The Stoning of Ashtiani

When I was a small girl I was quite sure that if I ever found myself living in ancient, biblical times and was in danger of being stoned, I would save myself by running away.

No one ever explained the finer points of stoning to me - likely because no one knew.

You see, there is no running away. The sinner is first trapped by being buried up to the neck in dirt. The executioners then throw rocks at the condemned person's head until her brains are splattered across the ground.

The reason I know these details is because during this past week I read three articles about an Iranian woman named Ashtiani who is going to be executed by stoning sometime in the near future for the 'crime' of adultery. Ashtiani has already been lashed ninety-nine times. Ashtiani has a seventeen year old son.

There is no proof of her 'crime'.

What can you and I do about it? We can tell her story.

Theo Caldwell@sunmedia.ca, St. Catharines Standard, Thurs. July 8, 2010 said he would like to see her face on more t-shirts than Che Guevara. He said if a 'fraction of the energy evinced by those who showed up at the G20 in Toronto to protest the evils of globalization...were instead directed toward... not hitting women with rocks until they die, we'd be getting somewhere."

A good man protects women and children. These are not good men.

I have always supported the fact that our troops are in Afghanistan. Under the Taliban women and girls have no rights to education or health care and are vulnerable to the same insane justice system that Ashtiani faces.

We can't turn away now.

Note: I have just read that 14 hours ago Iran reported from its London embassy that Ashtiani will not be stoned to death. She may be hanged instead. This was not reported inside of Iran where 15 other people await death by stoning.

Doing the Right Thing

Image via Wikipedia

At one point last Sunday night I was trying to ease the spy car out of the parking lot and onto Clifton Hill. But thousands of people were in Niagara Falls - it was the American 4th of July holiday weekend. I watched the two young police officers who were working hard to direct road and foot traffic safely out of the congested area. Both were dressed in black and they weren't that easy to pick out of the crowd. I became a bit alarmed for their safety.

When I was finally able to squeeze into the street, I rolled my window down and told them that they needed to put their vests on.

They both frowned and eyed me with suspician.

Finally - probably after running my face through his mental photo gallery of known sixty year old female, Caucasian, Canadian terrorists, one said, "We already have them on, Ma'm." (Or, 'mom', hard to tell with all the street noise.)

By that time though, I was through the intersection and there was no going back to tell them that I meant orange traffic safety vests not the Kevlar bullet proof vests.


Sometimes, it seems that the public's communication with the police is like that. Messages get crossed or misunderstood.

Sometimes lines get drawn in the sand.

The Toronto Police Service Board's decision to hold a civilian led inquiry into the G20 events has done a lot to ease the tension.

Wise move.

And the right thing to do.

Party Like It's 1812

Image via Wikipedia

Not long ago I read an interesting comment about the war with the Taliban. It was written by an American. He asked why his country hadn't learned from its experiences in Canada and Viet Nam that an enemy cannot be defeated in 'his' own country.

Canada?

It took me a minute. And I live in the part of the country that was occupied by American forces 200 years ago. A part of the country that is already gearing up for a big bicentennial celebration of the start of the War of 1812.

The other shoe fell yesterday when I was in Niagara Falls, Ontario with some friends from the Yukon who were passing through on their way to a hiking holiday in Iceland.

The night was sweltering, the crowds were enormous and as we shuffled down Clifton Hill looking like the throng of brain-fried zombies in Stephen King's 'Cell', my friends, Chris and Gary, commented about how much the place looked like an American theme park.

Later over ice cream, Gary, who is from Virginia but has lived in Canada for many years said he thinks that Canadians are going to be going to be disappointed. He thinks that because of all of the financial cutbacks in the US and, (mainly), because the War of 1812 wasn't a glorious victory for the Americans there isn't likely going to be much celebrating going on south of the border in 2012.

I sat there and looked look around at Planet Hollywood, McDonald's, Starbucks, Movieland, Marineland, Ripley's Believe it or Not, etc., etc.,

Jeesh!

Americans, I think, need to redefine 'glorious victory'.

Depends on our Police

Of all the comments and questions I heard about the G20 Summit the only one that I spent much time wondering about was when a friend asked me whether I thought the police officers were wearing Depends.

I remembered watching the news clips that showed them arriving by the bus load in Toronto. Dark clad, unsmiling people turning away from the cameras, bending down to pick up their kits then heading into the hotel. I imagined the frightening items that were in those kits - batons, guns, tear gas, gas masks, pepper spray, shields, helmets.

The idea that a package of adult diapers might have been tucked inside each kit never crossed my mind.

But somehow, as funny as the question was, it did something for me. It humanized the police officers who were charged with keeping the peace for those two days in Toronto.

I didn't like what I saw in Toronto - especially that scene at Queen and Spadina.

I didn't like the way the 'temporary' law came into being.

