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Takhuk

March, 2023

Michele Moore-V

DO PEOPLE OF VERY ADVANCED AGE HAVE THE RIGHT TO BE RUDE?

Grumpy ‘Old’ People: Is Being of VAA (Very Advanced Age) an Excuse for Rudeness?

This month I read and chatted with people about age and behavior. Specifically, people of VAA (very advanced age) who conduct themselves with a noteworthy level of rudeness, selfishness, and a lack of consideration for others. My inquiry was triggered by someone of VAA who is a member of a group I’m involved with that includes at least one millennial (who might be a zoomer I’m not sure), at least one gen X, numerous baby boomers, and several war babies.  A collection of individuals each of whom come to these monthly meetings with their own communication style but all of whom conduct themselves in the way one would expect from most Canadians. That is to say, they are considerate and polite. Except for one war baby, who is sharp as a knife, accomplished and ambitious, and brings to the group anecdotes of a varied and interesting life story. However, this person also eschews the notion of social interaction as a dynamic and equitable exchange of stories and ideas. In other words, this person hogs the floor. And hogs it while holding a proverbial rod which is snapped at anyone that attempts a polite intervention.

I would guess that we are all familiar with someone who would fit my description of this person of VAA. There is nothing extraordinary about a person of VAA behaving rudely. But there is also nothing extraordinary about someone of any other age behaving rudely. Think of the co-worker who constantly interrupts you, the person sitting behind you at the theatre or concert who is talking ‘at the top of their lungs’ or, my personal favourite, the camper in the next site over letting their music blare through the treetops, ruining, I say absolutely ruining! my plans to enjoy the sound of the screaming children the next site over. (At least the children will be going to bed, hehehe) In all these cases, most of us would find a way to speak up. And usually, we would do it politely, or discreetly, being the polite and considerate people we are. 

Forgive me if I sound overly righteous about politeness (couldn’t resist that little rhyme). I do know I can be that way at times. But I also know that I can understand and accept rude behavior, in myself and in others, because we all must face our own trials of fear, pain, and loss and these experiences can and do cause us to lose our sensitivity to others while we go through such fires. This is true at any age in life. When I am faced with rudeness from a stranger I say to myself ‘they might have just lost a loved one or their pet, or they might be in pain’. When I am faced with chronic rudeness I do not understand, I simply avoid the person. But what should one do when the person cannot be avoided?

And so I ask: Aside from situations of acute distress or dementia, why do we seem to tolerate rude behavior more from people of VAA than from others? I realize there may be a tradition of ‘respecting our elders’ that prevents us from addressing such rudeness, but does respecting our elders equate to tolerating  habitually bad behavior?

Naturally I googled this question. Here is the inquiry I made:

Why do some people become rude and inconsiderate when they get older?

And here are the subject lines of the first 6 returns of the search:

From Griswold Home Care:

Behavioral Changes in Old Age: Why Do Some Old People Get Mean?

From Quora:

Why are some old people so rude and entitled?

From Reddit:

Why are old people so f****** rude? : r/NoStupidQuestions

From Eastern Daily Press (UK):

Opinion: Why getting older is no excuse for sheer rudeness

From Science Daily:

Old People Aren't Rude, Just Uninhibited: New Research

From the Montreal Gazette:

Opinion: Rude millennials? Feh. How about rude seniors?

Clearly, this is a subject of popular interest but not one that is driving much in the way of cutting edge medical inquiry, as the results of my search reveal. (The Science Daily article discusses Australian research from 2005 related to older people being more likely to ask others about their medical conditions: think VAA person beside you in a waiting room asking you if you are also there to get your ear wax removed. Personally, rather than rude, I find this funny.)

Within the first two pages of search results, I found two articles, one from a seniors home, and another from a business called Home Care Assistance which both suggested that a person of VAA who is behaving rudely may have pain, loneliness, fear, or dementia. Or, they are simply behaving the way they always have, but perhaps worse because they have pain, loneliness, or fear. Having a parent in a nursing home, I can certainly understand this.

Nowhere in my search results did I find an article from a medical perspective that can explain habitual rudeness in healthy people of VAA. Therefore I went directly to my favourite source of medical information, Mayo Clinic. On their website I searched, ‘personality changes in seniors’. The Mayo Clinic pointed to delirium or dementia as the reason for personality changes in seniors (that would lead to, for example, rude and inconsiderate behavior).

From this admittedly unscientific review of the literature, I have concluded that, while it is a given that anyone suffering from dementia or delirium has no control over their behavior and deserve our patience and empathy, it is not a given that when one enters the realm of VAA, they are prone to uncontrollable changes in their personality that turn them into inconsiderate rod-wielding rascals. It then follows that there is a high probability that the 40 something co-worker who constantly interrupts others and hogs the floor will become one of those rude and inconsiderate persons of VAA that constantly interrupts others and hogs the floor.    

Therefore I cannot help but conclude that the person of VAA I have come to know has, well, always been this way. Still, I continue to ask myself, am I being intolerant? Am I lacking in empathy? This person may in fact be dealing with some personal difficulties, of course. Being a very real possibility, I will continue resisting the urge to grab that rod and snap it over my proverbial knee!

Perhaps I am impatient with the patience afforded to the person in my group because I have never subscribed to the idea that people of VAA should be perceived or treated differently from others. When I hear someone speaking to a sound and healthy person of VAA with the same tone used to speak to babies, I cringe. I have seen how the person interprets this type of speech. In their eyes I see them saying, your way of speaking to me is offensive, but life is short, I can’t be bothered to straighten you out you blockhead. 

But I have to tell you, I am afraid. Does this freedom to be rude mean that, lurking around (and perhaps within us??), are people who have been restraining their rudeness due to social disapproval, but, once in VAA territory, will let their inner enfant terrible off the leash for the simple reason that they know they will be allowed to get away with it? Inside of me is there an impudent punk of VAA rubbing her hands in anticipation? I am a long ways from VAA territory but as we all know, time flies.

With so many Canadians heading toward very senior years – let’s say 85 plus and still that number would probably offend some – are we facing a possible tsunami of grumps in the grocery line checkout? Will we need our grocery store managers to reserve certain checkouts for ‘grumps of VAA only’? To all cashiers: if this happens, demand higher pay for working that checkout!

May your days ahead be filled with those of sunny dispositions. Thanks for reading.

“I never pictured myself a grumpy old woman but here I am killin’ it!” Anonymous

www.michelemooreveldhoen.com

[michelemoore]

Takhuk

February, 2023

Michele Moore-V

Lately, I’ve Been Killing A lot of My Darlings 

Apparently, William Faulkner once said, “in writing, you must kill all your darlings”.  Faulkner was referring to the many, many, many sentences, paragraphs, chapters, and entire manuscripts a writer must slay on the creative path. Killing darlings is not revision. It is literally the chucking of work over the figurative bridge rail. Work that was chiseled out of a stony screen using all the blood and guts you can imagine. In the early years of writing, killing one’s darlings is agonizing. It can take weeks to fortify oneself enough to execute them. Sometimes it’s very messy, the computer screen becomes smeared with the entrails of paragraphs as the deed is done in dozens of tiny cuts until, upon stepping back, the writer realizes there is nothing left but a butchered mass of random, disconnected tissue. Then, with one viscous key stroke, the writer wipes the screen clean and leaves the site of the massacre to look for something that can be guzzled.

I confess, these past weeks, I was a serial killer of my darlings. But since those darlings are much better off in the reject pile, I’m okay. It’s only that I cannot offer something more substantial than this for January and February. I will try again in March. In the meantime, if you are in Calgary on Thursday, February 16, consider a visit to Owl’s Nest Books at 49th Avenue and Elbow Drive SW, where Barbara Joan Scott will be chatting about and signing copies of her book, The Taste of Hunger. I’ve heard from some of you that have read and really enjoyed the book since I wrote about it a couple of months ago. If you would like Barb to sign your book or you would just like to come out and say hello, the Owl’s Nest is always a beautiful place to be for readers and writers. Hope to see you there!

The beautiful part of writing is that you don’t have to get it right the first time…unlike, say, a brain surgeon. Robert Cormier

Writing is easy. All you have to do is cross out the wrong words. Mark Twain

If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favour you can do them is to present them with copies of ‘The Elements of Style’. The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they’re still happy. Dorothy Parker

Here’s wishing you luck in your own creative pursuits!

www.michelemooreveldhoen.com

[michelemoore]

Takhuk

December, 2022

Michele Moore-V

 A Toast To Old Dogs, Mother Trees, and Chickadees  

On a recent walk in the woods, I came across an old dog sitting on the side of the trail, taking a break. His human friend at the other end of the leash was speaking quietly to the old guy and waiting patiently for him to get up and continue on their way. As I drew near, I could hear the old dog whimpering, and once I came right upon him he showed those signs friendly dogs do, and tried to get up to greet me. Seeing he was having trouble I came to him and began rubbing his head, while his friend told me that the old guy was fifteen years old. Their daily walks had become strolls, he said, and the strolls were getting slower, and shorter. The old dog needed a hip replacement, the man told me, but he had already had the other hip replaced, an operation from which it took the dog six months to recover.  The man said he wasn’t sure another operation was the best course of action at this point in the old dog’s life. He expressed concern that another one just might be the end of him.

What a quandary for us humans, when our adored animal friends become old and infirm, and yet, cannot tell us what they would wish us to do for them. I have known many animal friends in my life, almost all of them cats and most of whose lives came to one of those sudden endings so many cat lives do. Others though, when they felt they had lived their life (or lives?), quietly walked off one day, never to return. But dogs don’t do that, do they? I doubt they know the difficult decision their human friends face at these moments, but I don’t doubt that in those final days, the only thing keeping them alive is love.

The old dog I met that morning reminded me of Boo, my father’s dog. Boo entered the old and tired category long before he gave up the ghost. (I couldn’t resist that one.) We could all see Boo was hanging on out of loyalty to his human friend, my dad, who was definitely his bestie. When Boo could not live another day, he went to sleep and never awoke, and my father, without telling any of us of Boo’s passing, buried his animal friend in his own backyard. We don’t really know if Dad chose that because he wanted to keep Boo close or didn’t want to share his grief. Likely it was a bit of both.

Silently sending thoughts of love to my dad and Boo, I said goodbye to the old dog and his friend and carried on deep into the forest where I found a massive spruce tree, at least five feet in diameter at its base and certainly three feet in diameter at chest height. Having just finished reading ‘Finding the Mother Tree’ by Canadian Forest Ecologist Dr. Suzanne Simard, I imagined the steadfast friendships this old tree, very clearly a Mother Tree, had established over centuries of living. Simard’s decades of forest ecology research has revealed that, beneath our feet as we walk through a forest are untold miles of a fungal network connecting all the trees and plants, allowing them to communicate and share resources. It’s true! Forests are a co-operative community, helping each other when they’re in need of extra water or carbon or other nutrients, warning each other of pests and drought, and protecting seedlings to ensure the ongoing life of the forest. Mother Trees are the hub from which this crucial and integral fungal network radiates out and between all the other plant species.

