The trouble with masks

They make me sweat. They make my nose itch. They bother my ears.

They protect those around me in case I have to sneeze, cough, or speak. They afford me some safety as well.

In other words, they're not so troublesome at all.

I remember when seat belts were first introduced. Up to then, the only time I'd ever used a seat belt was on a plane. And really, I hate to say it, but aside from keeping us in place during light turbulence, on a plane they are more a matter of mental safety than survival equipment.

But seat belts in a car make a huge difference in a crash. They've been mandatory in British Columbia since 1977, earlier than that in other jurisdictions, including the US. Although poking around for information about their use, I've discovered there's no law regarding them in New Hampshire. 

When they were first introduced, there were plenty of gripers -- belts were uncomfortable, they wrinkled your clothes, they seemed unnecessary. Yet, as time went on, we all grew accustomed to them, to the point where most of us now would be uncomfortable driving (or riding) without one.

As we keep seeing the numbers of COVID-positive cases rising, especially in the US, it's getting easier by the day to take the time to don a mask. Soon, I can only hope (at least while this pandemic reigns our lives), the matter of putting on a mask before entering a store or public place will become as automatic as getting into the car and clicking the belt.

Response to a bad idea, badly timed

I'll admit that I've never been a big fan of the police -- just as I'm sure there've been times they've not been too fond of me. Still, I don't pretend for a minute that we don't need them. There've been times I've needed to call them, and times too when I wish someone had called them for me.

But whatever ambiguous feelings I may have about them, I'm not alone in worrying about proposed changes for the police force in our city.

Our mayor was elected at least partly on the promise of replacing our police force (the RCMP) with a local Surrey force. He hardly received an overwhelming mandate, winning only 41.1% of the votes. This was in part because there were two serious opponents, and though neither of them accrued a higher total than he did, the votes they received together (in other words, votes cast against McCallum) constituted 51% of the vote.

As you can see, there are signs on lawns opposing the move to oust the RCMP. And though petitions filled with many signatures (40,000 by February) have been presented, Mayor McCallum remains hell-bent on his plan for this new force. Despite petitions -- both online and on paper -- asking him to reconsider his stance, he continues his persistence, with pleas from the public falling on deaf (or perhaps plugged) ears.

Looking at the steps required to become a member of the RCMP, the process appears to take quite a while with interviews followed by training, which in itself takes half a year. Especially with recent events demonstrating a widespread call for better, extended training for those serving as officers, it isn't the right time to employ any shortcuts to selection or training.

Unless Mr McCallum plans to have a police force that's undergone a much less rigorous application and training process than the standards set for the RCMP, it looks like anyone wanting to apply will have to hurry up, as the timeline is getting awfully tight. Yet not even the website for getting information on how to apply is active yet -- only an announcement that a board has been hired.

Canada Day was barely a week ago. That day meant there were exactly nine months remaining until April 1, 2021, the day when this supposed police force is scheduled to take over from the RCMP.

While it may only take nine months for a human pregnancy to be fulfilled, I suspect the transformation of Canada's largest RCMP detachment will take longer. Maybe the gestation period of an elephant (the one in the room?) would be a more appropriate time span to allow.

The challenges of isolation

The more we hear, the more I believe we may need to be getting accustomed to this practice of self-isolation.

Even though signs of spring have been with us for a few weeks, a chill remains in the air -- and I don't mean just the temperature, though that's been coolish too.

Some of us have been trying to counteract this. My next door neighbours have what I call a 'love tree' in their front yard. It's just hearts, a few with messages on them, but it cheers me every time I look at it.

Another way we've been trying to meet the challenge is with an evening 'meet-up' in the road on Saturday nights. Seven o'clock, and we gather -- keeping at least the prescribed two metres apart -- each in our little thickets of family groupings.

It's just chitchat, to be sure. But it's also a way of ensuring that everyone is well. It's also a way of helping each other out. Several of us are on a quest for toilet paper (of course, what else!). If we manage to get some, the neighbour across the street would be grateful if we can share.

