Sunday 9 September 2012
memoir chapter one-continued.
I already said how Redmondville was a place of mud and wood.At some point during our stay there,my father bought an old truck,bigger than a pickup.It was a Dodge of late 1940's vintage,so it wasn't really that old at the time,but its dark blue paint was faded,it's windshield cracked and it's body rusting through.To put it another way,it looked right at home in that rough country,like something indigenous to those muddy New Brunswick back roads.It sat out in the yard between our house and our neighbors trailer.I'm not certain why my father bought it,but I believe it was for hauling wood.That's the only thing I can ever recall seeing him load in the back of it.He drove off in it,and a while later returned with what seemed like a mountain of maple logs,mixed in with a few birch,with their curling white bark.
The truck seemed to be able to go where the car could not.Or,at least to those places where my father was reluctant to take it.Roads were rough in those days and there was a very real possibility of damaging something beneath the car if you went off the main roads.But there was no worry about that in the truck.
One day I went for a ride in that truck.It was not a family car.Most of the time we went anyplace it was in my fathers car,a 1960 Valiant.There was really no room in the truck and I think my mother would have considered it beneath her dignity to be seen as a passenger in such an automobile.Trucks were really not trendy in those days,like they are now.You owned a truck if you worked in the woods,or were a fishermen.Not if you went to the city often,or for that matter,even to the smaller towns.Think the opening scene of the Beverly Hillbillies here.That truck was so big I could not climb up into it.I had to be lifted in.My feet would not nearly reach the floor and there were no seat belts either,so I kept sliding off the seats,down by that great big stick in the middle of the floor that my father used to shift the beast into gear and that shook and rattled when it wasn't being used.
Route 11 is really a coastal route.Or,at least it was in those days.Not far down the road it would be the main streets in all of the little fishing villages.But where we lived,it was a ways back from the ocean.You could not see the water even though some of the houses had lobster traps and even fishing boats up in the front yard.It really wasn't so far to the ocean.Maybe ten or fifteen miles at the most.But it seemed a long way off and,once you got there,like a very foreign place.To get there you had to take some really bad roads,some of them slick with red or brown mud,seemingly all the time.It was easy to get stuck.Moreover,once we got down by the coast,I couldn't understand what most people were saying.They were speaking Acadian French.And they seemed to be poorer by far than anyone I knew.A lot of their houses were tiny and covered in tar paper.Ot the ones that had real driveways,many of those were littered with sea shells and had broken old cars and boats where grass should have been growing.We even visited a place one time where there were chicken in the house,on the floor.It was a very different world even though it reall wasn't far from the highway.To get to such places,we usually took the truck.
The truck seemed to be able to go where the car could not.Or,at least to those places where my father was reluctant to take it.Roads were rough in those days and there was a very real possibility of damaging something beneath the car if you went off the main roads.But there was no worry about that in the truck.
One day I went for a ride in that truck.It was not a family car.Most of the time we went anyplace it was in my fathers car,a 1960 Valiant.There was really no room in the truck and I think my mother would have considered it beneath her dignity to be seen as a passenger in such an automobile.Trucks were really not trendy in those days,like they are now.You owned a truck if you worked in the woods,or were a fishermen.Not if you went to the city often,or for that matter,even to the smaller towns.Think the opening scene of the Beverly Hillbillies here.That truck was so big I could not climb up into it.I had to be lifted in.My feet would not nearly reach the floor and there were no seat belts either,so I kept sliding off the seats,down by that great big stick in the middle of the floor that my father used to shift the beast into gear and that shook and rattled when it wasn't being used.
Route 11 is really a coastal route.Or,at least it was in those days.Not far down the road it would be the main streets in all of the little fishing villages.But where we lived,it was a ways back from the ocean.You could not see the water even though some of the houses had lobster traps and even fishing boats up in the front yard.It really wasn't so far to the ocean.Maybe ten or fifteen miles at the most.But it seemed a long way off and,once you got there,like a very foreign place.To get there you had to take some really bad roads,some of them slick with red or brown mud,seemingly all the time.It was easy to get stuck.Moreover,once we got down by the coast,I couldn't understand what most people were saying.They were speaking Acadian French.And they seemed to be poorer by far than anyone I knew.A lot of their houses were tiny and covered in tar paper.Ot the ones that had real driveways,many of those were littered with sea shells and had broken old cars and boats where grass should have been growing.We even visited a place one time where there were chicken in the house,on the floor.It was a very different world even though it reall wasn't far from the highway.To get to such places,we usually took the truck.
portraits/calgary saudi festival
For most of the past week I've been trying to think of what to post on September 11th.That day is the day the world changed forever,but does anyone really know what happened.Sometimes it seems as most everything about that day has been said to the point of cliche.We've all seen the planes flying into the towers so many times we can picture it in our minds without the aid of a television.And many things,we are told flow from that date and it's events.