I stood in awe of this particular Mother Tree, so tall her crown could not be seen from the ground below. In the quiet I heard a flock of chickadees nearby and smiled. That Mother Tree wasn’t just a great and true friend to all the other trees and plants. I stepped over to the cluster of younger trees where the chickadees were flitting, calling and chatting to each other as they foraged up and down the canopy, feeding on snacks they had tucked into the crevices and cracks of the tree bark. I had a treat for these enchanting creatures.

Standing still in my black coat, cream scarf and hat, I dug from my pocket an offering of black oiled sunflower seeds, stretched out my arm and opened my hand. Usually the chickadees and nuthatches zip around me from branch to branch, chattering and peering at me before helping themselves, but sometimes they come immediately, as this flock did, the moment I opened my hand. Chasing each other off my fingertips, waiting their turn on a nearby branch, they snacked and sang while I watched and grinned. The birds and I, in the shelter of that big old Mother Tree and all her offspring. If only, I thought, I could sing like these birds, I’d be laying it down right then and there! 

Two times I refilled my hand before tucking it inside my pocket to warm. The chickadees stayed with me, perched on the tip of my walking stick, on branches just inches from my face, on my parka hood lying on my back, on my head, and one on my shoulder who nipped my ear lobe. Was that, I wondered, a taste test, or was it a little peck of affection?

No matter. I consider these little darlings my friends, because they bring me so much joy. As did my cats in years gone by, as do the trees still, young and old, that makes life for the rest of us not only possible, but so splendiferous. I know, that’s quite a word, isn’t it? Just found it in the thesaurus and it made me laugh, I hope it made you laugh too.

So! A toast to the joy of friends, in every form, old and new, here and gone.  

Wishing you your own kind of joy this month, this year, next year, and beyond.

Thanks for reading.

www.michelemooreveldhoen.com

photo: Mikhail Nilov / Pexels

[michelemoore]

Takhuk,

November, 2022

Michele Moore-V

From there to here, and here to there, funny things are everywhere. Dr. Seuss

In late October, while walking along a street, I saw a man pulling the last of the brown dried leaves from a tree in front of what I assumed was his house.

Yes, that is what I saw, as, on a gorgeous late October day, I walked down the street toward the salon in my neighbourhood where I was scheduled for a haircut. The sun in the blue sky was so so bright and warm I might have been ‘walking on sunshine, wooah’ and oh yeeah, don’t it feel good! And then I saw, across the street, this man with his arms reaching into the lowest branches of a modest sized, mostly bare tree. I looked closely to see what he was up to, because that’s what I do when I’m out walking anywhere, I watch. People, squirrels, cars, ants, clouds. Birds! Big shiny black beetles lumbering across the sidewalk. You know, the usual things the world offers us for amusement during a city stroll.

The tree the man was concerned with looked to be about as ready for winter as most other trees around, just a few leaves hanging on, hanging in there. I didn’t see any objects being draped from the branches, I didn’t see any tools in his hands. So I slowed my pace to take a closer look. Sure enough, there he was, tugging and twisting those last stubborn leaves off their stems and dropping them on the grass below, where sat, put putting away, a little old lawn mower. With no bag on the mower to collect the dead leaves, I assumed the old guy’s fall cleanup routine involved chewing up the dead leaves with his mower and leaving the bits on the grass to decay and eventually enter the soil below and form humus. (how’s that for good gardening terminology?) A sensible approach, I thought, to the management of a small city front lawn with just one modestly sized leaf bearing tree.

Forgive me if you don’t share my humour, but when I really understood that he was truly removing the few remaining leaves on that now virtually naked tree, I cracked up. Out loud. But not so loud as to catch his ear, I would not have wanted him to misunderstand me. I wasn’t laughing at him,  I was laughing at my species and the things we will do.

Giggling to myself as I slowly tripped along on the opposite side of the street, I watched as he picked and twisted one leaf after another, having to exert some significant effort to disengage those determined brown but obviously still kicking leaves from their stems.

Continuing on with my walking and giggling, I imagined various scenarios as to why the man was using precious time in his sunset years, what an awful term but honestly, how else shall I put it, the guy looked as old as the hills, which I hope to be some day too so long as I can still push a lawn mower, to denude his tree of its last few fall leaves? Why could he not just let them drop when they were good and ready?

Could it have been that he had nothing better to do? Surely though, if he just wanted to be outside he could have simply stood and watched….the birds, the cars, the ants, the people. He could have gone for a walk. Certainly if he could still push a lawn mower he could walk. Maybe, being of a very mature generation, perhaps he felt he had to be productive throughout the working hours of a regular week day. That, even at his advanced age, he could not just be outside for the simple pleasure of being out in the sunshine. In that case, could he not have hosed down his steps? Raked the dirt in his flower beds? Again and again? Inspected his siding and windows?  

Perhaps he had a thing for tidiness, a thing so powerful that he would find the sight of a few renegade leaves sitting on his lawn after he had packed away the mower for the season utterly intolerable. Maybe a bit of that Type A personality. (I have this problem when it comes to kitchen towels. Can’t stand seeing them helter skelter, need them neatly folded on the counter or out of sight.) Perhaps, for this gentleman, a sense of order, a sense of the proper way of things, means that when trees lose their leaves they are to lose every single one of them, that bare branches means, Bare branches!

Or, perhaps he had a wife inside who drove him to it. SHE perhaps was the one whose mind and soul felt shredded every time she looked out the picture window and saw those half dead leaves triumphantly fluttering in the wind. Or, maybe he had a wife inside who couldn’t care less, it was just that she had the television on too loud and he just had to get OUT! Or she was cooking liver and he could not bear the odour?

By the time I got to the salon I had exhausted my mind of all possibilities. I shared the story with my stylist. We decided the fellow was a man who liked to accomplish things, liked being outside, had run out of ideas and was bored out of his mind. We also speculated about a wife inside, and the possibility that there was no one inside, which made me think I should stop and say hello if the man was still outside on my return trip. He wasn’t, but you know I will be watching for him next time.

We all do inexplicable things, right? And most of the time, we can simply laugh at ourselves, and at each other, and be grateful for the entertainment we provide each other.

I hope your autumn has been equally entertaining and that your cup overflows with laughter and love as we head into the season of sparkle and snow. 

www.michelemooreveldhoen.com

photo courtesy of Clem Onajeghao/Unsplash

[michelemoore]

THE TASTE OF HUNGER 

by Barbara Joan Scott

A family saga about Ukrainian immigrants in the early 20th century, the power of desire, Baba Yaga fairytales, and a moment that changes everything.

Takhuk / November / 2022 SPECIAL EDITION

I’m so excited to share with you this news of a fantastic novel by my friend Barbara Scott, who some of you already know. Since you may think I am biased, I offer below a couple of reviews from other authors but I do want to say that I could not put The Taste of Hunger down. Yes! - it is one of those so when you start it, make sure you have a weekend to just dig in. I read a lot of books in a month and there are so many great authors and stories, but only a few seem to really stick, as in, weeks and months later, I can still remember the story, the images, the characters. The Taste of Hunger is definitely one of those. Below is a short synopsis, followed by two reviews by other authors whose remarks are right on the mark.  

In Saskatchewan in the late 1920s, a fifteen-year-old Ukrainian immigrant named Olena is forced into marriage with Taras, a man twice her age, who wants her even though she has refused him. Stuck in a hardscrabble life and with a husband she despises, starved for a life of her own choosing, at every turn Olena rebels against her husband and her fate. As Olena and Taras drag everyone around them into the maelstrom that is their marriage, they set off a chain of turbulent events whose aftershocks reverberate through generations. In her novel The Taste of Hunger, Barbara Joan Scott masterfully explores the pull of family, the fallout of thwarted desire, and the power of redemption and forgiveness.

 THE TASTE OF HUNGER has the chops to be the next great Canadian (Prairie) novel. This multi-generational novel is set in early 20th-century Saskatchewan and tells the story of Ukrainian immigrants. It is literary, thematically powerful, and perhaps best of all, a compelling, page-turning mystery. (Jane Baird Warren, Goodreads)

 “Raw and haunting, The Taste of Hunger takes the reader on a tumultuous journey from Ukraine through three generations of women on the Canadian prairies. Passionate and fiercely independent, each woman faces staggering obstacles as she struggles to define her life and find love on her own terms, burying secrets along the way. But not all secrets remain hidden, and when the darkest of all is unearthed—a secret that implicates all three generations—one woman and her husband are forced together to confront it in an alarming way. Beautifully written, tough, tender and unrelentingly human, this is a story that cannot be forgotten.” – Joan Crate, author of Black Apple

www.michelemooreveldhoen.com

[michelemoore]

Published again October 28, 2022

Did You Haunt Halloween With Your Alter Ego?

Takhuk, October 31, 2017

Michele Moore Veldhoen

 Does your alter ego come out on Halloween? Tonight, the streets will be filled with thousands of superheroes, magicians, princesses, and ghosts, the alter egos of thousands of children. Had I gone pubbing on the weekend, I know I would have seen hundreds of young women in sexy female superhero costumes and their conscientious objectors – young women whose bodies are buried under huge constructs that look like pieces of fruit, or sandwiches. Meanwhile, the guys are all in togas or tights. Eventually, as older adults, if we’re well adjusted, we have fused with our alter egos and so at private house parties costumes range from Cleopatra and Anthony to eggs and bacon. Note I place the female in the first position because men at this age often just go along with whatever their wife/partner desires. A happy wife is a happy life.

Do you remember your childhood costumes? I only had one. Every Halloween when I was a kid I dressed up as a gypsy. I went into my mother’s closet and put on something long and black to wear over my pants, selected my favourite colourful scarves, one to tie around my waist to keep the black piece in place, and one to wrap around my head the way I thought gypsies did. I draped strands and strands of fake pearls and chains around my neck. And then, with my mother’s makeup, which I was allowed to use on just this one night of the year, I would carefully paint my face in the manner I imagined gypsies did, watching in the mirror with fascination as I morphed into a mysterious female whom even I could not describe. A gypsy yes, but with shades of the t.v. vampire Lily Munster, because I liked her eyebrows and her outfit, and knowledge of the danger that lurked in my alter ego. I saw that knowledge reflected in my eyes. I acquired it from the soap opera Dark Shadows, where I learned about real vampires. I knew Lily wasn’t a real vampire because she never bit anyone.

The process of transforming myself from an 8, 9, 10 year old girl into this hybrid earthly and otherworldly being was mostly internal and deeply satisfying. Present with my siblings in my physical disguise but deliciously alone within my alter ego, on Halloween night I escaped to a different universe where I was absolutely invincible, endowed with powers beyond my own imagination. I didn’t explain this to anyone, I just slipped into this mystical place, spellbound.

Are the Halloween costumes we choose to wear, as children, as adults, and as parents dressing our children, clues to who we are or who we secretly desire to be? If so, a woman in Calgary this Halloween secretly wants to be chicken cordon blu, because she plans to wear a blue cord around her neck from which will dangle a rubber chicken. And someone else wants to be a blind date. The fruit, that is. When parents choose their child’s costume it’s usually something cute, often in the baby animal category. We want to keep our children innocent as long as possible.

