Rights. Equality. Empowerment.

It was nearly a hundred years ago that my grandmother got a job as an assistant to the sheriff in the city where she lived. No doubt--besides her brain--the tool she relied on the most was a typewriter, not unlike the one above which remains in a place of honour in my office. 

Not a lot of women worked outside the home back then, but she was a single parent--and heck, with four kids to feed, she needed an income. 

Oddly, for that era when women mostly stayed at home, my other gramma had a paying job as well. She worked in a bakery which, lucky for me, meant I was privileged to get fancily decorated cakes for birthdays and other special occasions. She also had four kids, along with a husband who was unable to work. 

On this day, International Women's Day, when we celebrate women and our many accomplishments, it seemed important for me to remember these two brave women from my family who preceded me, with a legacy I am proud to claim. As for those words in the subject header, they constitute the theme of this year's IWD, and I can only hope that soon they will actually be true for all of us who identify as women. 

Time to exercise your Freedom to Read

It's been slow seeping out, but news keeps circulating that libraries--especially those in schools--are getting rid of books. 

The reason for many of these culls has been absurd-sounding blanket rules that anything published before 2008 must go. 

Some of the glib reasons offered for these moves are that books before then weren't culturally sensitive enough to qualify in today's woke world. The overall excuse has been called an "equity-based weeding process" but under that banner books such as Anne Frank's The Diary of a Young Girl have been tossed. Isn't it worth knowing what it must have been like to be a young Jew in hiding from Nazis?

I can't help but also think of Joy Kogawa's Obasan, the first book that really shone a light on facts of the internment of Japanese-Canadians during World War II.

How many other important books have been tossed in the name of this absurdity?

This week is the 40th anniversary of Canada's annual observance of Freedom to Read Week. Maybe it's a good time--quick, while you can--find a book that's been banned (or 'challenged' if you feel like using the current newspeak), and try to figure out what's so darn scary about it. 

Delicate

I guess the lazy days of summer must be upon me. Here it is, already July 4th, and I'm only now doing a post for Canada Day, July 1st. 

When I first stepped outside on July 1st, that delicate red poppy was the first thing that caught my eye. I'm just glad I had the sense to grab my camera, as by the next morning, the blossom was already gone. 

For all I know, this may have been one of the last times we, as a country, even observe Canada Day. The more we learn about colonialism, it's an issue we need to consider. 

We can't forget that the day itself was known for many years as Dominion Day. The very word says it all. I suppose it was a small step to at least change the name.

About all I can do is keep an open mind and keep learning. And of course, I can keep appreciating all the delicate beauty I see around me. 

Broken Promises

There's a new show on at Surrey's Museum. Called "Broken Promises" it places the spotlight on events that occurred in 1942 when Canada placed the tag 'enemy alien' on people of Japanese descent. First generation or third, it made no difference. If you were in any way deemed to be Japanese, you and your family (yes, little children and all) were rounded up and sent away to camps. 

In addition, your possessions were seized, on the promise that they would be held for a later date and you'd get them back. That was just one of the many broken promises. 

Boats that belonged to fishers were gathered together and burned to the waterline where the sea at least had the mercy to douse the flames. 

Appropriately it seemed, the celebration marking the opening of this important exhibit started with a blessing and a song from Harley Chappell, elected chief of the Semiahmoo Nation. He has a rich singing voice which, accompanied by the drum he holds in his hand, certainly seemed to command respect from all who heard him. Chief Chappell, as well as the other speakers, had their words interpreted by two signers. You can see the hands of one of them in motion in the photo above. 

Considering all that's gone on this week, with the delegation of Indigenous people in Rome, it was hard not to think of the sign for this event as also possibly meaning "Token Promises" as so many of the promises made to Indigenous Peoples via treaties and other agreements have not been fulfilled. 

Despite the sad circumstances which this event was commemorating, the evening itself held new promise, including its recognition of the currently unfolding spring, as with the presentation done by a troupe of Japanese dancers -- in this case, celebrating the time of cherry blossoms. 

Travels missed, travels found

Today is just about the midpoint of what was supposed to be a holiday on the beach in Cuba. But no, that had to be cancelled, owing to the O-word.  

To console myself, I tried to pretend -- even went so far as to turn on a sunlamp to 'tan' my winter-white, dry-skin legs. 

Best consolation though was where I usually find it: in one of the books I'd planned to take along. 

The title, The Body on the Beach, sounds as though it might be a bit grisly as holiday reading, but no, that wasn't the case. For one thing, the beach in question was about as far from Varadero as one could get while still being on the Atlantic Ocean: Harbour Grace, Newfoundland. 

As it happens, that's a town I've visited more than once, as it played into the research I did for Flightpaths, my book about Amelia Earhart. But this 'visit' is during the 1920s, the era when Model T cars were still relatively new. 