Small things, but tiny steps towards reinforcing a spirit of community. Neighbours being neighbourly, and in a responsible way.

This Saturday again (provided it doesn't rain) we'll be out there with our lawn chairs, lifting cups or glasses to each other -- from our spots on either side of the road.

In praise of transit

Yesterday was one of those when I needed to go into Vancouver, a trip that's become more of a task over the years. Traffic has increased, it feels like ten-fold. The only bright spot has been improvements to our transit system.

But over the last few weeks, transit has felt threatened, as the unionized workers weren't able to negotiate a new contract that met everyone's needs. At first, the drivers stopped wearing their uniforms -- letting the public know that things weren't as they should be.

Their actions escalated with interruptions to SeaBus service, making travel from Vancouver to the North Shore very challenging.

The double-decker bus above, despite its 'not in service' sign was merely the driver taking a break, and wasn't a Vancouver bus at all, but one in Victoria. The moustache was their way of promoting men's health for Movember. The day I was over there, the driver who picked us up at the ferry told us all to just get on board. He wasn't taking any money that afternoon, a sign of solidarity with the Coast Mountain workers on this side of the water.

But tensions over here kept rising, with a complete shutdown of service scheduled for the 27th, 28th and 29th.

Fortunately for all of us who rely on public transit, a last-minute settlement came about, granting an almost-audible public sigh of relief.

Yesterday, while I was waiting to get on my bus, I saw a Coast Mountain driver waiting as well. I approached him and said thank you -- I suspect on behalf of many other riders that day. Surprisingly, he then thanked me. He explained himself by telling me that it was the support from the public that had made all the difference, and had enabled a quick settlement. Unlike the long strike in 2001 (123 days), this time social media had raised such an outcry, management pretty well had to pay attention.

Riding home on my standing-room only bus, I tried to calculate just how many cars were not being used because we passengers were using public transit. I'm still working on the numbers, but I know we represented a lot of cars not taking up space on the road. As for transit, I'm just grateful we have such an extensive and reliable system. Zoom, zoom, goes the bus, and sez I: hurrah!

A place of contradictions

Sometimes Surrey, the city where I live, can make me want to pull out my hair in frustration -- from day to day, it can be so very up-and-down.

On Friday I attended a workshop in Newton, one of our city's many 'cities within the city' -- I guess a previous township of its own, it's now considered one of the city's town centres. It's an area that sometimes gets a bad rap, as it's had its share of crime occur.

But on Friday, there was no mention of crime, as a group of us were led on a tour of a place that could almost be called a transformational miracle -- an amazing community garden, providing beauty, food, and opportunities to work outdoors for anyone who chooses to participate.

And yes, please click on this PLOT project link, as it's quite an adventure, complete with video of how this miracle came about.

The project embodies an idea that really puts the 'unity' into the concept of 'community'.

But then on the weekend, Newton made the news again -- this time with a dreadful house fire, one that investigators have started calling suspicious. Worst of all, there were injuries, and to children.

Yet, I'd prefer to think back on the workshop -- a project that saw us gathering images to be used in an amazing-sounding exhibit in September by Toronto artist Faisal Anwar. Since part of our task in the workshop was to take photos of the wonderful sights we saw in the gardens, that's what I'll close with -- an image of beauty.

Yes, please, I say, more beauty for all.

Ya gotta have art...

Every now and then, it comes to my attention that the arts community doesn't get the respect it deserves. I'm not sure why this is, as it's hard for me to imagine what life would be like without having art in it.

Not long ago, the city where I live changed its mayor and council. It was all above board, a civic (and mostly civil even) election, nary a Russian influence peddler in sight, I am sure.

But along with the change of persons, it seems as if the new government may have lost its heart, especially when it comes to the A-R-T part of that word.