As an adult I dressed up for Halloween when my children were young.  As a witch. I made myself up as a witch because to me, Halloween is supposed to be spooky, scary, and mysterious. But I also really liked dressing up like a witch. A hint of that invincible, powerful childhood creation came over me as I escorted my children to the party, and I reveled in it as only an adult can – delighted with the awareness that I was experiencing a little piece of my childhood, that I was secretly indulging my alter ego.

My daughter was three the first time she dressed up for Halloween. Naturally, I asked her if she wanted to be a gypsy, or a witch. She said no, what else have you got? Well, I said, what about dressing up like a man? I suggested a man because I wasn’t one for buying, or sewing costumes and the only other thing I could think of was her older brother’s little suit that I had kept because it was so cute.

She liked this idea. I suppose, with two older brothers, she wanted to find out what it felt like to be male. So, we got out the miniature tweed jacket and black dress pants, the white collared shirt, the suspenders, and even, if I remember right, the dress shoes. With a makeup pencil we thickened and darkened her eyebrows and drew on a bushy mustache. But it wasn’t until we tucked her long blonde hair under a grey tweed poor-boy cap that she was truly transformed, completely, into a miniature man, reminiscent of Andy Capp. Andy Capp was a British cartoon character who liked to think of himself as debonair in his tweed jacket and cap, but was actually a lazy boozer who, when he got his hands on some money, spent it at the races or the pub.

One would not expect a three year old child to have a clue about the Andy Capp’s of the world, but something came over my daughter when her outfit was complete. She looked at herself in the mirror and immediately connected to the character. She hooked her fingers around the suspenders and walked down the hall casually kicking out her legs sideways, as if she had just cashed in at the race track. When she arrived at the DeWinton Hall for the annual community Halloween party, her adoption of this persona was so convincing that as she strolled through the hall, people stood back laughing and shaking their heads in astonishment. I had deliberately stayed well behind to see if anyone would recognize her. No one did. She had become a different person. Was this her own alter ego, I wondered?

But the next year she wanted to be a ballerina. And each year after that she was a princess. As an adult I don’t think she ever dressed as chicken cordon blu, but I have little doubt that she continued to explore her alter ego.

Halloween helps children get comfortable with the unknown, and with their own fear, and sweetens the learning with obscene quantities of candy. But it also allows them, and sometimes us, to explore alter egos, or secret, or not so secret fantasies. This, to me, is the best part of Halloween.

Do you remember your alter ego?

www.thetreeswallow.com

[michelemoore]

Takhuk

September, 2022

Michele Moore-V

ARE YOU EVOLVING DURING THIS WORKER SHORTAGE?

Have you tried to get a deck built lately? Or have some landscaping done? Have you had a flight cancelled due to lack of a crew to operate the plane? Even if you haven’t, no doubt you know about the deep gaps that have opened in our workforce. Evidence of this fact is a daily reality. Can’t find a contractor. Don’t dare take a flight, who knows if you’ll get back. Have to wait months for that new (fill in the blank) that you ordered. I couldn’t get any Dijon mustard at Superstore recently because, I thought at the time, there was no one to stock the shelves. Actually, it was because there is currently a shortage of mustard. Yep. (Here’s the article if you’re interested? https://www.cbc.ca/news/business/mustard-shortage-cbc-1.6531495). But we’ve all seen dark empty shelves at the grocery store and it’s not all due to brown mustard seed crop failures or supply chain issues.

Oh well. Does any of this really matter? No. Here in Canada, we still enjoy an embarrassing degree of food abundance and overall quality of life. We have become accustomed to having everything we want, when we want, and how we want it. Getting a dose of deprivation lite serves to remind us of all that we enjoy.

There are more serious issues though. We can’t be sure our aged parents are being regularly bathed in their nursing homes. And there’s no guarantee all our kids will have a school bus driver every day this school year, a problem that can cause severe difficulties for parents. And I know several people looking for a family doctor. Or even emergency care sometimes.These things do matter.

I can only guess where the bus drivers have all gone, (on a road trip perhaps?) but we know what’s happened to health care workers. Exhausted and burned out, they can’t save anyone until they save themselves. Also, at least here in Alberta, they’ve been chronically neglected, insulted and inexcusably disrespected by government (and then there were the protesters hanging around hospitals!) Long before the pandemic doctors and nurses were leaving the province because of the dreadful treatment they got from their employer, the Government of Alberta.

But the landscapers, the shelf stockers, the flight crews. Where art thou, vital life partners?

Well, according to a variety of news reports, the Covid shutdowns caused thousands of eureka moments for people unhappy in their pre-Covid jobs. And so, these people decided to listen to their heart. Some launched their own business, some went back to school for training in entirely new fields, some simply found a new and completely different job.

News reporters have found in their interviews that, in the aggregate, these ‘missing workers’ have made the move for a variety of reasons. Gaining more control over their lives, reducing stress, and escaping verbal and emotional abuse, for example. Some of these people say the move has given them more employment flexibility or money. Others report making less money but the trade-off has been higher life satisfaction; they are much happier due to the benefits of self-employment or simply the relief from chronic stress.

I’ve read of a teacher who has gone into car sales. Nurses who are now yoga teachers. A flight attendant who has become a political advocate.(Not sure that one will reduce stress but this person reported that she was passionate about advocating for working people whose economic and psychological well-being is being ignored.)

For so many, this release from a job or career that wasn’t truly satisfying, and subsequent life-affirming discovery of work that was better aligned with their values and needs, was the silver lining of the Covid shutdowns.

This wave of people abandoning old careers and jobs for new horizons helps explain some of the gaps in our workforce, but not all of of them. There is another wave of people who simply stopped working completely. Apparently, plenty of Canadians in the ‘around 60’ age category decided to ‘retire’ a few years earlier than they initially intended.

I am one of those. I stopped working in May of this year. I was completely surprised to discover around Christmas 2021 that I really needed to stop. For years I taught with energy and passion. I was deeply committed to supporting adult learners committed to improving their lives. When the pandemic hit, I, like thousands of others, went through a dizzying course of learning to be able to teach effectively on-line. Learning platforms and software programs. Teams. Zoom. Adobe Connect. Learnspace. Bongo.  And then there was new methodology, and curriculum adaptation and brand new curriculum designed exclusively for online delivery. All this learning was stressful but exhilarating; I have always thrived on steep learning curves. Which is why I was so surprised to discover two years into the pandemic that I was experiencing symptoms of burn-out. Fatigue was the biggest, but also an unsettling drop in motivation. Having experienced full burnout in the past, I knew the next thing would be brain failure. Complete burnout causes our brains to malfunction. In other words, we can’t think straight. It’s an awful experience.

I did not want to get there. And, I did not want to shortchange my students. So, I ‘retired’ early. (I am only using the word ‘retired’ for the purposes of this article. I am adopting my friend John’s word – those of us who have ‘retired’ are actually ‘evolving’.)

Of course I felt immediate relief and am grateful I have been able to enjoy this pressure free summer and autumn. I knew I would appreciate the rest but I feared I would, by now, regret my decision. I was sure I would miss my work. But that, at least so far, has not happened. My mental energy is returning but instead of imagining myself back in the classroom I find myself wrestling with the question of how I can again contribute to the functioning of our society in a way that would not involve that level of responsibility.

I am only asking myself this because employers everywhere are begging for people to come on board. Existing crews in what seems like every area of employment are working hard and often under a great deal of pressure due to the lack of a full team. So I wonder, do I need to find a way to pitch in? Perhaps I could stock shelves a few hours a week? Hmmm, not sure Superstore is looking to hire a grandmother to stock shelves. The very thought of driving a school bus on icy winter roads makes me shiver and shudder, but maybe I could volunteer in a nursing home? No no no, I can’t do that. My breath gets short and I constantly eye the nearest exit whenever I’m in any kind of medically focused environment. Landscaping is out, the season is drawing to a close, and I can forget any kind of construction work. My level of competency with hand tools is comparable to Mr. Bean’s. Plus anything larger than a hammer terrifies me, especially if it’s run by a motor.

The truth is, once the cool weather returns I want only to focus on writing and I do not want any other ‘work’ to distract me. Writing these past few years has been extremely difficult. I want to give all my time and attention to my craft and I hear myself saying, ‘it’s about time’. While I know writers make valuable contributions to society, still, I do ask myself, need I do more?

In case you are wondering, this is not about guilt. One of the wonders of age is the gaining of wisdom which corresponds with the evaporation of that tiresome feeling!

This idea of ‘should I be contributing more’ is coming from my sense of community. But as I write and think about it, I am reminded there are many essential but often invisible ways in which each of us contribute to our ‘hoods, our communities. An essential example is simply being a part of that network that involves parenting, grand-parenting, grand-aunting and grand-uncling and all the other ‘granding’ that creates that village every child needs. We’re also keeping the wheels on the bus when we make dinner AND do the dishes so our spouse/partner can fill some other role that also helps keep things rolling. This is all a form of work that is rarely recognized but there are few of us that have not performed this kind of work. As well, we are all benefitting in some way from the work of the thousands of people who belong to Alberta’s volunteer network, the Gorilla Glue of our society.

And then we have those who cheer up grumpy neighbours or share garden produce. As a beneficiary of both, I want to thank each and every one that does that!

This reflection has been very useful. I have decided to listen to my inner voice, focus on writing and selected invisible and volunteer work. Therefore, I declare myself unfit for the kind of jobs where our employee gaps exist.

Besides, there is a tremendously positive outcome to this ‘worker shortage’. Employers like the cleaning company in this article - https://globalnews.ca/news/8622327/alberta-employees-living-wage/, are embracing the living wage ethos, which has the potential to be one of the greatest changes to our economic model that we have seen in decades. After years of stagnant wages and the funneling of  corporate profits to a thinner and thinner layer of society, employers are being forced toward a fairer sharing of revenues, (which was the norm during the halcyon era post-WW II) thereby recognizing the VALUE of their employees. Higher pay, better incentives, more security and more respect for workers may be the shiniest of all silver linings to be delivered from the Covid pandemic. I took the picture above in Squamish, B.C. in June. Read the fine print. Not only is Save-On Foods offering full-time hours, a decent hourly wage and a signing bonus, they are also offering to fund education. Finding this noticeboard while picking up some bananas was a huge boost to my sense of optimism for the direction we are going post-pandemic, and the choice I have made to ‘evolve’. Thanks for that oh so motivating word John!

Cheers to you and to all things pumpkin spice in the upcoming season of overeating.

www.michelemooreveldhoen.com

[michelemoore]

Takhuk

August, 2022

Michele Moore V

Dear Danielle Smith….. (Warning: This offering involves politics)

The Oxford Dictionary’s definition of ‘propaganda’:

information, especially of a biased or misleading nature, used to promote or publicize a particular political cause or point of view.

The non-political offering I had prepared for August was more or less ready to go today, but then I got a kick in the head from something I read about Danielle Smith which produced a shout inside said head: “CALL HER OUT!”

I’m writing of the Danielle Smith who is currently vying to be the next leader of Alberta’s United Conservative Party. Which I am only paying a sliver of attention to because, despite the appalling behavior of so many of the party’s elected members, the UCP will still be a serious contender in the next provincial election.

 Here is the headline of one of Danielle Smith’s recent social media messages:

“Justin Trudeau seriously hiring Climate Change Enforcement Officers?”