I do believe we need to have an inquiry into the events.

I do not, however, believe that in Canada the police are the enemy.

I think we need to keep that in mind.

The Third Day

God said, "Let the earth produce vegetation:

seed bearing plants and fruit trees on earth

bearing fruit with their seed inside

each corresponding to its own species."
And so it was.

The earth produced vegetation:

the various kinds of seed-bearing plants

and the fruit trees with seed inside,

each corresponding to its own species.

God saw that it was good.

Evening came and morning came:

the third day.

Genesis 1:11-13

Steve Bauer Trail, Fonthill, Ontario

June 28, 2010

Queened

This past year I did some intense lobbying to have Michaëlle Jean elected Queen of Canada, (okay, only two blogs, but I did chat up a few friends.)

Despite these valiant efforts on my part, our government has apparently opted to stay the course with the British monarchy because the English queen was seen floating around Halifax Harbour yesterday, inspecting the Canadian Navy.

I guess that's okay. Lots of other foreign leaders come and check out our hardware. It seems to be what world leaders like to do when they are not planning new taxes, having illicit affairs, or fighting off their own military .

The problem is that Elizabeth II thinks the Canadian Navy is hers.


It wasn't until the time of the first Quebec Referendum in 1980 that I questioned the British Monarchy's role in Canadian politics.

I was quite frightened by the events of that year. It was a close call and after it was over I watched a tearful René Lévesque promise a 'next time', to his supporters. That was too much. I didn't believe that we could get through a 'next time'.

Rather than lose Quebec, I decided the Queen had to go.

I became an anti-monarchist.

Silly me. Of course we went through it again - fifteen years later and it was a terrible shock when I realized that the Separatists didn't care whether we had the Queen of England or Captain Kangaroo as our head of State. They just wanted out.

"Jeesh!" I thought. "I almost gave up my heritage for nothing!"

But when I went to reclaim those emotional ties to Britain, I couldn't find them. Somewhere in the struggle for a new Canada - I had become a very different Canadian. Not an anti-monarchist anymore, simply indifferent to the machinations of the English nobility. And according to the media, my apathy was and is shared by many others.

So I say, let's get it over with quickly.

Ditch the Queen. Make the Governor General the Head of State.

We've got more important things to worry about, like how to get those ships bobbing around in Halifax Harbour up to the Arctic before the Russians start building houses outside of Pangnirtung.


But, gee whiz, Michaëlle Jean would have been a great queen.

Sigh.

A Bittersweet Memory

By September of 1983 I had been teaching grade five in Dawson City, Yukon for several years. I was in my early thirties and single. The north can be a lonely place for an unattached person so I was quite interested when a fellow teacher told me that her friend, John, had asked her to find out if I would go out with him.

I knew him slightly. It is hard not to know someone when there are only 500 people living in an isolated community. He was my age - a tall, bushy haired, bearded carpenter who did some exquisite cabinet work for people around the Territory.

I told her that I would.

I waited, quite nervously at first, for him to call. When he didn't I started showing up places where I knew he'd be, smiling like an idiot and generally trying to look approachable. It was a lost cause.

Eventually I gave up. Women weren't as assertive in those days as they seem to be now. I went back to my usual life of socializing with the teachers and watching Dallas. Winter slowly disappeared from the Klondike Valley, the ice went out of the rivers, the sun came up and didn't go down and tourists started to reappear.

One Saturday night in May I was caught in a crush of people at one of the local watering holes that was having its grand opening for the summer season. Quite by accident I found I had been pushed against John. We laughed about it and after all that time something clicked.

But it was close to the end of the school year. I was busy with report cards and with planning a trip to B.C. and Ontario to see my family as soon as school ended. We managed to see each other whenever there was time. I wasn't worried, there was always the long winter to get to know him.

The night before I left we had dinner at the Midnight Sun Restaurant. It was a wonderful Yukon evening full of good food, good wine, strange characters and plenty of laughs.

But it was the last time I saw him.

John died in a car accident just outside of Dawson City a few days later on Canada Day .

Toronto's Gay Pride Parade - A Commentary from Somewhere in the Middle Class

I hate seeing clips of Toronto's annual Gay Pride Parade being broadcast on the news. It makes me cringe and squirm.

I find it hard to believe there aren't a lot of gay people out there who cringe and squirm, too. Although part of the parade's mandate is that they treat each other with respect and dignity, to this viewer the emphasis seems to be on cheap, casual sex and that doesn't jive with my understanding of what the gay and lesbian community is looking to achieve - the right to lead productive, loving, spiritual lives, without fear or prejudice.

So, do I think the parade should be banned?

Absolutely not.

As a teacher I can tell you that there is too much suffering around the issue of sexual orientation especially for the children of a gay parent. The more often we see non-heterosexual people in mainstream lifestyles and activities the sooner attitudes will change.