Tomorrow night the Council will be voting on their new budget, a pared-down plan that withholds funding for so many of those things that enliven and enrich our lives. The proposed plan fails to allocate monies to just about anything that might be deemed cultural -- the expansion of community centres, libraries and museums, even athletic facilities.

With our city's population growing by 1,000 people every month, it seems short-sighted in the extreme to be taking this hard-nosed stance. After all, isn't the administration of a city supposed to be there to benefit its citizens?

So why, you might be wondering, did I post a photo of a choir?

Besides being safely camouflaged in among the altos, I'm pleased that, as a result of our annual winter concert, we helped raise money for an important community-serving group whose funding has been cancelled, the Volunteer Cancer Drivers. Audience members made donations which were matched and then topped up by anonymous donor, resulting in a total of $8,000 for the cause.

I can only hope -- in particular during this season that's supposed to be about giving -- that tomorrow night's meeting will see a reversal of the current mindset and will loosen the purse strings to the benefit of everyone who lives here.

Dreams can come true

It's been one of my small dreams to have a Little Free Library in our neighbourhood. Now, at long last, my wish has come true.

It took a bit of poking around and finagling, but I managed to get through to the right people -- and voila, it's reality.

Both Surrey Parks and the local Rotary Club made the project come together so nicely, and really, I have to say that I'm very pleased with how it looks.

Aside from the fact that it's so darn cute, I'm especially happy that the 'building' itself was constructed by men at the jail where I volunteer. Something about this makes me feel that things in my life are going as they should, and moving in full circle.

Because it had been in storage for a while, the little library's paint needed a bit of freshening up. While I was wielding my brush, a number of people came by to say they were very happy that our park now has one of these. And yesterday, when I was putting the books in, even more people came by and commented favourably.

I made a little sign for the inside of the doors which I hope will encourage neighbours to contribute books of their own.

And I'm hoping this Little Free Library will contribute as part of the feeling of community that our area is starting to grow -- starting this evening with a Free Community Picnic sponsored by the City. Yay, Surrey!

To market, to market...

Today was the last day for the local Farmers' Market -- at least for 2016. Because it's December, there wasn't much available in the way of produce, but the vendors made up for that with trinkets, crafts and a huge assortment of baked goods. There were also plenty of jars of jam, jelly and juice -- the traditional preserves resulting from summer's bounty.

I was lucky enough to get there just in time to get the last dozen eggs from my faithful supplier. She's kind enough to come into town during the winter so we don't have to resort to store-bought (tired) ones.

The marketplace (indoor this time of year) was festive, with people buying poinsettias and extending early Merry Christmas wishes to each other.

Even for a humbugger like me, the carols (unlike the annoyingly tinny ones at the mall), played on an accordion, helped set the tone of neighbourly warmth.

The ritual of the farmers' market is an example of community at its best. Come May, when it's back outside, we'll be there Sunday mornings -- even if not 'to buy a fat pig.' And as always, while we go about choosing our fruit and vegies we'll chat and hug and laugh with each other, recognizing that even if we don't live next door each other, we're neighbours.

Unexpected

But then, I suppose, a fire is never something you plan for. While it's certainly nowhere near the scale of the Fort McMurray experience, this was more than enough to remind the many members of our community who'd gathered quietly, watching that yes, it can happen here -- or anywhere.

I took the photo about an hour ago, close to twelve hours after the fire was first noticed. It's hard to think that it still continues. I can only hope it will be under control and out soon -- and in time to salvage at least part of this apartment building. The one behind it, under construction, is gone.

Difficult to know what to say or think, beyond yet again being grateful for all being well here at our house.

A basket of world peace?

I don't suppose a basket of mangoes looks much like a recipe for world peace. Still, I think they have possibilities.

Yesterday at the produce store, I found myself drooling (only mentally, I promise) over the boxes of mangoes that were on sale. Buying by the box was a lot cheaper than buying individual ones would have been, but a dozen ripe fruits seemed like too many to buy at one time. After all, there are only two of us.

When I noticed another woman who appeared to be making the same mental calculations, I turned to her and asked, "Would you like to share a box of those?"