The job ad is for an Enforcement Officer – Environmental (Pollution).” Here is the ad – which she actually included a link to in her post. https://ca.indeed.com/cmp/Environment-and-Climate-Change-Canada/jobs?jk=2368c0fde8329524&start=0&clearPrefilter=1

Danielle is using the tools of a full-blown propagandist and, after that kick in the head, I felt compelled to call her out.

I’m guessing Danielle knows that by including a link to the ad in her post, people will assume she has evidence and that her claim of a new government role called ‘Climate Change Enforcement Officer’ is legitimate – otherwise why would she include the link? Therefore, people won’t bother looking at the ad. I wonder: is Danielle a student of psychology? Understanding human psychology is a key factor in producing effective propaganda.

Danielle also knows that stoking anger is a terrific (the word ‘terrific’ comes from ‘terrible’ which comes from ‘terror’) way to get people out to listen to her at her public meetings and online. People need to blow off steam and she will be our whistle.

Danielle’s post is classic propaganda. See definition above. The ‘information’ she offered her followers is misleading and is being used to promote her particular political cause and point of view.

Calgary’s ‘Tell It Like It Is’ political scientist Duane Bratt is not afraid to name this latest piece of Danielle’s propaganda: ‘it’s a mixture of a whole bunch of lies’. The ad includes a typical propaganda style picture of a uniformed officer with perks of the job, ‘handcuffs’, ‘baton’, ‘weapons’ ticked off. If you read the job ad, you will learn that due to the personal security risk environmental officers face in enforcing the law, they must be equipped similar to a police officer. These guys aren’t trying to stop litterbugs, after all. They are actually trained to collect evidence and work with the RCMP to address environmental crimes. If you don’t think this can be dangerous, just ask a By-Law Enforcement Officer who is trying to get your neighbor to clean up all the polluting junk laying in their yard, or stop your neighbour’s dogs from barking all night long. Thank you to all By-Law Enforcement Officers who are doing their best.

Danielle Smith’s propagandized SM post also references her proposed ‘Alberta Sovereignty Act’. Duane Bratt calls this proposal a call for separation. Here is the CTV article with the interview with Mr. Bratt: https://calgary.ctvnews.ca/ucp-leadership-hopeful-danielle-smith-s-climate-cops-claim-called-misinformation-dangerous-1.6047766

For thousands of years politicians have been manipulating the truth, telling outright lies, and using people’s fear and anxiety for their own ends. We currently see across the globe some spectacular examples of these propagandists – Trump in the U.S., Putin in Russia, Bolsonaro in Brazil. These specimens are operating at the level Hitler and his team did in their build up to WW II in that there is absolutely nothing they will not do, no lie they will not tell, to serve their own purposes and egos. We all know what Putin is doing right now. There are many reasons why he is getting away with this, but the foundation of those reasons is his decades long propaganda campaign that served to create blind obedience in the Russian population. In the U.S., the only thing holding Trump back from behavior worse than the attack on the U.S. Capital is a lot of brave and determined Americans and a political structure that (I hope) will take longer to tear down than Trump and his buddies have years left to terrorize his country.

The Canadian version of propagandizing politicians don’t frighten me like those mentioned above. But they certainly make me angry. Fortunately, I have learned to channel my anger and so this is the extent of it:

Danielle, if you want to prove to Albertans that you have their best interests at heart, please stop tweeting, go home, and study some history. That is, history that has been written for the purposes of getting as close to truth as possible. If you do that, you will discover that politicians that use propaganda and anger to progress their careers usually end up with short ones. Or long ones that end badly and certainly are not remembered fondly. Then perhaps listen to some inspiring music and watch videos of laughing babies and kittens and the Alberta Rocky Mountains and things that produce a sense of joy, wonder, peace, and love. Because that’s what we need more of right now. Canada, and the world, does not need any more anger or overblown egos in our political arena.

Yes, there are times when anger is a useful emotion that, when controlled and applied to a worthy cause, can solve problems and improve the world. But, as Aristotle said,

 Anybody can become angry - that is easy, but to be angry with the right person and to the right degree and at the right time and for the right purpose, and in the right way - that is not within everybody's power and is not easy.

www.michelemooreveldhoen.com

photo courtesy of Kyle Glenn / Unsplash

[michelemoore]

Takhuk

July, 2022

Michele Moore V

Will this Papal Apology Change the Future?

Apologies cannot change the past, but they can change the future.

The prime spiritual leader of the Catholic Church, Pope Francis, is in Canada this week.

He has come to apologize to the indigenous people of Canada.  

He is apologizing, for a second time, for the horrors perpetrated by many members of the Catholic clergy against indigenous children who attended residential schools.

The first church run Indian Residential School began operating in 1831. By the 1880’s, the Canadian government was funding the schools.

The last school to close did so in 1996, despite the following acknowledgement, made in 1914, by the government official then responsible for overseeing the system:

“It is quite within the mark to say that fifty per cent of the children who passed through these schools did not live to benefit from the education which they had received therein." 

This official was reviewing children’s deaths related to tuberculosis. He was not concerned with spiritual deaths.

Spiritual death can occur in any child or adult who is forced to leave their family and denied recognition of their language and traditional culture. This is what happened to the children forced into residential schools. Many of the children were also abused. Physically, sexually, emotionally, mentally.

When I was 12, I moved to a community that had one of these schools. It was the mid 1970’s, the school was still operating. From the moment I saw the building, I felt a powerful disturbance. I felt something about the school was terribly wrong.

The sense of wrongness I experienced never left me. Decades later I learned this school was notorious for the crimes that were committed against the children inside. So much so that eventually charges were laid and the abusers were convicted and jailed.

I was only a bystander, not a victim. Yet I felt a powerful disturbance around that school.

Indigenous people speak of, and mourn, the spirits of the children.

From 2008-2015, survivors of these schools were provided safe havens where they were finally able to share the details of their ordeals. Their oral testimonies were given before others, officials and non-officials, who came to bear witness. To bear witness in this context is to hear and see another’s experience. This validates the speaker’s experience. They no longer suffer alone when another is willing to listen, to look. Sharing in this way lightens the burden on the sufferer. Helps to heal.

This safe haven was created by the Truth and Reconciliation Commission that was formed following Prime Minister Stephen Harper’s apology in June, 2008.

Prime Minister Harper apologized for the Canadian government’s role in the residential school system, which had mandated that indigenous children must attend them.

Since Prime Minister Harper’s apology, indigenous people have been sharing their experiences with each other and with non-indigenous Canadians. Through literature, music, art, and discussion. Some of this work is being done in native languages.

Through libraries, through sales of music, art, and books, through attending powwows and presentations, Canadians are listening and learning. Acknowledging.  Bearing witness.

Did Harper’s apology change the future?

Will the Pope’s apology change the future?

Individuals bearing witness cannot do the work of social movements, but they can break a corrosive and demoralizing silence. Ellen Willis

www.michelemooreveldhoen.com

Photo - Hillary Halliwell, Pexels.com

[michelemoore]

Takhuk

Michele Moore V

June, 2022

OCEAN AND FOREST, HIGHWAYS AND HUMANS: B.C.’S DIVERSITY ALWAYS DELIVERS!

Hi and happy First Day of Summer! Good to be back here, hope you and your gardens have been soaking up the rain. With the great downpour we got last week, did you see many worms come up for air? Speaking of worms, I just read on the Good News Network that Australian scientists at the University of Queensland have discovered a worm that likes to eat polystyrene. They discovered this while researching methods for recycling plastic. If this means earthly creatures are evolving to consume plastics, please, at least let it taste like chocolate! 

I missed this and many other news stories because I unplugged while travelling in beautiful British Columbia for a few weeks visiting family and a lot of new and interesting places. Boston Bar, for example, which is a village in the Fraser Canyon on the old Highway 1 south of Kamloops. Boston Bar is one of those little rough and ready places that sprung up during one of the 19th century’s gold rushes and continues to exist thanks to the forestry industry. We passed Lytton on the way there. Lytton is the town that was completely burned down in last year’s terrible fires. In order to discourage travelers from stopping on the highway to gawk at the devastated town, a long tarped fence is being installed along the stretch of highway that passes by. A visual barrier to avoid traffic jams typically caused by wildlife viewing, not devastation viewing. After that painful sight, our accommodations at Boston Bar’s Old Towne Inne Chuckwagon Bar and Grill seemed positively luxurious.

Boston Bar followed Revelstoke and Kamloops and was our third and last night in the interior before boarding a B.C. ferry to get onto Vancouver Island where we spent some time with my father before heading to the far north end of the island for the first time. Have you ever been to Port McNeill, Port Hardy, or Cape Scott Provincial Park? The region is remote and wild and well worth visiting. If you go, I highly recommend the Cluxewe (Clook-see-we) Resort near Port McNeill, which is a campground and a series of cabins set right on the shore of Broughton Strait on the traditional lands of the Kwakiutl people, who own and operate the facility. The cabin we rented had the perfect covered deck from which to watch marine life and the resident bald eagles that snatch fish from the water at low tide. Abundant pickings means these eagles can just perch on a boulder and when they’re ready to eat, jump down into the shallow water a few inches below them, snatch a fish in their talons, then wing bat themselves back up on to the boulder, and dig in. Along with this rather anti-climatic eagle performance just metres away, imagine the mystical call of loons in the early morning fog within a silent calm only vast tall forests and sheltered waters can provide. Undoubtedly, Cluxewe Resort is an ideal destination for a retreat, if you’re looking for one.

We had gone to the north end of Vancouver Island because we wanted to get a glimpse of the nature of the area, both in terms of landscape and culture. Only a handful of towns and villages can be found; the largest being Port Hardy, with a human population of around four thousand.

The area is popular with hunters and fishers, who are catered to in pubs and restaurants with names like The Sporty Bar and Grill and Sportsman’s Steak and Pizza House. We were looking to eat seafood but burgers, steaks, pizza and pasta dominate the menus, which, other than the standard fish and chips, barely features any fish or seafood at all. We supposed that locals eating out would have their own catch in their fridges and freezers, as would visiting fishers, and hunters, well, they likely preferred meat meals along with perhaps an appetizer of bam bam shrimp. So there we were, looking for dinners of locally harvested fresh clams, mussels, and halibut, ordering burgers and fish and chips. And bam bam shrimp, of course.

Before ordering this shrimp at a great place in Port McNeill called Gus’s Pub, I wanted to assure myself the shrimp was from B.C. waters. (Since ordering a steak years ago at a K-Country restaurant and then finding out it was from Australia, if the menu doesn’t say ‘local’, I ask.) Here is how my conversation went with the young lady serving us:

“Hi. Is the shrimp in your bam bam shrimp local?”

“No, sorry, it’s not.”

“Oh. Where’s it from?”

“Another bay around the corner.”

This young lady was very proud of her Port McNeill roots and community, so I thought her sense of ‘local’ might be just a ‘local’ thing. But no. In restaurants in Comox, where we spent a day and night on our way up, and later in our trip over on the Sunshine Coast, it was the same thing. To Canada’s west coasters, it seems when you ask if the fish is local, they really do take you to mean right out of the waters in front of you. The bam bam shrimp was delicious, by the way.

