Give peace a chance

These days it's impossible to not be concerned about the state of the world with its many horrific wars just about everywhere. And it doesn't help to learn about new alliances such as those among the powers of China, Russia, and North Korea. 

I was probably already a bit on the edge of feeling down, remembering that today is the 24th anniversary of the Twin Towers horror. I still remember being home that day, when some kind of spidey sense made me turn on the news--just in time to see the second building be hit. 

I took a bit of comfort when I found a clue in this morning's crossword that led me to figuring out "the fruit  that symbolizes peace in China" which turns out to be the apple.  

It makes me think the idea of the apple being the 'forbidden fruit' in Eden as one I can just about believe, as it sure seems our species has pretty much always been engaged in wars. What a species. So much for having such big brains -- hard to understand how such idiocy could continue. 

This is a tool

...not a weapon. 

Yet, on July 4th Bailey McCourt, 32, was beaten to death with one by her estranged husband. Even though he'd been convicted of making threats to kill her, he was out on bail when he murdered her. What I'd like to know is why is this still happening?

There's a terrible irony in that today is a remembrance of Vancouver poet Patricia Lowther who was murdered (same choice of weapon) 50 years ago this September. Had she lived, later this month (the 29th) would have been Pat's 90th birthday. 

Another irony is the fact that today is the launch of a new book, Creating in Dangerous Times. I guess indeed we are still living in dangerous times. 

It's official

Among other truths about this date, it's official that the Titanic indeed sank on this date. Looking back, it seems obvious that the need to get to New York City in record time was an error, as it saw the great ship travelling much too fast through the notorious 'Iceberg Alley' off the coast of Newfoundland. While I can vouch for that area being a gorgeous place to visit during the spring, I can't say that I'd want to be out on the ocean there. Viewing from the land is plenty inspiring. 

Fairview Lawn Cemetery in Halifax is where a number of the bodies were buried. Others are elsewhere, as far south as New York. 

When we visited the area in Fairview that's dedicated to these graves, it was hard not to get teary-eyed, as many of the markers bore only a single name--sometimes a surname, sometimes a given one--or worse, only a number indicating the order in which their remains had been found. Grim. 

As for a much cheerier news item: Last Monday, Surrey's City Council made it official by proclaiming National Poetry Month in Surrey. Hurrah!

And if you're scratching your head over the photo posted above, the 'iceberg' is part of the many chunks I had to pull out when I defrosted our big freezer. As for the building resting in it, well, it seemed to be the closest thing I could find to a currently sinking ship. 

Poetry, poetry, poetry

Today is World Poetry Day, a time when it seems appropriate to remember Brian Brett, a poet and friend who died earlier this year. 

When I met him, he was 21, and I wasn't much older, so we had a few years to get in each other's hair. 

He spent a third of his life in White Rock, and was a feisty member of the community I've been part of for more than half of my life. If you clicked on the link in the line above this, you might still be blinking from all the flashy lights. Trust me, the place used to be much different--White Rock was quite a sleepy little seaside town where most of us had at least a passing recognition of one another. The sea is still here, though to get near it by car, you need to be prepared to pay hefty parking fees. 

But this isn't about the town (even though Brian served a couple of terms as a City Councillor, a position that was then back known as 'alderman'); it's about poetry and one of the finest writers to ever pass through here. 

The photo above, though it's not easy to see, is one of the touching mementos his family set out at his recent memorial service. It's the chair where he often sat (and nearly always pontificated from), along with a favourite hat and vest, as well as his famous peacock-themed suspenders. 

Without much poking around on YouTube, it's easy enough to find videorecordings of Brett reading his work, but to get you started, here's a link to one of the shorter (and funnier) ones--a good way to celebrate both Brian and World Poetry Day. 

Regrets

I never met her, but I felt I knew her. When news came this week that Shelley Fralic, writer and editor for the Vancouver Sun, had died, a physical sense of loss washed through me. 

Her longtime pal and fellow columnist Pete McMartin was the one who broke the news to me -- on the front page of Tuesday morning's paper. His tribute to her is worth reading to the end, as he uses her own words in summary, and wise words they are. 