She thought that was a great idea, so we chose a box. She bought it and I handed over the right amount of cash to close the deal. We split up the fruit and voila! Each of us had what we wanted.

Maybe it wasn't exactly world peace, but it felt as though we'd taken a small step toward 'community' -- that network of people who look after each other and help out, so often in small and simple ways.

This morning's news has a piece about 100-in-1 Day, an event scheduled for June 7th in Vancouver. Lots of friend-making and other community-building actions are being set up. While this sounds as though it requires a formal approach (devising an event, registering it), it does seem a good step.

As for me, I think I'll stick with the little, spontaneous things that present themselves in the course of the day-to-day. But first, I'm going to take a lunch break and eat a mango.

Time for forgiveness

Although now that I have that title and a blank scene staring back at me, I find myself examining the word 'forgiveness'. It looks as though the word was made 'for giveness' -- for the purpose of giving.

And if I haven't lost you with that convoluted piece of an idea, it seems that we are in a time when forgiveness is in the air.

Maybe it's because we're shedding one skin as we depart the Year of the Snake and moving into the Year of the Horse (tomorrow). Maybe it's because enough of us are starting to wake up to the fact that all we've got is each other, so we better find some ways of forgiving each other and moving along in more positive directions.

Last Saturday was the dedication of Joy Kogawa House, an important Vancouver heritage site, as a place of reconciliation.

Speakers at the ceremony represented a diversity of perspectives, ranging from victims of sexual abuse and torture to those who contributed to the victimizing. Powerful is certainly one word to describe the event.

In the midst of it all stood the bravely quiet Joy Kogawa, drawing names from a box, calling people forward to bear witness to what they or members of their family had experienced -- or done.

And now this week, Pete Seeger, a man who never wavered in speaking out and singing about the principles he held fast to, has died. I love the words written on his banjo: "This machine surrounds hate and forces it to surrender."

Even the roots of the tree that grows in front of the Kogawa House
seem to be reaching out, as if extending a
hand in conciliatory friendship.

Or perhaps in surrounding hate and forcing it to surrender.

Salady days

Not the same thing as the 'salad days' referred to in Shakespeare, but these salady days are every bit as permeated with green.

Once the Solstice has passed, I want it to be full-on summer, and fresh salad greens from the backyard are part of that. Yes, this batch rides in a wagon. It can easily be moved for mowing (or, to get more sun). And by being that little bit raised off the ground, the lettuces are safe from slugs and the resident bunny.

Having our own daily salad bar is a treat. But seeing all the condominiums that have sprouted in our neighbourhood, I wonder how people can grow any of their own food. And when I see so many vacant lots (houses torn down, developers waiting for whatever it is they wait for), I wish some of those lots could be turned into community gardens, even if only temporarily.

Disappointingly, Surrey, the city where I live, has only four community gardens. Comparing this to Vancouver, with its 75 community gardens (with one of them occupying the grounds of the City Hall in the city's downtown), this seems just plain not good enough.

For now, about all I can do is be grateful for how lucky I am -- to have a bit of a yard where we can grow such a nice part of our daily food.

Let's take the 'sub' out of suburban

My city, Surrey, BC, seems to be growing up. Frankly, it used to be considered almost the sub-basement of sub-urbia.

Lately, there've been more and more signs of its rising status. For one thing, it has an absolutely world class art gallery. Every month seems to see more and more cultural events taking place, especially my favourites, literary ones (see readings, to the right).

But the event that makes me proudest is the symposium that took place yesterday at the Surrey campus of Kwantlen Polytechnic University.

"Under-City: Writing the Suburban World" was an all-day symposium sponsored by the university's Creative Writing Department.

The day opened with a brief keynote by Diane Purvey, Dean of Arts. She said that she was "...excited by the energy this day represents." And she wasn't wrong.