To dive into the grandness of the natural landscape, we went into Cape Scott Provincial Park, which covers the entire north tip of the island. Accessing this park by land is only possible via an unpaved logging road, which, we understood, can at times be treacherous. We were fortunate that the logging road had recently been graded and was in decent enough shape for most cars going no more than 50-60 km hour. The drive into the trailhead therefore took a couple of hours which for some of you I know would drive you crazy, but consider that the ride takes you through a forest that has been continuously logged for at least a century, and is still a forest. The story of the logging is told with signage posted along the road that tells you when that particular patch of the forest had last been logged and reforested. A drive through this forest demonstrates the sustainability of forestry. If only in the early days of the industry there was an appreciation for the value of the old growth stands. (If only there was more appreciation for it today!)

It is one of those ironies of life that through the clearing of this old growth that those of us without boats are able to enter Cape Scott Provincial Park and walk into San Josef Bay. San Josef Bay is a spectacular place, just be sure to advise yourself of the tides so you can really appreciate the expanse of it. At low tide sea stacks rise from the powder soft sand, sheltering tidal pools in which you can observe anemones, sea stars, and crabs hanging on until the waves return, waves you can wade through on this flat beach big and broad as the prairie. Eat your lunch and watch the tide roll in from a seat on a giant old cedar log at the edge of the rainforest. Inhale the air, it’s better than any saline nasal rinse. Touch your face. Your skin will feel soft as velvet. Then take one more bare foot walk across the sand to the edges of the approaching sea before walking back to your car through the forest. Give yourself plenty of time to hug a few more mammoth cedars and look into the crystal clear pools of water under the moss covered fallen trees and ferns where frogs have deposited humongous egg-filled transparent sacs of jelly. This sight is more interesting than you might be imagining! The walk is flat and takes less than an hour, but give yourself two for all the pictures you will take of statuesque trees, psychedelic looking mushrooms, and those globs of frog eggs. And all the different shades of green. The temperate rainforest of BC’s coast is truly a unique and special place.

After that escape to an alternate reality, we boarded another ferry back to the mainland and settled into an Air B&B in Gibsons on B.C.’s own Sunshine Coast. Yes, that’s the same Gibsons of Canada’s old claim to fame, that show called Gibsons Landing, which the town doesn’t need to sell itself anymore, it’s got enough of its own 21st century vibe. The small towns and tiny villages all have their own appeal on the whole of the Sunshine Coast which is the region of west facing coastline along the Georgia Strait north of the City of Vancouver and across the water from Vancouver Island. The Georgia Strait is in the Salish Sea. Isn’t that a beautiful name? Try saying it out loud. Salish Sea. Don’t the words sound as beautiful as they look?

The name befits the region, which is a stunning place of lakes and deep reaching ocean inlets that travel far inland under a thick canopy of rainforest. It is a magical place in which you can easily go beachcombing one hour, then forest bathing the next, and back to the beach again to contemplate the hazy horizon, look for sea creatures, and watch birds hunting for snacks before finding your own at a nearby village bakery and coffee shop. The transition zone from beach to forest in most of this region is seamless, free from hotels, shops, and condos. Villages are tucked into the trees or around a harbour in a way that fits within the landscape. In other words, the landscape has not been stripped of its natural features to make room for buildings. The buildings have been fitted to the natural surroundings.

I suspect this kind of low impact development exists on the Sunshine Coast for two reasons. First, thanks to the igneous nature (granite) of the Coastal Mountains that tower immediately above this place like mama bears on guard, the Sunshine Coast is hard to access. You can only get there by B.C. Ferries, private boat or float plane. This reality, combined with the fact that a significant proportion of the residents of the Sunshine Coast are either old hippies, the descendants of old hippies, or new age hippies, have added up to a less than welcoming place for developers. There may be a third factor at play – the Sunshine Coast also has its share of uber wealthy individuals who, like the aforementioned hippies, have chosen the region as a retreat from the intensity of more highly developed areas. I love the idea of the hippy living in the moss and vine covered broken down camper van having some symbiosis going on with the guy living in his own version of an eagle aerie on the cliff overlooking a harbour.

Five days immersed in this laid back environment, tripping from village to village for the local offerings in bakery cafés, art galleries, and great seafood! - shout out especially to Smitty’s Oyster Bar in Gibsons where we feasted on delicious local mussels, oysters, and halibut - following inlets up into hidden harbours, waterfalls, and trails, finding our way through another spectacular forest to Skookumchuk Narrows to sit in the sun on sloping mounds of stone watching the deadly whirlpools that come with high tide, well, it was soooo relaxing and otherworld, we did not want to leave.

But we did leave, back on the ferry to Horseshoe Bay and up the Sea to Sky Highway to Whistler, stunning drive! Not sure what all the fuss about Whistler is – I can say there is too much cement in that village for a hot day! Yet despite the warmth the mountains were still so snowed in hiking was not an option and so we continued northeast on this highway (#99) which climbs and descends, twists and turns through a dramatic landscape of steep rock plated mountains and white water rivers until you pop out onto a high plateau of semi-desert in Lillooet, which is a town on the west shore of the Fraser River about 100 miles west of Kamloops. We stayed the night at the Reynolds Hotel – if you’re going through there, make sure to have a burger in their restaurant, but you must order the 8 ouncer to get the homemade patty which was outstanding!

Lillooet is an important centre of indigenous occupation and culture dating back many thousands of years, but with the arrival of Europeans it also acquired the wild west story of the gold rush era of the mid to late 1800’s. As well, the area is known for its incredibly beautiful jade, huge pieces of which are on display in front of the town’s museum. Unfortunately, the jade shop was closed.  

We were at the museum when the town’s first Pride parade passed by, a one horse event, literally, but not lacking in enthusiasm from the participants who were primarily the local high school students. The event  was, we were told, initiated by them and meant to express their desire to embrace human diversity in general.

Here’s to embracing diversity. Diversity in people, and places. After Lillooet, we embraced Salmon Arm for a night, then Golden, both wonderful towns with so much to offer, Salmon Arm’s situation on the Shuswap Lake and Golden nestled in the heart and soul of the Rocky Mountains within easy reach of Glacier, Yoho and Banff National Parks. Love these places!

And love all the people and places here at home. Happy Summer!

www.michelemooreveldhoen.com

[michelemoore]

Takhuk

April, 2022

Michele Moore V

 DID YOU HEAR? BIRDS AREN’T REAL!

One of the silliest conspiracy theories of recent years to hit the headlines claims that birds aren’t real. The theory is that beginning decades ago, the CIA hatched and executed a plan to annihilate the entire bird population in the United States and launch in their place millions of fake birds fitted with surveillance cameras. That’s right folks, according to this theory, when you are in the United States, those chirping singing creatures sitting on the roof of your hotel are actually mechanical spying devices.

The young American man responsible for this farce, Peter McIndoe, says he had no idea that his random act of resistance toward a group of interlopers at a Women’s March would lead to the full blown movement Birds Aren’t Real has become. He was a university psychology student in 2017 when Donald Trump was elected. Millions of women in the United States and around the world were protesting. From his window he was watching the progression of a Women’s March and saw counter-protesters who he described as ‘older, bigger white men’. He felt they were ‘aggravators’ who ‘had no business being there’. He also told The Guardian, (from where I am drawing these quotes, (https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2022/apr/14/the-lunacy-is-getting-more-intense-how-birds-arent-real-took-on-the-conspiracy-theorists) that ‘it felt like chaos, because the world felt like chaos’.

 He was moved to join the protest. He sat down to write something on a placard that would have nothing to do with what was going on in the streets outside his window. He made a sign that said, ‘BIRDS AREN’T REAL’. He went out and stood amongst the counter-protesters holding up his sign. When the men began to ask him what his sign meant, he improvised, producing a tall tale about a failed movement originally started 50 years earlier to save birds. The movement had failed because the ‘deep state’ killed all the birds and replaced them with surveillance drones in the shape of birds. Americans were being spied on by these fake birds!

Naturally, someone in the mix filmed him talking about these spying bird drones. And naturally, the video was put on Facebook. Before long, McIndoe was giving interviews to ‘shock-jock’ radio hosts, the kinds of hosts listened to by conspiracy theory believers. Soon, he was welcomed as an equal by that flock of people who follow and belong to groups that reckon the government is implanting citizens with microchips and controlling society with bioweapons.

Nevertheless, at some point it became evident to believers of the Birds Aren’t Real story that the birds around them were in fact, real. (I wonder, was this revelation delivered in the form of droppings on car hoods and heads?) However, instead of recognizing the story as the elaborate joke it really was, those in the grip of the conspiracy world now “think Birds Aren’t Real is a CIA psych-op. They think that we are the CIA, we’re put out there as a weapon against conspiracy theorists.”

There are many levels of beauty in this story. Beginning with a young man who felt the need to simply lend support to the women who were marching in protest to the election of a depraved and evidently criminal man to the presidency of the United States. As a student of psychology, McIndoe perhaps knew intuitively he could disrupt the counter-protesters best by distracting them, rather than challenging them. The idea that came to him, to state ‘birds aren’t real’ was spontaneous.

Free from pre-conceptions and planning, spontaneity has a certain purity from which can flow cohesion and connection. The cascade of events that followed McIndoe’s spontaneous action led to the birth of a delightful game now being played across the United States, primarily by Gen Z. (Gen Z denotes those people born from the late 1990’s into the early 2010’s.) Gen Z ‘got’ McIndoe’s satire from the very beginning. They were never fooled. They saw an opportunity to harmlessly make fun of conspiracy theorists while connecting with their peers through a game characterized by the signature irreverence of youth.  You can read about this hilarious game on the website: https://birdsarentreal.com, where McIndoe is also now selling Birds Aren’t Real t-shirts. The t-shirts may be construed as a simple example of economic opportunism, and/or an effective and suitable way to sustain an effort to expose and deconstruct the power and influence of the conspiracy theories that are actually harming American society today.

The idea that all the birds flying around in the United States are mechanical spying drones is absurd. The  beauty in this is due to the redemptive nature of absurdity. The Birds Aren’t Real ‘movement’ provides relief to a generation burdened by the exhausting persistence of propaganda flooding the airwaves thanks to fiction peddlers such as Fox ‘News’ and others like them. It is hard to fathom how much energy people of Gen Z have had to expend sorting out truth from fiction. Birds Aren’t Real gives them a constructive and affirming conduit for expressing their…scorn?...indifference? Sooner or later, every generation learns that there are adults in the world who are willing to lie in pursuit of power and wealth. With Birds Aren’t Real, Gen Z is demonstrating that they have certainly got this lesson down. A question follows: will those parents who missed the lesson learn from their kids?

McIndoe says he came from a family and community that was deeply fundamental and drew all their views from the church. (I do not wish to bash ‘church’. McIndoe said the same in his interview with the Guardian.) He says he was not exposed to other ideas because he was home-schooled and “barred from a lot of traditional media”. While for centuries religious and political organizations have been using propaganda to maintain control over populations, the onset of modern communications, particularly the internet, has allowed this tactic to be taken to stratospheric degrees. There are now so many victims of Fox News and the like that there are still millions of Americans (around one third of the population) who really do believe their last election was ‘stolen’.