She wrote about things that many would consider ordinary, but in such a fresh and honest way they rose above the plane of the mundane. A great example is a column from earlier this year, when she wondered why a worker at Canadian Tire didn't understand what she was looking for when she asked for a crescent wrench. In that same piece she muses further on encountering a worker at another store who didn't know what she meant when she asked about pink flamingo lawn ornaments. Worst was probably the supermarket worker who had no idea about Brussels sprouts. 

Her point in that column was that it seemed to her that people are getting dumber. And maybe we are.

I sure feel that I am. In part because I never wrote to her (though thought of it a number of times). Why? To thank her. For what? Wasn't she just doing a job, one she was getting paid for?

The thanks would have been for writing in a way that always filled my head and made me want to read her column right down to the last word. 

It would have been for making me think, and for occasionally making me explore; I doubt I would have become as accustomed to visiting Point Roberts if it hadn't been for a nudge from her.

It would have been for occasionally pulling my heartstrings and making me nostalgic for some memory nearly lost in time. And it would have been for making me laugh.

In a recent piece she mentioned the small pleasure of eating cookies, but in such a way that I not only laughed out loud (alone, no less) but nearly choked. I was prompted to write to thank her for the laugh, and to say it seemed lucky I hadn't been eating cookies at the time. 

But I didn't. Too many other emails to write, or maybe just the distraction of the day's Sudoku. Whatever, I didn't thank her, and now I can only regret that I didn't. I can just hope that mistake will help me express thanks the next time I need to, especially when it's for something as life-affirming and important as a laugh. 

And the beat goes on...

Earlier this week, news came that Lawrence Ferlinghetti, whose name has long been associated with the "Beat Movement" had died. Almost 102 years old, he certainly had a good run. 

In addition to being known for his writing, he and a partner started the famous City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco, a shop I can vouch for as being an almost magical place. Apparently, a memorial for him was held in the laneway adjacent to the shop, a short street known as Jack Kerouac Alley. 

Sadly, Ferlinghetti is not the only poet who's died during this long and lonesome winter. 

The wonderful Ontario poet, Michael Dennis left us on the last day of 2020. Poking around on his blog, "Today's Book of Poetry" where he was constantly reviewing books, is sure to lead you to discovering someone new. 

Earlier in the year, Vancouver lost d.n.simmers. If you click on the link for him, you'll see, in amongst photos of him, a shot that was taken at City Lights Bookstore -- the one with the 'Door' sign. 

Lost to us, though at least we have their books. So yes, I suppose the beat does indeed go on. 

One of a kind

At least we're certainly hoping that this Christmas holiday will not need to be repeated. No family gatherings, no Solstice party, and certainly no big gala for New Year's Eve. 

Still, it's giving us memories we won't forget. 

Think of the stories from the pandemic of 1918 -- the year my father was born. I can only imagine how worried my gramma must have been, hoping she wouldn't get sick while she was pregnant. 

We'll all have our own stories, though I'm sure we'll be happier when they're well in the rear-view mirror. 

Onward, towards the new year, but for now, let's celebrate Christmas. 

The wonder of the light

Today is the 12th anniversary of my mother's death. The little angel in the photo is an item she gave to me -- a gift I am pretty sure was something 'regifted' -- but I'm thinking that makes it all the better. 

I heard part of an episode of Tapestry today, a CBC show that deals with matters that might be called spiritual. Author Richard Van Camp was doing what he does best: telling stories. I loved the one he told about heaven (being like the West Edmonton Mall). But even more, I liked his idea about a full moon practice -- giving things away, which is why I like the idea of regifting, especially of things we love. 

It isn't full moon yet -- not until month's end. But what I'd like to give away today is the idea of forgiveness.  

In truth, I don't think it's all that easy to hold a grudge, but some of us seem better than others at this. 

I'm in the process of writing a letter to someone I love, and I'm hoping that his heart will soften enough that we can be close again. 

But the person I'm sure my mother would most like to see in my life again is my youngest sister. The last time she spoke to me was at our mother's funeral. That seems like an awfully long time to lug around whatever transgression she believes I committed against her. And yes, it would help if I knew what it was, as it would make an apology so much easier.. 

But maybe that's the little miracle I can hope for today (or soon). In the meantime, the little angel stands guard over the tealight candle in the kitchen.  