So many times I've heard in the last few weeks that if people really saw what war was all about they would not support it.I suspect there is a degree of truth in all of that.CNN and others give us a sanitized version,no doubt.But,are any but the stupidest of us really prepared to believe that it doesn't involve children with their limbs blown off and innocent families made homeless?No matter what the virtue of a war on terror,people suffer,and popular media still play their games.If we could see the real pictures,we would most likely grieve
the way I believe god grieves at the sight of war.
So I thought I would try to bring you something this September 11th that's a bit different than the usual,well worn rhetoric of the day.I don't know about you,but I don't really need to see more reruns of that day's events.To misquote a well known metaphor,the cell phone camera is mightier than the sword.I find it hard not to believe there hope in the world when I see a child playing ball or reaching for an ice cream cone.Yet how often,in this country do we see Arab children portrayed in that light.How often does popular media show us how Arab women can be attractive in the modesty of their attire?No,scary gets a lot more air play.CNN would have had a field day frightening people with the Catholic nuns of the early 1960's,but I digress.How often does agenda driven media show us scenes of family harmony and the absence of misogyny,like I could see at the recent Calgary Saudi Festival.It'sTime to turn off the television set and start seeing with our eyes.Because I think if we all did that,we really would support peace.
Friday 7 September 2012
memoir chapter one-continued
At some point during the time we lived in that farm house in Redmondville,my father either bought some chicks from the hatchery,or some of the hens in the barn hatched some.I really don't know which,because,as I said,I never went in the barn.But my father erected a sort of a pen at the end of the driveway,and I can recall feeding the peeping little yellow things some worms through the wire fence.They would strut around and make an incredible amount of noise for such small creatures.They ate worms hungrily,as well as any bugs that would venture into the pen,and I could stand for hours watching them,though the sound of them I did not like.the hens still strolled about in the driveway too,but it never occurred to me at all that these tiny creatures had even the slightest thing in common with the hens,or with the rooster,which seemed to be the boss of all the chickens.My father seemed not to like the rooster as he kept telling it he was going to cut its head off with the axe.I asked if I could watch,having not the slightest clue what this entailed.For all I know,he might well have done just that at some point,though I never witnessed it.
Along with the chicks,a couple of cows came to our place as well.I'm not sure where my father found them,but he brought them into our driveway for a time.I don't recall that he ever kept them in the barn.In fact,as far as I can recall they were kept at the Mormons farm down the road,though to say that they did not visit from time to time would be wrong.There must not have been any fence at all between our farm and theirs,as the two cows would wander right up and start munching grass on our front lawn.The little brown one ate some flowers my mother had planted inside an old tire too.That little brown cow was,I think a Jersey,a most gentle beast for a creature so much bigger than me.One time,as I recall she lay right down on her side in front of our front steps and went to sleep.My father said that it was strange for cows to do that,at least during the day,but he couldn't swear that they would never lay down at night in the pasture.But I remember her laying down that one time,because I walked over and lay down on her side,and she didn't mind in the least.I believe I went to sleep right there as her ribs rose ans fell to her breathing,and we both napped together on the front lawn.
The cows were milked too,by hand in the Mormons barn,usually by one of the boys.There were other cows there too and it took some time to milk them all even with several boys hard at work milking.when milking time came,that little brown cow would take off on a trot from wherever she was for the barn.A few times I got to watch the milking procedure.One time,at least I think it was then,and not later,one of the boys doing the milking told me something that he seemed to think was funny,but that I didn't understand at the time.
"Do you know why a cow has four of these"asked the boy,obviously referring to the teats he held in his hands.I had no idea.but they were the biggest things I'd ever seen and I was amazed at them.I though the cow was peeing,but I couldn't understand why she peed milk.At least it looked like milk,and not pee,and my father always said that the milk was the whole reason for having a cow.
"You see,said the Mormon boy.one is for milk,and one is for buttermilk,one is for cream,and one is for chocolate milk."And then he was laughing with all his might.I guess it was the first time anyone had ever told me a joke.Maybe he should have tried it on someone else though,as It was totally wasted on me.I was far too young to understand jokes.Not only that,but as much as he squeezed that cow,I never saw chocolate milk come from any of her teats.The little brat had obviously lied to me,or so I thought.Years later though,I got the joke.I wasn't certain if it was funny or not.