Birds Aren’t Real is a satire that flamboyantly parrots the ways in which bad actors use half-truths to capitalize on people’s fear and sow distrust, confusion, and chaos. Yes, the CIA has spied on Americans. Yes, ‘bad’ people can be found in government. So then, why isn’t it possible that government has replaced all the real birds in American skies with fake spying ones? This line of thinking, bolstered by a backstory (that you can read on the website) that explains enough of the questions that might be asked (for example, what about birds that migrate?) led untold numbers of people down the rabbit hole. Once there, people feel invested in the theory. Once people feel invested in a theory, it can be very hard to back up and take a more critical look at it. Thus: Right, birds are actually real, but the theory itself is a CIA psych-op.

Society needs more of McIndoe’s humorous approach to exposing the function and effectiveness of dangerous conspiracy theories and propaganda. So, everyone, spread the word, please, birds aren’t real!

www.michelemooreveldhoen.com

Photo: ahmed badawy/unsplash.com

[michelemoore]

Takhuk

March, 2022

Michele Moore V

DOUKHOBOR BORSCHT: AS SATISFYING AS A GOOD ALBERTA STEAK. SERIOUSLY.

Imagine a bowl of soup that first comes to you with the scent of creamy potatoes immersed in butter, onion and dill. Sort of like a warm version of a freshly made potato salad, but as soon as you recognize that comfort laden memory, you detect overtones of tomato soup, and at the same moment you notice the tomato you are immersed in a culinary explosion of scent unknown to you until now and you definitely want to taste it, like now!

I am describing the scent of the best soup in the entire world. Doukhobor borscht.

This is not a casual claim. I have enjoyed bowls and bowls of pho, of chowder, of minestrone. I have thanked many cooks for delicious tom yum, wonton, and ramen, and of course, chicken noodle. Every version of Ukrainian beet borscht has been pure pleasure. Gazpacho, laksa, miso, bisque, gumbo, calde de pollo…..All delicious and absolutely worthy of consumption on a regular basis. Yet. None quite hit the level of satisfaction that comes after indulging in a steaming bowl of genuine Doukhobor borscht. In fact, Doukhobor borscht is a vegetarian soup that even hardcore meat eaters like my own father will devour. It is as filling, as rich, and as satisfying as a good Alberta steak. Seriously.

The secret of Doukhobor borscht that puts it in its own category of scrumptiousness is the quantity, and way of using, two of its key ingredients:

Butter. Cream.

Butter and cream. The king and queen of all that is good in the kitchen. Imagine cream of mushroom, tomato, or asparagus soup without cream. Without that little dollop of butter in your bowl. Imagine mashed potatoes without either! Imagine toast without butter! And I won’t even start on desserts.

It is not only the quantity of butter and cream that goes into a pot of Doukhobor borscht that sets it apart, but also the way in which it is added to the soup. Read on to learn more.

Doukhobor borscht is relatively unknown in Alberta, where the beautiful jewel purply red silky smooth delicious Ukrainian borscht has become a go to for cooks and chefs across the province in fall when the beet harvest is in. But in B.C.’s southern interior, from Creston to Castlegar to Grand Forks, where many Doukhobors from Russia settled in the early 1900’s, you will find Doukhobor borscht on many restaurant menus year round. In Alberta, I have only once seen Doukhobor borscht on a restaurant menu, and it was right here in Calgary.

It was the soup of the day in a small chef/owner lunch joint in Inglewood. Naturally, I ordered a bowl, fully expecting the Ukrainian version, but still, I asked the server. “What kind of borscht is it?” She stared at me blankly, then said, “I don’t know.” She had to be prodded to ask the chef. When she returned, she said, “Doukhobor?” as if I, like her, would have no idea what that meant.

When she returned and placed the soup in front of me I was flummoxed. Here was a bowl of Doukhobor borscht. Almost. It was the right colour, creamy orange. It had the correct vegetables. Cabbage, tomatoes, carrots, potatoes. But it did not have the correct scent, and would therefore not have the correct flavour, because one of its essential ingredients was missing. Dill. Dill is essential to the overall essence of this soup.

I asked the server if she would “please ask the chef to come to my table when he/she has a chance.” I then began eating the borscht, which had sufficient butter and cream to attempt a claim to its title, but sadly, due to the missing ingredient, was only masquerading. Nor was it giving my taste buds the joy ride they were expecting.

The chef came to my table. I had watched him approach, wiping his hands on his apron and looking a bit anxious. To put him at ease I said immediately, “your borscht is nice, but I’ve never had it before without dill. Where does your recipe come from?” His answer was hilarious. “It’s my babba’s recipe but I ran out of dill and thought no one would know the difference.”

Poor guy. What were the odds that someone would come into his little lunch joint in Inglewood, in Calgary, Alberta, on that particular day, who was intimately familiar with Doukhobor borscht. His babba was from Castlegar, B.C., just a half hour drive or so from Grand Forks, B.C., where I had eaten so many bowls of Doukhobor borscht as a child.

So, by now, you must be asking, okay, so how do I make this soup?

Well, you begin with a fresh pound of butter, and at least a litre of cream, depending on how many dutch ovens of this ambrosia you plan to make. Personally, I don’t see the point of making a small batch of soup. Especially this one, because you will want to eat it for lunch and dinner all week and give the rest away to others upon whom you wish to bestow some joy.

Open a couple of 28 oz. tins of high quality canned tomatoes. Slice thinly an entire head of green cabbage. Peel five pounds of potatoes. Dice half of them. Dice a few onions and carrots. And a head of garlic. Make sure you have a couple of beets on hand, peeled. Chop one green pepper and wash your fresh dill, or get your dried dill out on the counter.

Now, get out a giant stock pot and two huge frying pans, or plan on doing a couple of batches with smaller equipment.

Fill the stock pot half way up with water and set it on a burner to bring to a boil. Throw in five or six large whole potatoes and the beets.

Melt a huge blob of butter in a frying pan and saute the diced onion in it. Once they are softened add your garlic, saute until fragrant, then add the canned tomatoes. Add some more butter. Let them sit and simmer and cook there, breaking up the tomatoes as they soften.

In the other frying pan, melt another giant blob of butter. Add half the cabbage. Saute this slowly, until it’s all soft and silky. Add more butter whenever you think of it.

Add some salt to both the frying pans.

Add some more butter to them too.

The water will be boiling now. Add some salt (I forgot to write that earlier).

Keep stirring the two frying pans, keep them simmering low and cooking while the whole potatoes soften in the pot. Add butter whenever you feel like it. Don’t deny your inclinations, add the butter!

Once the whole potatoes are cooked, remove them from the pot. Add the raw cabbage to the stock pot. Cook for a few minutes. Add the ingredients from the two frying pans. Pour in a whole whack of cream. Drop in a giant blob of butter. Stir and keep the heat around medium.

Mash the whole potatoes with more butter and cream than you would ever get approval for from your dietician. Don’t be afraid. Keep adding more.

When the raw cabbage in the pot is almost tender, stir in the mashed potato mixture. Remove the beets.  Add the diced green pepper, dill, more butter, more cream. Taste and add until the soup broth feels like velvet in your mouth. That’s when you’ll know you have added enough butter and cream.

Serve with thick slabs of really good bread, preferably homemade or artisan. Slathered with butter, of course.

Below is a link to a blog I wrote a few years ago about other Doukhobor specialties. There you will find links to on-line recipes for Doukhobor dishes including borscht that will no doubt be better guides than mine to making this amazing soup. I wrote the method from memory, as my old Doukhobor cookbook is packed away (we recently moved) and the truth is, I haven’t made this wonderful dish for years because….I’ve been trying to cut back on my butter and cream intake!

However, I plan on making it soon, in honour of those immigrants who brought borscht to Canada. I will make a pot of Ukrainian style borscht as well. I love the idea of the two soups on the stove at the same time. Anyone have a favourite recipe?

https://michelemoore.tumblr.com/post/172553709005/the-coffee-table-perogy-party-takhuk-april-3

www.michelemooreveldhoen.com

[michelemoore]

Takhuk

Feb/Mar 2022

Michele Moore V

I thank the trees (trees are my idols) for wine and cheese, bread and butter, friends and family, because without them, February would have been as tasty as asphalt shingles and as fruitful as an old cigarette butt. In fact, at my desk, February was fruitless. Fruitless February. Three false starts to a February blog because each week’s news sent me deeper into the fog  of disbelief, rendering  the latest blog subject irrelevant, or in the case of my piece on the many uses of the word ‘short’, trite. I see-sawed between subjects meant to distract us from the month’s heaves and hos, and subjects meant to help us face all the crises head on. None of my attempts were completed. I abandoned each one the way one abandons hope, knowing the sense of hopelessness will pass, waiting for the feeling of hope to return, as it has and always does.

And now we have March. We have March Madness. May we please pretend we have not left February? Early February, that is. Even better, let’s go back to January. What the heck, how about last summer. Let’s go back to last summer. Wishful thinking fills me with hope.

Whenever I feel at a loss for words, I turn to the great writers and thinkers who dedicated their lives to the torment of turning their insights into powerful phrases and sentences. Sentences that strip away all the noise and distractions of ideas and arguments that obscure the truth. The work of getting to the truth in thought and in language is one of the most difficult mental labours a person can undertake. The work of it can be experienced in the form of profound hardships. Martin Luther King, for example, came to this truth of his words, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere”, through a lifetime of suffering the legacy of an entire people first brutally enslaved and then cruelly segregated. He understood that accepting the injustice of segregation meant accepting the idea that all people are not equal, which would mean that people of any colour, religion, or way of living could become the next victims of injustice. And how right he was. Like spring gophers popping out of their holes, injustices for a wide range of cultural, racial, and other groups continue to raise their cruel and violent heads. Just as in every previous century, justice for all in this 21st century is still under threat because we humans cannot seem to stop committing injustices against some.

Robert M. Hutchins said, “the death of democracy is not to be an assassination from ambush. It will be a slow extinction from apathy, indifference, and undernourishment.” Hutchins knew that we humans happily lay the bricks upon which the democracy destroying armies march. We do this together, some of us while knocking back beers and others while lounging on the decks of our super yachts. We humans do this happily and unwittingly because we are not wired to accept short term pain for long term gain. For example, it’s instinctual to over-indulge and hoard because, who knows when we might next be starving and fighting for our survival? Hutchins understood that societies need leaders to actively nourish the principals of democracy and to be constantly vigilant, to prevent our instinct for survival from morphing into rampant greed and thereby becoming the servant of apathy and indifference.  

Thankfully, every day, a few humans, like Hutchins, are born with an inconsequential number of those short-sighted survival genes, and, these are the people the rest of us look to for guidance when we hear the boots echoing on those brick roads. Hutchins served as an ambulance driver in WW I, after which he became one of the United States’ leading academics and thinkers, spending his career at the head of major American universities and studying and writing primarily about democracy. His thoughts and writings were controversial, drawing criticism from his peers and others. No doubt he spent many lonely agonizing hours at his desk, reflecting on his direct experience with war and all the insidious ways democracy can be undermined in times of peace.  Today, the truth of his words could not be more apparent. The current events in Eastern Europe, like so many other crimes against democracy, are a direct result of a lack of attention to the work of keeping democracy at the top of our political and social priority list.