Awww, Canada...

It was a weekend when two memorable Canadians died. 

The first reported was the much-loved host of Jeopardy!, Alex Trebek. Tributes and remembrances have been on every news outlet. My kind-hearted sister expressed concern over how sad I might be, as I'll admit to having been a fan of that show for years. In truth, I remember the first series with Art Fleming, as my gramma watched it, with me by her side, probably pitching as many answers (er, questions) as I could come up with. 

Less notice or fanfare went to the passing of another Canadian, Howie Meeker -- not only a great hockey player, but a longtime feature on Hockey Night in Canada, a program that was a Saturday night tradition in so many households. Meeker had a unique style as a commentator, overly excitable, and with a high-register voice (brought to our attention by the satirists at SCTV). News reports reminded us not only of his many accomplishments, but (as was also the case with Trebek), his humanity. And really, it seemed all too appropriate in this morning's NYT crossword puzzle (one of my addictions) to have a clue, "Golly!" with its three-letter answer -- completing a phrase used often by Meeker -- "Gee". 

Both men were recipients of our country's highest honour, the Order of Canada. Two of our greats, Adieu.

A peaceful and green anniversary

Reading the news this morning, I realized that I knew where I was fifty years ago tonight. At a Greenpeace (or as it was apparently then still thought of, as a name composed of two words, Green Peace) concert with a friend. 

Unlike some of the people mentioned in the article, we both knew about James Taylor. That somewhat-raggedy looking album cover in the photo is the first one I had by him, though more are stacked in the pile of LP's I still have. 

Taylor was the surprise guest of the event, something I am pretty sure owed to the fact that he and Joni Mitchell were supposed to be an item at the time. 

In the semi-darkness between performers, a tall lanky fellow came onto the stage and moved from amp to amp, apparently checking settings and such before he picked up a guitar, walked to the mic and said something like, Hey there, I'm James Taylor. 

The Greenpeace button in the photo isn't (I don't think, anyway) the one that was sold the evening of the concert. Still, it's been around for nearly as long as that album. 

I just wish the friend I'd gone to the concert with that night were also still around. Sadly, he's the one referred to in a not-too-long-ago post, the one about the empty shirt. 

Ongoing inspiration

Because I'm a coward when it comes to cold weather, last week found me mostly staying in. Unless I was outside clearing snow off the walk, I was inside, doing my best to stave off cabin fever.

In keeping with the decluttering plan I started earlier this month, I've been cleaning up inside too, though using more subtle tools than the shovel I used outside. The focus has been mainly my office, where I've been sifting papers, getting rid of items I shouldn't have kept as long as I have.

But every once in a while, something special turns up. A forgotten photograph of a now-gone friend, or sometimes, as with the scrap of newspaper above, a timely piece of advice. The quote on the image above feels important and true: "Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter."

I'm old enough to remember that terrible spring when King was assassinated (and when only two months later, Bobby Kennedy would be too). Old enough to be shocked now to learn that a man who accomplished so much for civil rights, and left such an impact on so many, was shot when he was only 39 years old.

So this is my small observance for today, Martin Luther King Day, a promise to myself. With it, I am reminding myself to keep to my beliefs and to speak out when I see one of those many 'things that matter.'

Odd how a scrap of paper, nearly forgotten, can offer such encouragement. Ah yes, the power of words.

A lesson in black (and white)

That's the beautiful Nadia, wearing the saddest face around. She's been missing her master, our beloved brother Tom.

But today, with a new blanket of fresh snow on the ground, when she came along with me on my walk around the farm, she decided to get silly.

First, she buried her snout (probably sniffing out a vole or some other interesting tidbit), then when
she popped back out, this was how she looked.

As is so often the case, it's the dog who has something to say in way of offering comfort.

Not just another day

 Not that any day doesn't have its distinguishing traits, this one marks the anniversary of my mother's death. Eleven years. A stretch of time it's hard for me to pin down in my mind. So long ago, it's hard to remember. So recent-feeling, it's hard to believe that it's more than a decade.

One thing she'd like (I think) is that I placed her photo in the golden star dish. The photo is one from before I was born and, while I don't think it really looks like her, I know it is one she was most proud of.