Do I think the parade's mandate to celebrate with 'provocative, racy and outrageous events' should be toned down?

Absolutely.

The more in-your-face sexuality people see, the more attitudes will stay the same.

Get a room, guys. Pierre Trudeau said the state has no business being in the bedrooms of the nation. I say the bedrooms of the nation have no business being on main street.

What Every Canadian Needs to Read

I was flummoxed by an e-mail I received this morning. The statement at the top informed me that the message within was so important that every Canadian with a computer needed to read it. (Canadians who don't own computers aren't in need of this information apparently.)

"Now what," I said to myself, "does every Canadian need to read??

Well, here are a few of the things this Canadian would like to read:

1. I would like to read that the first women physicians graduated from medical school in Afghanistan because Canadian troops were there to ensure their safe education.

2. I would like to read that Terry Fox's mother announced that a cure for cancer had been found.

3. I would like to read that the Leafs won the Stanley Cup.

4. I would like to read that someone finally found the identity of the Mad Trapper of Rat River.

5. I would like to read that the Yukon became a province. (Actually I'd like to be there when it happens.)

6. I would like to read that Clifford Olson passed away in his sleep and was no longer an evil presence in our land.

7. Ditto Paul Bernardo.

8. I would like to read that the HST has been cancelled.

9. Since I've never met a First Nations person who attended a Residential School and could talk about it , I would like to read that they had the courage to speak out, that we listened/learned and that we all moved on together.

10. Finally I would like to read that people with hidden agendas had quit writing idiotic e-mails.


For your edification here is the latest subtle effort to increase bigotry and hatred against visible minorities in Canada. This is what arrived on my computer screen this morning:

This one needs to circulate. I think this is one email that needs to be forwarded until every Canadian with a computer receives it.

The year is 1907, one hundred and 3+ years ago

Sir Wilfrid Laurier's ideas on Immigrants and being a Canadian in 1907.

'In the first place, we should insist that if the immigrant who comes here in good faith becomes a Canadian and assimilates himself to us, he shall be treated on an exact equality with everyone else, for it is an outrage to discriminate against any such man because of creed, or birthplace, or origin. But this is predicated upon the person's becoming in every facet a Canadian, and nothing but a Canadian...There can be no divided allegiance here. Any man who says he is a Canadian, but something else also, isn't a Canadian at all. We have room for but one flag, the Canadian flag... We have room for but one language here, and that is the English language.. And we have room for but one sole loyalty and that is a loyalty to the Canadian people.'

Sir Wilfrid Laurier 1907

Every Canadian citizen needs to read this!


I'll say we do. In my opinion this message from the first French Canadian Prime Minister - toadying to the English Canada of his time, has no relevance to the reality of our multi-cultural nation of 2010.

Green Garage Sale Blues

Do not take this woman's financial advice.

I arrived all bright eyed and bushy tailed at the Green Party Garage sale just before 8 a.m. on Saturday. I off-loaded a few things from the spy car and presented myself to my betters.

"Here to help!" I announced, proud to be finally contributing some of my time.

"Good, you can stand over there," She motioned in the general direction of a table that was piled high with a collection of medieval torture devices.

"Wow!" I thought as I slid behind the table. "Here's the actual instrument the Inquisition used to rip fingernails off the Satan worshippers." I looked at the small metal contraption with interest.

Luckily before I could stick one of my own fingers into the thing to see if it still worked I was distracted by a pair of garage sale shoppers.

One lady picked up a brown mug that came with two plates and a bowl.

"How much?" she asked.

We both spotted the $12 price tag at the same time.

Now I don't know about you, but when I think garage sale I don't think dollars, I think cents. I actually thought that was the whole point.

"Oh ignore that price!" I said reassuringly to the rather shabbily clad woman. I'll sell it to you for a quarter.

"And the plates and bowl?"

I ignored those price tags too. "Oh give me a dollar for the whole bunch."  I was beginning to feel just like Mother Theresa - doing good among the leprous poor of Beamsville.

Her pal picked up a solitary blue mug.

"You can have that for a dime," I said happily, peeling off the original price tag. I was really getting into this garage sale thing.

As a matter of fact I was so into it I didn't notice the two Green Party Members who descended on me the way the RCMP Swat team descended on the nudists at the 'Naked People Against BP' protest march in Toronto last week.

Turned out the prices were real and the ladies I thought were homeless bag ladies knew exactly what they were doing.

I made it to the end of the sale but as I pulled away in the spy car I think I saw them taking up a collection to bribe the NDP to take me back.

And that Medieval torture device? I remembered to ask before I left.

Pasta maker.

Jeesh!  I gotta get out more.

Dangerous Gas Emissions in Niagara

During the recent Niagara - Glanbrook Green Party Garage Sale, a faithful party worker was spotted during his break learning everything he could about dangerous gas emissions.