It's hard to pigeon-hole this novel as any single genre, as it qualifies not only as detective story with questions that range at first from who was it that died, to a series of increasing challenges regarding the details of that death (how and why being foremost, though there's definitely a whodunnit aspect as well). 

But that isn't all it is, as it's also a love story -- about the love a man has for a woman from his past as well as a growing romance in his here-and-now. 

All of this is complicated (in a good way) by the many historical details author Patrick J. Collins has layered into the book. The biggest of these, and the one that causes the most tension is Prohibition. Being a port town, one that engages in shipping both to and from the US (remember, at this time, Newfoundland was not yet part of Canada, but its own independent dominion), Harbour Grace's location makes it convenient for would-be smugglers. 

Even though now and then I'd get a little lost in the crowd of so many characters, the book kept me engaged enough to not fret too much about a missed opportunity for travel. In fact, it allowed me some of the best travels of all, those travels we take via the mind. 

O, Kanata

This year's July 1st has come to mean quite different thoughts than the proudly patriotic ones of the past. The reason, of course, is the sadness that descended on our country over the recent confirmation of the many deaths -- mostly of children -- that occurred at Canada's residential schools. 

For weeks now, nearly all flags have flying at half-mast in recognition of these lost souls. 

Many of us are wearing orange shirts today, a sign that we choose to remember the children who were taken from their homes and who had their culture, their families, and their language taken from them. 

The wearing of orange shirts has its origins in the story of Phyllis Jack, who had an orange shirt she loved when she was only six years old. Excited about her first day of school, she wore the bright orange shirt, a gift she'd received from her grandmother. But upon her arrival, the nuns took away her shirt and never gave it back. Recent years have seen the tradition of wearing orange shirts, many of which bear the reminder that Every Child Matters. 

As for the 'Kanata' reference at the top of this post, it's part of Canada's origin story. Sadly, it's yet another example of how colonizing settlers took from the people they met here. We took a word from a language that wasn't our own -- a word that meant 'village' -- and applied it to the whole country. Stolen words, stolen lands. 

Much to learn, and much to heal from. A time for listening. 

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.

History matters

Even though he wasn't the first, Neil Gaiman reminded us that Art Matters. And I certainly have to agree.

But today I am thinking that History Matters. The people of Paris know all too well the fact of this. For over 800 years, whether under construction or celebrating its full glory, the Cathedral of Notre Dame has stood amidst the citizens of Paris. Now, that's history.

I remember the shock that all of us felt when the Twin Towers came down, almost 20 years ago. I'm sure the shock to Parisiens today with their beloved structure so damaged is every bit as palpable.

Because I've never been to Paris, the image above from Montreal will have to suffice as my small commemoration of this Ides of April.

Long time comin'

Finally. After waiting for too many years -- at least since 1972, when the LeDain Commission recommended it -- marijuana has been made legal in Canada.

The move is certainly not without problems, and is already starting to create some new ones without even trying. Distribution is one of the biggest, especially here in BC where there is currently only one official store. It's in Kamloops, about a four-hour drive for most of us who live in the Lower Mainland. The government has established an online supply source, though I don't understand how deliveries will be made, as the government liquor stores don't deliver, but clearly this 'store' must.

Differences in how the law is being interpreted in various provinces present yet another set of complications. While most of us will be allowed to grow four plants per household (poor timing though, as this isn't exactly the season for throwing seeds into the ground), some provinces have banned the practice.

So even though I'm not about to run out into the street to smoke a big fat joint, I am going to breathe more easily, firm in the belief that as a society we've taken a step towards becoming more grown-up and civilized. As for what comes next, we'll just have to wait and see.

Homeward bound

We saw plenty of open range, with frequent warnings posted that livestock might be on the highway. Fortunately, we didn't encounter any critters on the road, though we saw plenty in the fields and on hillsides beside us: antelope, deer, elk, horses, and several varieties of cattle.



We also stopped at some inspiring and wonder-filled places along the way, one of them at the site of what's known as Custer's Last Stand, Little Big Horn.

It was very moving to see the number of grave markers there, especially those of the Indians who called the encounter the Battle of Greasy Grass.


The closer we got to home, the more we could see that the season had begun changing. While we'd had mostly summery temps, there'd been a few cool days, but the colours in the trees made it obvious that autumn was nearing.

Along with autumn approaching, I knew that my life was about to change again -- from the leisurely pace of poking my nose into new places and looking out the window as we cruised down the highways, to the sometimes-almost-frantic world of readings and workshops and deadlines.

But hey, after these wonderful adventures (and if you missed any of them, here's a link to the beginning of the trip), I think I'm ready -- to welcome autumn and to immerse myself in the many cultural activities closer to home.