The bowl is a hand-me-down from her, so she'd probably be glad to know that I am using it. Even more so, I'm sure she'd like the 'star' association, as I'm quite sure her life's dream (if she hadn't had me and my sisters) would have been to be a film star. She'd even chosen a name for herself, one that sounded 'better' than her own.

This morning I heard an interview with Margaret Atwood, who's celebrating her 80th birthday today. I think my mother would have enjoyed listening to that too, especially with the many stories Atwood told about her childhood and reading and then deciding to become a writer. Yet another dream of my mother's, one she didn't manage to accomplish.

Still, she did more than I in so many respects -- for one thing, in bearing daughters, a couple of whom in turn gave her grandchildren.

Tonight when I go to my choir practice, I will do my best to sing as beautifully as she did, and I'll try to remember that I'm doing it for her.

By the time...

No, I wasn't one of the people who made it to the festival that's come to be known as Woodstock -- an event that opened fifty years ago today. I knew a couple of folks who did make it there, and still know one who managed to get her face into the movie (though she's not thrilled about how she looks -- in the aftermath of the rain, in the mud).

Upstate New York felt too far away from where we lived in Northern Ontario. Besides, we didn't have a car. Oh yeah, and tickets for the three days of the weekend-fest sounded like such a rip-off at a whopping fifteen bucks. Whoo-ee. 

It seems kind of a shame that the anniversary event had to be cancelled, though maybe there'll be some kind of guerilla music fest sprouting up later this weekend, some kind of commemoration of the good vibes of the times. Like the poster says, it was all about Peace (and, of course, love too) -- both items we could use more of every day. 

A convergence of calendars

Two of my favourite calendars this year both have images of an odd-looking fish -- a creature I've learned is called a unicorn fish, for fairly obvious reasons.


But there's a more significant convergence today -- anniversaries of two people who made a big difference in speaking out for racial equality among the rest of us fish in the sea.

It's been fifty years since Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. He is still held in great esteem and is now commemorated with a national holiday in the US. Although much has improved, his work certainly isn't done. But this leads me to think about the other significant person associated with this day.

It would have been the 90th birthday of the multi-talented writer, Maya Angelou. Perhaps best known for her memoir, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, she was commemorated today with a delightful Google doodle, that used animation, along with the voices of a range of writers and actors performing her poem, "Still I rise".

A link of somewhat-bizarre calendar images, a birth-and-death connection involving two people courageous enough to truly make a difference in the world. Magical as unicorns.

Fleeting glimpses

Where the Vernal Equinox was yesterday, today is the first full day of spring -- and it feels like it. It's bright and sunny, and there's a light breeze that carries the sweet scent of blossoms. It's even quite warm outside (as long as you're in the sun).

But it's a day that brings a small chill along with it, as it marks one month since the death of a friend who lived in the neighbourhood.

She'd always seemed frail, but maybe in the way that thin, pretty blonde women can appear to me. She embodied that lovely fragility we once associated with old-fashioned china dolls.

There hasn't been a service -- not even an announcement -- so I suppose I have some unresolved feelings surrounding her death, especially as I was the one on the phone with the 9-1-1 person.

I probably won't forget what it was like to be standing in the road when the firetruck, lights flashing,  sirened its way to a stop in front of me. Nor will I forget the confusion of several conversations going on at once, as the struggle to get her to treatment went on.

There's more that I remember, but that's something I still need to hold in my heart, a heart that still gets a knot when I think of her. It feels something like that heart of knotty tree roots enclosing the batch of crocuses in the photo.

Someone too young, someone to remember.

Anniversaries and observations

It was 75 years ago that the attack on Pearl Harbor took place. And this week, the world might have moved a few steps closer to peace. Baby steps, I suppose they might have to be called. Still. Even small progress always seems worth noting.

In summer President Obama visited Hiroshima. Now Prime Minister Shinzo Abe is visiting Pearl Harbor. Although neither man is apologizing for sins of the past, Abe did say, "We must never repeat the tragedy of the war" and made a commitment to that stance.

Now if the U.S. could make a similar commitment, perhaps the rest of the world would fall into line with that kind of thinking. How's that for an early Christmas wish?