The Unbendable Cello

Being Greenish, rather than true blue Green, I occasionally feel a bit guilty that I have joined the party and haven't been very active.

So I was feeling quite good about myself after I agreed to pick up a few items and deliver them to our Green Party Garage Sale this weekend. The woman in charge put me in touch with a party member named John who said he had a few things to donate, including a cello.

A cello?

My spy car is not only the most non-descript car in the parking lot, it is also very small. I pictured myself driving from North Pelham to the garage sale in Beamsville with the cello lashed across the hood of my car the way Yukoners carry a dead moose home for butchering.

"I hope it's bendable," I e-mailed him.

"I'm donating some books, some tapes and my unbendable cello," he e-mailed back rather crossly.

I was surprised to find out that the cello fit comfortably across the back seat of the spy car. And it came in a cello shaped back pack! I was impressed. If I any musical talent or knowhow and was twenty again I would have bought it myself.

Anyway, as these things are wont to happen the cello never made it to the garage sale. A friend of a friend wanted to buy it after she saw a comment I made on Face book.

I e-mailed the local Green Party headquarters.

"See if they'll make a cheque out to the Green Party for $50. They'll get 75% back in income taxes."

"Ha ha," I wrote back. "These are dyed-in-the-wool, card carrying members of the Conservative Party. We aren't going to get a cheque from them written out to the Green Party!"

"CONSERVATIVES! Make them pay cash through the nose because of the fake lake in Muskoka!" came the directive from on high.

"Sir! Yes, Sir!" I strapped on the sword of righteous indignation and snapped a salute at the monitor.

A lovely young couple turned up at my house a few days later to look at the cello and the sword of righteous indignation evaporated.

"Well," I said tentatively after they had examined the cello and were making happy sounds.

We all looked bashfully at each other.

I tried again. "Wellllll, John said it's worth $50.

Long pause.

Finally the young man said, "How about $35?"

"I'LL TAKE IT!" I said a little too loudly, relieved the painful twenty second money ordeal was finally over.

"$40," cried the young woman.

We looked at her.

I was almost certain that this wasn't the way it was supposed to work, but I'm a Canadian and we haven't had to barter for things since beaver fur hats went out of style.

"Well, it's just because I don't have any change," she said cheerfully.

It made sense to me.  

We parted on a very happy note. They with the unbendable cello and me with $40 for the Green coffers.

Green Headquarters e-mailed to ask how things had gone.

"Great. I got $40 for it. I'll bring the money to the garage sale or if you would like, I can run it up to Ottawa!"

The humourless reply came back that the money was to stay in our riding.

Jeesh. Ottawa is a two day car ride away.

Don't politicians ever get a joke?

I feel unappreciated. Which way to the Rhinoceros Party?

Soul Work

Yahweh is my shepherd, I lack nothing.

In grassy meadows he lets me lie.

By tranquil streams he leads me

to restore my spirit.

He guides me in paths of saving justice

as befits his name.

Even were I to walk in a ravine as dark as death

 I should fear no danger, for you are at my side.

Your staff and your crook are there to soothe me.

You prepare a table for me

under the eyes of my enemies;

you anoint my head with oil;

my cup brims over.

Kindness and faithful love pursue me

every day of my life.

I make my home in the house of Yahweh

for all time to come.

Psalm 23

Something Fishy

I was really intrigued by a letter to the editor that appeared June 7th in the St. Catharines Standard. R.D. Bowman asked why the G20 Summit Meeting, which is scheduled to take place in Muskoka, Ontario, later this month, isn't being held in the Diefenbunker.

For non-Canadians or people under forty-five who happen to read this, the Diefenbunker was a top secret facility built at the height of the Cold War to house Canada's top politicians and military personnel in the event of a nuclear attack. The name Diefenbunker comes from the name of John Diefenbaker who was the Prime Minister at the time.

I have to tell you that I did not know that Diefenbunkers existed until a few years ago. (I say Diefenbunkers with an 's' because I just read that there are quite a few of them spread around the country, most located near major cities. The main one, an underground four storey behemoth, is located outside of Ottawa and is now a museum.)

Silly me. I thought if we were going to be obliterated, we were all going to be obliterated. I didn't know that the politicians and generals, i.e., the people who caused the problem, had made arrangements to save their own sorry behinds.

Maybe it's a good thing that I didn't know because at times it was darn scary growing up in Niagara during the Cold War. Air raid sirens were our occasional creepy lullabies and we were taught to duck and cover from our first days at school. The fear of a Russian missile attack on the hydro electric power plant at Niagara Falls was palpable for years.

But I digress. Sorry. Back to my topic.

R.W. Bowman says that we may end up paying more than a billion of our tax dollars to protect 20 people and their entourages during the G20. Ouch!