The panels consisted of writers, publishers, art historians and my favourite "public intellectual", Michael Turner. Panelists in the photo are moderator Kevin Chong, poet Judy McInnes, writer (and Creative Writing Head at UFV) Andrea McPherson and Surrey writer Phinder Dulai.

The topics were engaging and thought-provoking. Best of all were the day's opportunities for networking and general exchange of ideas.

The only part I'm no longer sure of is the 'sub' prefix in suburbia. Somehow, its meaning (under) doesn't seem to fit, as these days Surrey seems to have come out into the light.

Because art -- in particular, the literary arts -- and along with it, a community of artists seems to be alive and well in Surrey. At last.

More than the usual 'haircut'

As my blog profile notes, I live in a house that has trees all around it. In amongst the mostly Western Red cedars, there’s a tall and graceful hemlock and proudest of all, a Sitka spruce.

Yesterday, when the arborist came for the trees’ semi-annual haircut, the spruce got much more than its usual summer trim.

You see, our neighbourhood’s changing – from the settled-in place it’s felt like for the years that we’ve lived here. It’s been common enough practice for the not-so-old older homes (1970s vintage) to be gutted and renovated, but now it seems that’s no longer enough. Today’s new neighbours want the old homes gone, so the noisy crunch of bulldozers has become an all-too-common sound.

Sadly, for me – and for many of the longtime neighbours – the roar of bulldozers is now generally accompanied by the grinding of chain saws and shredders.

The property next to us has sold and plans for the new, bigger house mean that three large trees – a Douglas fir, a hemlock and another Sitka spruce – out on the lane will be going. Further, we understand that a large heritage oak will be drastically cut back, and our own majestic Sitka has had to be pruned along one side.

We’d alerted the new neighbour to our arborist’s arrival and invited him to observe with us what was going on. All seemed well enough while the cutting took place – we even let him suggest some branches higher up than originally planned.

Only then, about 20 minutes after the job was finished, the new neighbour came by with yet another request (not for me – he’d only discuss such lofty matters with my husband): that the branches needed to go back even further towards the trunk, and that more branches from higher up needed cutting.

Fortunately, it wasn’t just my husband who said no. The arborist stepped in, saying that he’d already taken more than had been planned. He further pointed out (because he knows the city bylaws) that plenty had been taken to comply with building regulations and that the tree could not sustain further cutting without causing damage.

The spruce remains standing tall, protecting us from sun and wind and weathers of all sorts, as do the three tall trees along the laneway. Still, it makes me nervous, every time I go out on an errand, fearful of what kind of damage I might find when I get home.

Half a league, half a league

When I woke up this morning, those words were galloping through my brain. I’ve been trying to finish a couple of poems that feature horses, so there was at least a seed of logic to the voice’s appearance. Then, over coffee, I found myself thinking about today’s date, so before long the phrase started translating itself into ‘half a year, half a year…’

Still, I knew I needed to be sure about the ‘half a league’ line, so I Googled it. Ah yes, of course – “Charge of the Light Brigade”. A further click, this time on Wikipedia, informed me that years after “Charge” had been written, Kipling wrote a poem that honoured the survivors of that dreadful encounter.

Yesterday, I met another survivor. No one from the Light Brigade, to be sure, but a man who’d been a POW in Asia during WWII.

It was one of those bump-into-a-person things, something I was led to on the strength of his personalized license plate. He was kind enough to not seem to mind talking with a stranger, a woman in a parking lot asking about the significance of the letters on his bumper.

I learned that he’s 92 (and still an imposing six feet – maybe more) but that when he’d been released from the camp he’d weighed only 68 pounds. Skeletal. He also told me that all the survivors had been told they’d never live past 50, that their bodies had been too damaged by the experience. Yet here he is, nearly twice times 50. So much for what ‘they’ know.

Kids are all warned these days about speaking with strangers. Even adults aren’t always responsive to a friendly hello. Maybe we’d all feel more secure – even happier – if we’d chance the occasional chat with a stranger. You might find your life a little richer for having taken the risk.