As for the photo of the man in uniform, it's one I've posted on this blog of mine before. Nonetheless, it's important enough that I'm putting it up there again. It's my dad. And today's the day he would have been 98. In uniform on account of events all those years ago at Pearl Harbor, the day he would have been turning 23.

Looking back

It seems almost unbelievable, but it was ten years ago today that I started this little blog. That very first post didn't even include a photograph, but that was so long ago, I may not have even known how to insert one back then.

The whole reason I even started one was guidance from a talented tech and science writer, Derek K. Miller, whose blog Pen Machine served as my inspiration. Sadly, his blog is now defunct, though his final chilling entry remains.

But I'm not wanting this post to be a reason for looking back. In fact, the image today is one of looking upward. The flower is a shade-loving plant that was blooming this morning in among the trees and ferns outside our home. Its flower hangs down, like a bell, so I had to position the camera beneath the blossom and shoot upward.

Upward, not back -- that seems like a good direction for the next decade -- onward.

Someone special

Today is the anniversary of the day that George's grandmother died. Yesterday would have been her birthday. It seems odd how the two dates are so very near. Celebrating one's birth on one day, dying the next.

But then maybe that's the way life is for all of us. A span of eighty, even a hundred years, is nothing on the timeline of the cosmos.

And maybe I'm just thinking on this kind of scale owing to an animation that came to my attention yesterday. It illustrates just how tiny we really are in the grand scheme of things.

And yes, that's a candle we have burning for her in our kitchen, the part of the house she always knew best. A bit of whisky in a glass for her, along with fresh fruit -- the one in front is a quince, something she liked to bake with.

Remembrances and coincidences

It's been one week since we attended a remarkable remembrance event for a dear friend. It's a matter I mostly want to keep private.

But another remembrance that came to my attention this week is one that I think deserves a more public commemoration.

It was an item that caught my eye mostly by accident. Though I often scan the obituary pages (usually on my way to the day's Sudoku), I noticed a name I hadn't seen nor heard mention of in years: Mary Steinhauser. The announcement was a remembrance item, commemorating her death forty years ago on June 11, 1975, when she was caught in crossfire (or as we may now identify it, by the hideous oxymoron, 'friendly fire') during a hostage-taking incident at the British Columbia Penitentiary in New Westminster.

The institution's been closed since 1980, mostly excavated and re-invented as a subdivision, though remnants of the old BC Pen linger.

The penitentiary was well known for its practice of holding inmates in its SCU (Special Corrections Unit), where prisoners were confined alone for over 23 hours a day, with only the rarest access to the outdoors. Because the SCU was on the top floor of one of the buildings, it became known as the Penthouse. Prison humour, always the darkest, is often enduring in its irony.

Steinhauser was a social worker -- or, to be more accurate, a classifications officer -- who worked at the prison. She was known as an advocate against the practice of solitary confinement and was viewed by some as being 'on side' with the men, a situation that may well have contributed to her death.

Although the full report stemming from the official inquiry into the incident does not cite the names of any of the hostages (it names only prisoners and those who were called in as negotiators), we know that the single resulting death was that of Steinhauser.

I'll admit to having had greater than average interest in the story, both because I admired Steinhauser (and Claire Culhane, a peace activist and another prisoners' advocate of the era) and because I knew someone who was a brother to one of the hostage-takers. All I can find to substantiate my memories of the event is the Wikipedia article on Steinhauser. It portrays her heroically, as being the only hostage who chose to stay in the room with the prisoners who'd taken charge, standing for what she believed to the end.

But now here's where the coincidences come into play. Reading this morning's paper, I found a hopeful article about rehabilitation activities in U.S. prisons. Instead of the continuously more punitive measures which are being undertaken in our overcrowded prisons, gardening is being encouraged as a way to give men meaning in their lives -- and to save money by providing a source of food for the prisons.

Only then, when I turned the page, an even bigger coincidence presented itself, this time on the too-familiar obituary page. Former prison guard, Albert Hollinger had died. It had supposedly been bullets from Hollinger's weapon that had killed Mary Steinhauser. And here, within a day of her death's anniversary, was his death.

Details of his obituary made it seem as though he'd suffered his own difficult times in life, alluding to PTSD.

Coincidences, remembrances. Lives intertwined. May all of them now rest, in peace.