He says the main Deifenbunker was built to accommodate 256 Members of Parliament and their families for weeks and could have been easily used by the Summiteers at big savings to us. R.W. Bowman has a point and it's a shame it won't happen because, financial reasons aside, there is also the small matter of the Diefenbunker's address.

This is where the most powerful, cantankerous politicians in the world should meet.

This is good...

The main Diefenbunker is located on Carp Street in Carp, Ontario.

Smokin'

I saw a cartoon a few years ago that, at the time, struck me as very funny.

Two old guys were sitting in wheelchairs in an old folk's home. One said to the other, "Just think, If I hadn't quit smoking thirty years ago I would have missed all of this."

I decided to quit smoking in the early 1980s. The first strategy I tried was called, 'total humiliation'. It can only be used by teachers, but I suppose it could be adapted to any workplace or household where there is a captive audience.

I was teaching grade four and as a math problem, I had my class work out how much money I was wasting on cigarettes each year. We also estimated how much I had spent since I started smoking at age fourteen. Even in those days when a pack of smokes was relatively cheap, it was a staggering amount. We all decided what we would buy with such a large amount of money. To this day I can still see the looks on their little faces.

They thought I was a total dunderhead.

For an addict, humiliation and shame only last as deterrents for so long. I soon had to implement the second part of my campaign which was the 'alternative medicine strategy'.

Acupuncture was right up there with witchcraft as far as health care went in those days, but I was desperate. It cost me $15. The acupuncturist, who was also a physician and the rather unusual Mayor of Whitehorse, gave me a great big vitamin B shot along with the acupuncture. It worked. I went home from his office feeling free for the first time in years.

Three months later the craving returned.

As a last resort I launched stage three, 'the dangle a carrot in front of your nose strategy'. I promised myself that it wouldn't be forever. I would light up again on my 65th birthday.

I can start smoking again in four years and the closer it gets the more attractive the prospect of becoming a born again smoker becomes. That cartoon about the ex-smoker in an old folk's home isn't funny anymore . I'm willing to forgo the dementia and incontinence of old age and help ease the health care crisis of the 2030s - but guess what? I can't afford it.

Do you know how much a pack of cigarettes costs these days?

Jeesh!

The Death of Johnny Two Rivers

My last blog got me thinking about Christianity and from there I started thinking about something that happened a few years back when I was teaching in Dawson City, Yukon.

There were only about 500 people living in Dawson when I was there. For excitement we occasionally took a trip down the Klondike Highway to Whitehorse. Depending on the weather and who was driving the trip took anywhere between 8 and 12 hours. If possible we drove in a convoy. The highway was a dirt road, the conditions could be treacherous and you never knew what could happen.

On one trip back we were surprised to see a woman standing at the side of the road, crying and waving her arms at us to stop. We were a little north of Carmacks, which is maybe about 1/5 of the way to Dawson and like most of the Yukon it was complete wilderness on both sides of the road.

I can't remember how many vehicles were with us but we all pulled over and followed her into the bush. Her father wasn't well she told us and she didn't know what to do.

When we arrived at their fish camp, it looked as if the old man's time was over. It was Johnny Two Rivers, a well respected Yukon elder. He was lying on a blanket on the ground, he looked comortable but he wasn't conscious and was having difficulty breathing. There wasn't much we could do for the old fellow so we were standing commiserating with his daughter when there was a sudden disturbance in the bush behind us.

Now I wouldn't have been too surprised to see a bear wander into their fish camp or even a few Russians who had made a wrong turn somewhere up near Tuktoyaktuk but I totally taken aback to see a group of young white people suddenly appear out of nowhere and race at full speed toward us.

The man in the lead screamed, "Stop! Don't anybody touch anything! I'm a Christian!"

" Well, thank heavens!" I thought, "He's a..."

By the time it had registered that he hadn't said doctor, he had thrown himself on the dying old man, and was shaking his fist at heaven (?) and shouting," SATAN, I COMMAND YOU TO LEAVE THIS MAN!"

In the next instant while the exorcist was still doing his thing, and we were all standing around dumbstruck, a small car appeared at the camp. I have no idea how they managed to get it so far into the bush. They literally stuffed the unconscious old fellow into the car with his daughter and they all took off back to Whitehorse in a cloud f dust.

It happened so fast and was so strange and even violent that I have never forgotten it.

We wandered sadly back to the road and our vehicles and continued on to Dawson City. I heard on the radio the next day that Johnny Two Rivers had died in the hospital in Whitehorse. I'm sure the old man would have preferred to die at his fish camp.

It was as if we had witnessed a five minute lesson on the history of the dark side of Christianity.

Sigh.

a North Pelham Journal

Journal  1. a daily record such as a diary, a ship's log or written records of a meeting or society...