But of course there is hope! People around the world are speaking up and speaking out. And there are silver linings. Some of the complaints we recently heard here at home about government policies have surely now been put into perspective. In fact, I think it is safe to say that in Canada we have more freedom than we know what to do with. Right now, I’d like to send some to those moms dragging suitcases and babes squeezing their stuffies as they walk for hours and days through cold and shelling toward some kind of safe haven yet to be determined.

People are exposing themselves to bullets and bombs to support those moms and babes. There are other people leaving the safety and comfort of their own homes and entering into places of chaos, deprivation, and exhaustion, to feed, shelter, and care for those moms and babes. Surely, we can now see that wearing a mask to protect others was never too much to ask?

Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow. The important thing is not to stop questioning.  Albert Einstein.

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[michelemoore]

Takhuk / January, 2022

Michele Moore V

WHY AUSTRALIA WAS RIGHT TO SLAM A G.O.A.T.

Money and fame made me believe I was entitled. I was wrong and foolish. Tiger Woods

I recall Tiger’s fall from grace with sympathy. It was painful to watch his public displays of loss of control over his life. Woods is a classic study in what too much fame, success, and money can do to a person. As we all know, many others at the pinnacle of their talent have fallen to the same beasts.

Recently, the entitled behavior of another famous athlete made international news. Here is a piece of his ‘apology’:

‘This was an error in judgement, and I accept I should have….’

Upon his arrival in Australia to compete in one of the most prestigious events in professional tennis, Novak Djokovic, one of the world’s G.O.A.T.’s (greatest of all time) and the men’s tennis world’s #1 ranked player ‘mistakenly’ checked the wrong box on the immigration form asking if he had travelled to any other country in the 14 days prior to entering Australia. The ‘x’ was put in the ‘No’ box, but this was not the truth. He had travelled to two other countries (outside of his own official country of residence, Monte Carlo), in the previous 14 days. As we all know, nowadays many countries have very strict entry requirements due to Covid-19.

Can anyone really believe this was a simple mistake? Perhaps, if the one making it had been someone like Jerome Iginla, or Michelle Obama, or Rick Mercer. One needs a reputation for integrity, for humility, before seeking forgiveness for mistakes that could otherwise be ‘mistaken’ for deliberate ones.

The reputation of Djokovic, however, can be unequivocally described as arrogant and entitled. Therefore, it is hard to see this ‘mistake’ as anything other than the old ‘ask for forgiveness rather than permission’ ploy. You know the trick – it’s the one we all used as kids when we wanted an extra cookie or to stay late at a party. As adults, we use the strategy too, but usually when we do something like eat the last piece of pie that we had promised to leave for our spouse. Sometimes, we use it in our professional lives, in order to advance an idea we fervently believe in but have not yet been able to get others to appreciate. This kind of boldness has led to great discoveries in science, and achievements for humankind such as invaluable social advancements in human rights, universal education and health care, and the preservation of natural landscapes.  

And so we forgive our children, our spouses, and our visionaries when they push the boundaries, when they break with expected codes of conduct or, under oppressive government’s, break the law.

However, when adults use the ‘ask for forgiveness rather than permission’ ploy for no other reason than to further their own interests, and worse, use it because they do not believe they should be subject to the same rules as the rest of society, we enter into the domain of self-anointed entitlement.

Had the world #1 men’s professional tennis player been choosing his actions based on the premise that he must abide by rules put in place by legitimate governments, he a) would not have travelled to Spain and Serbia before coming to Australia, or, b) not have come to Australia in the first place, knowing, as he well did, that the truth about his prior travels would have led to uncomfortable consequences.  

Instead, he did exactly what he wanted to do, (which, as noted by the Australian courts, included, during those 14 days prior to his trip to Australia, an in person interview with a journalist while he, Djokovic, was supposed to be isolating due to a positive Covid test).

The Australian government was under tremendous pressure to punt Djokovic out of the country but, thanks to the athlete’s infinite resources and confused and contrary decisions taken by other levels of Australian government and Australian organizations, two court hearings ensued. As it turns out, Djokovic’s disingenuous reputation and entitled behavior caught up with him. Australia deported him. It appears the only ones that disagreed with the decision were the player’s family, a few of his fans, and the President of Serbia.

Here are some other examples of apologies of the entitled. See if you can guess who they are (answers at the end of the blog).

“I did not intend to hurt or offend anyone with my choice of words, but clearly I have, and for that I am deeply sorry.” (1)

“The commissioner’s report this morning makes it very clear that I should have taken precautions and cleared my family vacation and dealings with the Aga Khan in advance. I’m sorry I didn’t.” (2)

"I want to sincerely apologize to my colleagues and to Albertans for letting you down for not being more careful to scrupulously follow every aspect of the public health guidelines that we expect of everyone.” (3)

These individuals have had to make more than one apology in their careers. Beyond their own sense of entitlement, are their multiple transgressions also due to a lack of real consequences? Forgiveness should always be the ultimate goal in human relationships, but unfortunately, too often forgiveness is given in the form of no consequences for the offense, and so, the entitled behaviour is reinforced.

Consequences. A simple concept that you and I and most of us understand. But when Daddy says to Sally, ‘No Sally, you can’t go to the neighbour’s to play because you did not clean your room. You know the rules,”, and then Mommy says, “Sally, go on and play, I know you meant to clean your room”, what have we done?  

Privileged athletes and other celebrities that ignore codes of conduct yet are permitted to continue performing, are continued to be followed and financially rewarded with sponsorships and contracts, get the same message as Sally.

Politicians who lie or fail to put the well-being of society as a whole before the desires and interests of the politically and/or economically privileged few, and are then re-elected, are getting the same message as Sally.

Fortunately, in Canada, we are still dishing out enough consequences to politicians who stray to keep them more or less in check. These consequences can come in the form of internal pressure from their own party, or loss of votes in an election, or exposure and criticism from the public and the press. All consequences that have real impact in a properly functioning democracy.

I wonder though, are celebrities and other social ‘elites’ experiencing enough consequences to curb self-entitled behavior? What do you think?

I hope you’re not reading me as an unforgiving party pooper who does not appreciate the gifts we receive from the world’s top performers. In fact, I am thrilled by the mavericks and daredevils in many sports, music, and art. However, stable, benevolent societies enter the danger zone when entitled behavior is rewarded. Study after study (and our own observations), tell us that when entitlement and the narcissistic behavior that comes with it, is seen as a norm in a society, the very  standards, ideals and social contracts that are fundamental to the overall well-being of that society are put in jeopardy. Research has consistently shown that people who operate from a sense of entitlement lie more than others, show less empathy to others, give less to those in need, and in general, regularly prioritize their own interests above the interests of the broader society, to the degree that they feel justified in lying and cheating to do so.

Ultimately, societies that have given way to entitlement and allowed it to become an acceptable premise upon which to base codes of conduct, public policies, and judicial decisions, suffer chronic failures in health care, public education, public infrastructure, public safety, and so on. Countries can be found all around the world that are examples of this process of feeding entitlement until only the entitled few have access to decent health care, education, and personal security. There are too many to name, I don’t want to be seen as ‘picking’ on any of them by using just a few examples, but to bring it close to home, sadly, one country that is in this process is our neighbor, the United States.  

Addressing and limiting our tolerance of transgressions of public norms of decency, of unethical behavior, of lying, in our society, at every level, is crucial to the preservation of a fair and equitable society.  When law and policy makers base their decisions on this imperative, it’s easy to see the only choice for entitled behavior such as what we saw with the world’s #1 ranked men’s tennis player, is to apply the very consequence he well knew could be applied. ‘Sorry, Sally, you didn’t follow the rules so you can’t go out and play, you’ll have to stay home”.

(1) Alec Baldwin, American Actor (2) Prime Minister Justice Trudeau (3) Premier Jason Kenney

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[michelemoore]

Takhuk

Michele Moore V

December, 2021

 Sam McGee’s Solution to A Deep Freeze

Hello and warm greetings, oh yes, warm as warm can be, here under my thick wool blanket wearing cashmere and fleece, sipping hot coffee, waiting for birds to come around my new feeder, counting on my fingers and toes all the people I know (including myself) that have been in ‘close contact’ with a Covid positive person. Never have I felt this much affinity with my fellow humans. (Or this much impatience with birds!)  As the tag line has gone for almost two years now, ‘we are all in this together’. Yep. Let’s call it the Christmas of C: Cold, Covid Case Count, Close Contact, Cancelled, Cranky and a Cocktail is the Cure.  

Now, I wonder, if Sam McGee had requested a cocktail rather than a cremation, would he have better embraced his journey down the Dawson Trail? Experts tell us booze does not warm us up, in fact, it lowers our core temperature. Which of course is hard to believe when you want to rip off your parka after a liquor laced coffee. But we’re all old enough to know it’s true, and I bet Sam’s buddy Cap knew it too. Cap, the musher who granted Sam’s wish by conducting his cremation, did the right thing by keeping his flask of whiskey tightly woven into his long underwear somewhere close to his vitals. (This likelihood is, I feel, the only thing missing from Robert Service’s famous verse.)

Alright, you don’t have to wonder what I’m going on about any longer. As this is the season of giving, I would like to give you the gift of Robert Service’s ‘The Cremation of Sam McGee’. Not only is this verse quintessentially Canadian in setting and sensibility, it is also the perfect laugh for the deep freeze we are all presently enduring.

With this read of Sam’s Cremation, I wish you a few moments of entertainment as 2021 crunches and creaks and goes up in flames, and many more moments of entertainment and conviviality! in 2022. As always, I am in gratitude to you for your continued reading and feedback.

 The following blessing, courtesy of the Irish:

May you have warm words on a cold evening,

A full moon on a dark night,

And the road downhill all the way to your door. 

The Cremation Of Sam McGee 

By Robert William Service

    There are strange things done in the midnight sun

   By the men who moil for gold;

   The Arctic trails have their secret tales

   That would make your blood run cold;

   The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

   But the queerest they ever did see

   Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

   I cremated Sam McGee.

   Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.

   Why he left his home in the South to roam round the Pole God only knows.

   He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;

   Though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live in hell."

   On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.

   Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.

   If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze, till sometimes we couldn't see;

   It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

     And that very night as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,

   And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,

   He turned to me, and, "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;

   And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

   Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no: then he says with a sort of moan:

   "It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.

   Yet 'taint being dead, it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains:

   So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

     A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;

   And we started on at the streak of dawn, but God! he looked ghastly pale.

   He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;

   And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

     There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror driven,

   With a corpse half-hid that I couldn't get rid because of a promise given;

   It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,

   But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

     Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.

   In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.

   In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,

   Howled out their woes to the homeless snows - O God! how I loathed the thing!

     And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;

   And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;

   The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;

   And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

     Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;

   It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."

   And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum:

   Then, "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

     Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;

   Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;

   The flames just soared, and the furnace roared - such a blaze you seldom see;

   And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

     Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;

   And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.

   It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;

   And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

     I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;

   But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;

   I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.

   I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked," ... then the door I opened wide.

     And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;

   And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.

