phrase or two for politicians, union leaders and even, on a few occasions, for my own children.
Need a speech; an op-ed column; an application letter; maybe a well-written excuse for your teacher? I’m your go-to guy.
Strangely enough, though, I have seldom taken—or for that matter been given—the opportunity to speak my own words in my own voice. Not to worry, the habits of a lifetime are not suddenly going to be reversed this evening.
One of the traits I share with my son-in-law is a certain shyness in social situations. Also like Dan—and by the way, I do indeed like Dan—but I should more correctly say “as with Dan”, my reticence to speak should never be equated with being at a loss for words. I can recall few occasions when I have been…
The first of those occasions was on an icy winter morning a quarter of a century ago when I met my daughter. Those of you who have experienced the birth of a child understand the powerlessness of words when you are confronted with the wonder of this amazing new life, this part of you that is not you. It’s a wonder I have had the blessing to experience three times in my life. It’s a wonder that I re-experience each and every day.
Later that January day, after I had walked into my office and loudly proclaimed to my co-workers “I’m a daughter! No, no—I HAVE a daughter,” I went back to the old Grace Maternity Hospital to check on mother. The moment my new daughter heard my voice, she turned her head and looked deeply into my eyes—and more than a few of us in this room have seen that look—and in that one moment conveyed an understanding of mysteries for which most of us spend our lifetimes searching.
Suddenly, the words returned. “We have an old soul here, Linda. She will take care of us.”
As you know Dan, she will take care of you. And as I know, you will take care of her.
I have struggled to find the right words to speak this evening. Of course I want to tell Paige how totally thrilled I am that she has found such a sweet, gentle giant of a man that so compliments her own temperament and personality. I want to tell Dan how honoured Linda and I are to welcome him into our hearts and into our family. But I have to admit, words have again failed me.
So I’ll say no more than to raise my glass to Paige and Dan and paraphrase some great words written by someone else—“Be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And you’ll change the world.”

Looking out from the Railroad Bridge on Mumford Road

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.

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.

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.

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.