   

***

I've decided to call my blog 'a North Pelham Journal'. It was surprisingly difficult to decide because titles, especially smart alec ones, usually come to me quite easily. North Pelham Journal was suggested by Doug Jamieson, aka GeezerOnline. At first I thought it was too much like North Pelham News and I wanted something with a little more pizzazz,  but the more I thought about it, the more the word 'journal' seemed to fit.

I've read that the most successful blogs have a theme, but sticking even loosely to one idea is not something I am able to do. Lately out of necessity, I've become more of an observer of life than a participant as a lot of my time is taken up with caring for my ailing father. What the Nazis couldn't do to him on Juno Beach, Father Time is attempting now.
The blog grew out of my desperation to escape to a funnier world during a hard winter when we lurched from one health crisis to another. Fortunately it wasn't that difficult to find.  My personal ship, (see the self -portrait above), was caught in the doldrums, but the rest of the world was sailing merrily on its goofy way and I could comment on everything and everyone from right here in North Pelham!

So, 'a North Pelham Journal' will be my ship's blog log.

A great name. I'm happy.

Thanks, Doug.

Eden Christian High School - A Commentary

I read Christina Blizzard's column in the St. Catharines Standard, Funding For Schools Splits Community, Wed., May 26, 2010, with great interest.

 It isn't the first time she has written about the fact that the District School Board of Niagara runs Eden Christian High School, a fully funded, faith-based school in a province that seemingly rejected the notion in the last election. But reading her comments this time made me realise I hadn't really ever stopped to think about why something that is, (on the surface), so blatantly unfair, i.e., the funding of one faith based school over another, is completely acceptable to me.

The answer? Eden Christian High School is Mennonite.

I'm not Mennonite. I did however grow up in Niagara and if you grew up in Niagara you probably had many Mennonite teachers. I always knew which teachers were Mennonite, I could tell by their modest, unadorned clothes and quiet voices. More importantly I could tell by their loving firmness in the class room - the way they respected us and demanded respect and obedience in return. Never once did a Mennonite teacher try to impose his or her religious beliefs on us. What they did impart was their values of decency and concern for others.

Mennonites have been quietly going about the business of educating children for a long, long time in Niagara and they've earned a lot of respect. They are the known, the trusted, the proven.

I don't think the voters of Ontario said no to faith based schools. I think we said no to someone's half-baked politically correct notion of what is fair.

Serviced Again, Ontario

Last week I received a phone call from the local medical clinic asking if I had found my Health Care card.

"I didn't lose it," I said.

"The last time you were here you used a card that was later identified in our computer as 'lost'," insisted the receptionist.

"Oh?" My eyebrows were furrowed in puzzlement. I had no idea what she was talking about.

"You'll need to phone this number and straighten your problem out."

I definitely wanted to 'straighten my problem out' so I hung up and obediently dialled the number she had given me.

"Service Ontario," was the crisp salutation when we were connected.

Oh no! The enhanced driver's licence swindlers! My heart sank.

"Um...Hi... The medical clinic says I've lost my health card," I said bravely. (I mean what were the chances that anybody who worked there had ever googled 'Service Ontario' during their coffee break and happened upon my sarcastic blog, Service This, Ontario 2/28/10).

"Where did you lose it?" asked the voice with the sigh of one who is forced to deal with the imbeciles of Ontario day in and day out.

"Well, actually I didn't lose it - the medical clinic thinks I lost it. I'm looking at it right now."

"Humph. What is your health care number?"

She took my number then said, "When you applied for your new health care card last year it was returned to us because your address was incorrect. Your card has been cancelled."

My health care cancelled? What good is a Canadian without health care?

"Well! I'd like you to know that Canada Post delivered my Health Care Card right to my house and I'm holding it in my hands as we speak!" I let a lot of annoyance creep into my voice. Some things like health care are worth fighting for, (unless you are from the U.S. apparently).

"Yeah? Well what colour is your card?"

"What colour is my card?" I gave a nervous laugh.

I was stalling because I was 98 % sure my card was the same colour as everybody else's card but I was beginning to feel guilty about something. I just didn't know what I had done.

" Well I used to have a red and white one but now I have a green one and ..."

"Dark green or light green?"

Yikes! Was this a trick question? Dark or light green compared to what?

Hoping we could meet half way I opined that it was sort of a medium green. My hands were starting to sweat.

"Well, Frances...

"Here it comes," I thought. I gripped the phone and braced myself for whatever bureaucratic nonsense was about to befall me.

"I'm going to send you a new one! Have a good day."

I'm sure I imagined it, but I could have sworn I heard the laughter of a room full of civil servants before she clicked of.

Jeesh!

What's in a Name?

I've been thinking about changing the heading of my blog. North Pelham News seems a little presumptuous now that I think about it.