Along with the chicks,a couple of cows came to our place as well.I'm not sure where my father found them,but he brought them into our driveway for a time.I don't recall that he ever kept them in the barn.In fact,as far as I can recall they were kept at the Mormons farm down the road,though to say that they did not visit from time to time would be wrong.There must not have been any fence at all between our farm and theirs,as the two cows would wander right up and start munching grass on our front lawn.The little brown one ate some flowers my mother had planted inside an old tire too.That little brown cow was,I think a Jersey,a most gentle beast for a creature so much bigger than me.One time,as I recall she lay right down on her side in front of our front steps and went to sleep.My father said that it was strange for cows to do that,at least during the day,but he couldn't swear that they would never lay down at night in the pasture.But I remember her laying down that one time,because I walked over and lay down on her side,and she didn't mind in the least.I believe I went to sleep right there as her ribs rose ans fell to her breathing,and we both napped together on the front lawn.
The cows were milked too,by hand in the Mormons barn,usually by one of the boys.There were other cows there too and it took some time to milk them all even with several boys hard at work milking.when milking time came,that little brown cow would take off on a trot from wherever she was for the barn.A few times I got to watch the milking procedure.One time,at least I think it was then,and not later,one of the boys doing the milking told me something that he seemed to think was funny,but that I didn't understand at the time.
"Do you know why a cow has four of these"asked the boy,obviously referring to the teats he held in his hands.I had no idea.but they were the biggest things I'd ever seen and I was amazed at them.I though the cow was peeing,but I couldn't understand why she peed milk.At least it looked like milk,and not pee,and my father always said that the milk was the whole reason for having a cow.
"You see,said the Mormon boy.one is for milk,and one is for buttermilk,one is for cream,and one is for chocolate milk."And then he was laughing with all his might.I guess it was the first time anyone had ever told me a joke.Maybe he should have tried it on someone else though,as It was totally wasted on me.I was far too young to understand jokes.Not only that,but as much as he squeezed that cow,I never saw chocolate milk come from any of her teats.The little brat had obviously lied to me,or so I thought.Years later though,I got the joke.I wasn't certain if it was funny or not.
Monday 3 September 2012
Op/Ed-New Drunk Driving Laws
As I suspected,my agreement with Sun columnist Lorne Gunther had a limited shelf life.This past week end he commented against Alberta's new drunk driving laws lowering the limit for intoxication to .05.Gunther seems to feel that the lower limit is simply trying to catch those who would stop for a single drink on the way home.Those who are really not dangerous.He also protests the immediate punishment imposed upon blowing over the limit,as not allowing for due process of law.Offenders cars are impounded on the spot and a license suspension begins immediately,without trial,or apparently the right to defend ones self.In that Mr.Gunther and I can agree.However,as for the law itself,I am in full agreement with it's seeming intent.Simply,it forces anyone who would have even one drink to consider the consequences of his actions relative to a lower tolerance.Ideally,anyone who takes a drink should not,in my opinion drive a car,no matter how little they consume.So,in total I believe it will cause those with the good intent to obey the current law to be even more likely to make good,or should I say better decisions.
Is premier Redford simply flexing her muscles to appear to be tough on crime,despite jurisdictional issues limiting her ability to do so.Most likely.Gunther cites a case of a person caught driving impaired who killed someone,lamenting that more attention should be paid to putting those sorts of individuals in jail for longer periods of time.It's difficult to disagree,but again,that is beyond Redford's reach as it requires a change to The Criminal Code Of Canada.But,whether Redford is trying to show toughness for political gain or not,any means of providing a stronger deterrent to potential drinking drivers is worth the while.Even if I do share Gunther's concern regarding due process.
Is premier Redford simply flexing her muscles to appear to be tough on crime,despite jurisdictional issues limiting her ability to do so.Most likely.Gunther cites a case of a person caught driving impaired who killed someone,lamenting that more attention should be paid to putting those sorts of individuals in jail for longer periods of time.It's difficult to disagree,but again,that is beyond Redford's reach as it requires a change to The Criminal Code Of Canada.But,whether Redford is trying to show toughness for political gain or not,any means of providing a stronger deterrent to potential drinking drivers is worth the while.Even if I do share Gunther's concern regarding due process.
Saturday 1 September 2012
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