   It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm -

   Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

     There are strange things done in the midnight sun

   By the men who moil for gold;

   The Arctic trails have their secret tales

   That would make your blood run cold;

   The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

   But the queerest they ever did see

   Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

   I cremated Sam McGee.

 www.michelemooreveldhoen.com

Photo courtesy of Jonatan Pie, Unsplash

[michelemoore]

Takhuk

November, 2021

Michele Moore V

THE ARTISTIC CRIME OF THE (20TH) CENTURY

Everyone has a right to their own opinion about me, and that's fine. I'm just going to keep being myself and living my life. That's all I can do. Dan Bilzerian

Have you ever watched the movie, ‘The Walk’? It is the true story of high wire artist Phillippe Petit, the French street performer who snuck into New York’s twin towers at the beginning of their existence, strung his wire between the two towers, and over the next 45 minutes or so, walked across it – 8 times.

Of course, it wasn’t that simple. As the movie accurately details, for months, years actually, Petit meticulously and secretly planned what he called his ‘le coup’. The idea was born in 1968 while sitting in a dentist’s office. He picked up a newspaper and saw drawings of the proposed twin towers. Six years later, in August, 1974, before both towers were completely opened, he realized his dream.

He had prepared well for what has been called the ‘artistic crime of the century’. Previously, with the same approach – illegally and secretly installing his cable (wire) overnight and then performing the act early in the morning, without any notice to the public, he had walked his wire between the towers of Paris’ Notre Dame Cathedral and the Sydney Harbour Bridge in Australia. Petit has performed many more high wire feats all over the world, authorized and often for the benefit of an organization, including a peace promoting walk between the Arab and Jewish quarters of Jerusalem.

Was Petit inspired by Shakespeare, who wrote, ‘We know what we are, but know not what we may be’? Aside from executing (and surviving!) inconceivably dangerous high wire performances, he is adept in an eclectic range of skills equestrianism, fencing, 18th century carpentry, and, the heart of his calling and career as a street performer, juggling. He is also an author. And, he is still alive, very much alive and can be found at New York’s Cathedral of Saint John the Divine where he is the High Wire Artist in Residence.

Petit is alive. He knows what he may be. He is living, it seems, as close to the truth of his own being as anyone could.

You might think Petit’s high wire walking is nothing more than a stunt, or that he has a death wish, or he’s simply crazy, or even a genius (I vote for genius). You might think Petit took such incredible risks for financial gain, yet that is not the case. Google searches reveal he is not wealthy. In fact, he refused all opportunities to ‘cash in’ on his New York Twin Towers performance, and went back to his street juggling, where he could perform his art and make a living.

He is living, it seems, as close to the truth of his own being as anyone could.

As we approach the two year mark since the Covid-19 pandemic was declared, we have all heard stories  of people who, throughout this past many months of profound change, discovered new aspects of themselves; new interests, strengths, and abilities. Limits have been discovered too. Physical, emotional, mental. Discovering our possibilities and our limits both imply living closer to the truth of who we are. After all, it is only by trying to live a certain way, or achieve or create something, that we discover either. We may also choose to see our limits as an invitation to grow further. Athletes demonstrate this truth, as do the thousands of essential workers who have pushed themselves beyond their ‘limits’ time and again this last couple of years.

Petit had one serious fall from his high wire. Broken ribs, crushed hip and lungs, smashed pancreas. Nine months later he was back on his high wire.

On CBC’s the National news, the story was told of a young woman who, after months of working from home at the beginning of the pandemic, took a hard look at one of her ‘truths’ she had lived by since her school years that went by the motto, I don’t run. She had lived with that limit throughout high school gym classes, refusing to run with the rest of her class, and beyond into her adult life. One day, she hit her tolerance limit of sitting in her house day after day. She dug out and laced up on her feet an old pair of running shoes and has since obliterated that false piece of her identity. Now, she declares herself a runner, and feels better than she ever has. She is alive, living closer to the truth of who she is.

When Phillipe is not juggling on the streets or walking through air on a thin wire cable, he is expressing, through wood, through words, through movement, some other aspect of his being. How many of the rest of us, over these past couple of years, drew closer to ourselves through our words, our music, our art? How many of us discovered the runner, the walker, the cyclist in us during that long and lonely isolation when we could no longer bear to distract ourselves with another minute of screen time and finally tuned in and listened to that voice whispering in our ear? How many new businesses were launched in these past couple of years? Replace the word ‘businesses’ with ‘dreams’, look around, and see all the people living closer to their truths.

So many of us woke up during this pandemic. The profound and disruptive exodus of workers from previous careers is clear proof of this awakening. No longer satisfied with lives lived in service to a corporation or an ideal that was not their own, thousands of people have taken a step onto their own high wire. These people are now living closer to their own truth.

Isn’t that a beautiful and inspiring thing?

www.michelemooreveldhoen.com

photo credit: Felipe Pelaquim, Unsplash

[michelemoore]

Takhuk

October, 2021

Michele Moore V

THIS OFFERING SHOULD BE READ OVER A BOWL OF CHEERIOS or, while you’re in the dentist’s waiting room Best descriptor for this offering: Random (with an equally random joke at the end)

 My God what a fall we’ve had.

So warm I’m still stocking my fridge with beer.

So dry my fingertips feel electrified enough to charge my phone.

Sunrises so peachy it’s a wonder the sky doesn’t drip with juice.                          

And along with all this splendor has come good news, such as; Calgary elected its first female mayor, a standout councillor who included in her earliest post-election comments that she hopes we are at a turning point where a leader’s gender will no longer be something of note. Right on, Jyoti, and congratulations.

And, now that we have vaccine passports, people can go to Flames games and concerts again! And restaurants and pubs can fill all their tables. (And whether or not we think this is the right way to go, let us do all we can to relieve our medical workers, they are the ones who need our greatest support.) 

And, one of my childhood heroes, Captain Kirk just had a once in a lifetime experience – he got to go to space for real. When he came down ten minutes later he didn’t claim to see any Vulcans, or Vulcan, but he did receive a hug from Elon Musk. I admit though, I just could not take Elon’s hug at face value. Media stunts just seem so old these days. In fact, the hug kind of spoiled the whole moment for me. Captain Kirk suddenly became an overindulged William Shatner. Is this cynicism? Should I be feeling nothing but happy for William and Elon? Why don’t I? Am I jealous? After all, I’m like most other people – once in a lifetime experiences are cool, I like them too. But there’s once in a lifetime experiences, and then there’s money grubbing moonshots to be one of the first mega-billionaires to plant a flag in space and thereby claim, ‘this is all mine,mine, mine!’ I kinda feel we haven’t learned enough yet to approach the vastness of the universe in a responsible way. After all, here on earth, we are still trying to clean things up post industrial-revolution. Anyway, what do I know? Captain Kirk’s tears seemed real, and, media stunts aside, if anyone deserves to go to space, it’s him, I suppose.

Here’s something neat: This fall it was reported that a Serbian scientist who loves butterflies figured out the scales of their wings hold the secret to the ultimate unhackable security code. Don’t ask me to explain how it works, you can look it up. Just give those sweetest of all flying things an extra tickle the next time one floats by.

Being a realist, I must acknowledge there have been a few less inspiring aspects to the fall of 2021. A pointless and self-serving federal election that cost the price of at least a few thousand health care workers or teacher salaries. Or a few hundred affordable home projects. In each province.  Or untold numbers of small business micro loans. Or a few laboratories where we could produce our own vaccines. What else? A half dozen ice-cream cones for every single one of us? Tickets to a Blue Rodeo or Great Big Sea or pick your favourite band concert?

Okay I need to stop that. We still have a decent democracy here and I am genuinely grateful for it. Especially after dodging a Farkrightening bullet in the Calgary municipal election. And that’s all I’m going to say about that. Except one more thing. I bet the cost of the provincial referendum questions would have got us all seasons tickets to the Flames games, or a concert series, or at least a seminar to learn  who exactly all those senators were that we were supposed to choose from. Did you get any mailouts or see any reports about those candidates? I would have researched them myself if I believed it was worth my time, but I was too busy enjoying the sunrises and sunsets and trying to figure out why the daylight savings time question didn’t include the third option. There are three options, aren’t there? Stay the same. Permanently spring ahead. Or permanently stay behind. It seems our current provincial government is determined to permanently stay behind. The times, that is.

That was a little more than one more thing. Sorry.  

A couple of other great things that happened this fall:

It was announced that Calgary’s Studio Bell (the National Music Centre), will become the new home of the Canadian Country Music Hall of Fame. If you have never been to Studio Bell, now’s a good time - apparently admission is free for the rest of the year.

Purely personal: My youngest grandson turned 1!! That’s a picture of him, his name is Cruz and as you can see, he is absolutely as chill as his name suggests. I see him driving a laid back little sports car one day, maybe an old refurbished MG, taking off into the zone…..

Some spectacular Northern Lights (that I slept through). Did you see them? The photos people shared were stunning.

Speaking of sharing, I quit Facebook and all things FB. I actually did this before the latest whistleblower’s revelation regarding Instagram’s (a FB product) determination to hook kids on the platform. “If we lose the teen foothold in the U.S. we lose the pipeline," reads the leaked internal memo. (Do you know anyone who talks out of both sides of his mouth more than Mark Z? Geesh.)

I’ve felt compelled to quit FB since a student of mine reminded me of one of MZ’s many transgressions. Here’s a reminder of the infamous 2004 leaked instant messenger conversation he had with a friend, which my student read out to our class:

ZUCK: yea so if you ever need info about anyone at Harvard

ZUCK: just ask

ZUCK: I have over 4000 emails, pictures, addresses, sns

FRIEND: what!? how’d you manage that one?

ZUCK: people just submitted it

ZUCK: I don’t know why

ZUCK: they “trust me”

ZUCK: dumb fucks

The fact of that conversation has stuck to me like a burr sticks to the laces of my hiking boots. And then there are the racists and anarchists and fentanyl dealers and conspiracy theorists that populate the platform, unchecked and deliberately overlooked by FB since they add a lot of dirty money to MZ’s bottom line. These dark and dangerous types never showed up on my screen, but I have seen the effects of the conspiracy theorists on others. It’s very, very real. Doing serious damage to the trust factor in our society. Truth and trust are foundational to a peaceful life, and of course, our free and open society completely and utterly depends on it. While FB has been an incredible gift to the world in so many ways, while people all over the world truly benefit from it, while for many it is literally a lifeline, it’s also a Trojan Horse. I don’t know how to solve that puzzle, but since there are other options to staying in touch (including the antiquated telephone call), I have decided to decline the gift. I am researching other SM platforms – if you happen to be on one that you like, please let me know.

I’ll wrap this up with a good laugh:

A young boy enters a barber shop and the barber whispers to his customer, "This is the dumbest kid in the world. Watch while I prove it to you."

The barber puts a dollar bill in one hand and two quarters in the other, then calls the boy over and asks, "Which do you want, son?" The boy takes the quarters and leaves.

"What did I tell you?" said the barber. "That kid never learns!"

Later, when the customer leaves, he sees the same young boy coming out of the ice cream parlor.

"Hey, son! May I ask you a question? Why did you take the quarters instead of the dollar bill?"

The boy licked his cone and replied:

"Because the day I take the dollar the game is over!" —Vinaya Patil

https://www.businessinsider.com/profound-jokes-2014-6

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