I took the spy car out for a little spin around town today and although it is not exactly clear where the boundaries of North Pelham are, I estimate there are about 100 homes here plus the feed store, the Avondale, Ivan's Garage and the crooked church. (I don't mean that it's crooked because it's run by a bunch of Presbyterian ne'er-do-wells, I mean crooked in the sense that just like everything taller than 3 meters on this windswept part of the escarpment, it lists heavily to the east.) Could even be 150 homes here, but like I said who really knows where North Pelham stops and Effingham, Rockway, Boyle and Ridgeville start. I suppose someone must know down at Regional headquarters, but that doesn't matter, my point is that my news is not necessarily the news of the other North Pelhaggonians, therefore I have erred in the naming of my blog.

But what to call it?

Songs From North Pelham - hahahahaha, I'm tone deaf & can't carry a tune
News from a 7th Decade Girl - yawn, too boring
Ramblings of a 7th Decade Girl - Hello Alzheimer's? This is Francie...I think 
Musings of a 7th Decade Girl - too intellectual sounding for moi
Life in the Retirement Lane - give me a break
Life in the Asparagus Patch - season is almost over
Ticked Off - let's not go there
I'm a Cranky Old Broad And This is What I Think About Things - hmmmmmm

Kinda like that last one...

Bugged

Catastrophes in North Pelham

Day 1

It was a windy, cold, wet Saturday and I could see that the purple martins were in great distress, swooping and buzzing as I pulled into the driveway. It didn't take long to spot the problem. Their house was lying on the ground. It had stood on a pole on the corner of this property for 25 years.

From about 2 p.m. until about 6 p.m. the birds sat in the driveway. They sat facing the bird house, perfectly still. It was very unusual behaviour and I wondered if they were in shock.

At one point I went out and set the bird house right side up again - the wind was still blowing hard and had upended it again.

The martins flew a short distance away but as soon as I left they took their positions again.

But there was nothing else to be done.

I came in and turned on my computer. Within minutes I had lost my internet connection.

Jeesh, what a crumby day.


Day 2

Still can't get online.


There was a dead martin in one of the compartments of the bird house. It must have been inside when the wind tore the house from the pole.

I thought of David Suzuki's "A Murder of Crows". He spoke about the mourning that crows appear to go through when one of their flock dies. He described how they all gather in one tree near the body and spend a quiet, still time together.

I wondered if that was what the martins were doing yesterday. Do they understand death? How sad.


Day 3

"Uh oh," said the guy at Niagara.com when I described my computer problem over the phone. "That doesn't sound good."

A few martins were still flying around the bird house when I left that morning with my computer strapped in the passenger seat of my spy car.

"Uh oh," said the guy at the Future Shop as I put my computer on the counter and described my problem. "That doesn't sound good."


Cold, wet and miserable. I mean the weather is still cold, wet and miserable.

I'm just miserable.


Day 4

The new martin house is up but there are no martins. The sparrows are really over the moon about their new digs though. The starlings tried to muscle their way into the neighbourhood and if I wasn't so anxious about the martins I would laugh about how the starlings steal stuff from the sparrows' nests.


The Future Shop called. When I took my computer in they told me I wouldn't have it back for at least a week and here it is, ready in 2 days and my warranty covers the cost!

Even though the weather is still crappy maybe things are looking up??


Day 5

Woke up to find four male martins at the bird house roughing up the interloping sparrows and starlings. The weather is supposed to finally start to clear up tomorrow and they'll bring the girls back then I guess.

Hurray! Bird crisis over! Computer problem solved!



Now if I could just catch those no goodnik asparagus thieves...

Genesis Revisited

The apple was

a great mistake.

This time instead,

let's eat the

snake.

Is that an Asparagus in Your Pocket, or...

I just read that 4% of human genes are Neanderthal. Seems they didn't disappear after all, they are us!

And I have to tell you after seeing the state of my asparagus patch this year I believe it. What kind of a scoundrel would tromp through someone else's patch and take only the tips? I picture these thieves outfitted like dew worm pickers - tin cans tied to their knees and lights strapped to their heads.

But all is not lost. Like all wild asparagus lovers, I do have my secret patch. You can see that it is not on the side of the road. The location is a secret. My dog, Flynn, guards it vigilantly and is trained to kill trespassers. Or bark at them very loudly. Her choice.

Asparagus contains folic acid, vitamin C, potassium and beta-carotene. It is a natural diuretic. It is good for the heart and contains no fat, cholesterol or sodium. What's not to love?

My very favourite recipe, which I found in the Summer , Taste of Home Magazine, combines black beans, (great fibre source) and asparagus and is the hands down, best summer salad I have ever tasted.

You don't have to have wild asparagus to enjoy this one, folks.

Black Bean and Asparagus Salad

1 lb fresh asparagus cut into 1 inch pieces

1 can black beans rinsed and drained

1 medium sweet red pepper cut into 1/2 inch pieces

1 tablespoon finely chopped onion

3 tablespoons olive oil

1 tablespoon cider vinegar

1 tablespoon fresh minced cilantro

1 clove garlic minced

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon ground cumin

dash pepper

Directions: Steam the asparagus for 4 to 5 minutes. Don't overcook them. You want them crisp! Combine the asparagus, beans, red pepper and onion in a bowl. In a smaller bowl whisk the oil, vinegar, cilantro, garlic, salt, cumin and pepper. Pour over the vegetables to coat. Cover and refrigerate for at least two hours.

Yummy.

 

This One Goes to New York

The bomb scare in New York City this week made me realize that is almost a year since my last trip to the Big Apple. New York is my favourite city. It is the only place I've ever been that lived up to what I thought it would be.

The number of New Yorkers who stopped to help whenever we looked the slightest bit baffled was unbelievable. Some people went out of their way to take us where we wanted to go. It is a wonderful place, friendly, clean and safe and I hate to think of all of those people living in fear again. If you can dedicate a simple blog to a city and its people, this one goes to New York.


I went with a bus load of teachers. The idea was that we would leave after the teachers finished work on the Friday before the 24th of May long weekend, drive all night, do the city all day, spend one night in a hotel and drive back on Sunday morning. It sounded like a good idea when I heard about it. I loved New York when I was there three decades ago. And this trip was cheap, cheap, cheap!

What didn't occur to me until I had committed myself and bought a ticket to see South Pacific on Broadway was that I was thirty years old the last time I was in New York City and I flew there in a nice comfortable airplane. This time I was...well, older than thirty and I was planning on sitting up all night on a crowded bus.

But an adventure is an adventure. We took off in a cloud of dust and merriment which ended abruptly at our first stop which was about three meters from our point of departure - the duty free shop in Niagara Falls. That was actually okay with me though. I had won the bus draw and was entitled to pick up a free bottle of wine.

Half an hour later we were off again. We were told that we would be stopping at a restaurant at 7 a.m. to eat and freshen up. The freshen up part became very clear when we found out that the bus wasn't going to take us to our hotel first, actually it wasn't even going to come to a complete stop when we arrived in downtown Manhattan. It was going to slowly roll by Macy's, as close to the curb as it could get and we were going to have to leap out, hopefully not into traffic. Sixty year old women don't leap all that well, but for the price we were paying I guess I was lucky the bus slowed down.

The Flying Wallendas didn't rush over and sign me up for their seniors acrobatic team but I survived.

We went right over to the World Trade Centre site. The site itself is a construction zone but we decided on the spur of the moment to take a tour offered by a group of volunteers. The World Trade Centre Volunteers are people who were either in one of the buildings or lost someone on Sept. 11th.

The guides that day were a woman who lost a cousin and a man who was high up in the second tower and got out. Their stories were very difficult to listen to, the family's last phone call from the cousin when he knew he wasn't going to get out, the man's trip down the stairs in the dark. Both of them told stories that were remarkable for the lack of hatred and because of their resolve that those lost will not be forgotten and that an amazing city will go on.

We managed to see South Pacific on Broadway and get back to Times Square in time for our prepaid tour of the city which ended after dark. We finally arrived back at the hotel at 11 p.m. The next morning our bus picked us up at the same spot outside Macys . It is much harder to leap onto a moving bus than it is to leap off one in case you are wondering.

When we arrived back in Canada later in the day the Canadian Customs Agent climbed on the bus and yelled, "Anybody bringing back anything they shouldn't be bringing back?"

"No!" we all shouted dishonestly in unison. He laughed and climbed back off the bus.

Ah, Canada! It was good to be back home, but you know if I couldn't be home and had to live somewhere else, I'd be proud to be a New Yorker.

The House of Sober Women

In 1867 the people in power chose to model the Canadian Senate after the British House of Lords. It was always intended to be a place for the upper crust to rest their unelected bottoms. But I think we just don't have enough of the historical upstairs/downstairs mentality to carry it off. It may work in Britain because most people there, after a few thousand years of conditioning, really believe that a few aristocrats are entitled to a life of money and leisure. And most aristocrats really feel, not only the weight of the family name, but also beholden enough to the nation to do their minimal part in the governing of the U.K.  But it doesn't seem to be working here according to the shrieks we all heard coming from reporters in Ottawa last week.

There are 105 Senators. Each Senator is making about $300,000 with travel expenses allowed on top of that. Those are your tax dollars and my tax dollars. Is that money being used the way it was intended to be used? The media is making it sound as if we have a group of unaccountable and seemingly unconscionable people draining our coffers. It is hard to prove or disprove something like that when even the Auditor General of Canada, Sheila Fraser is not being allowed to inspect the books.

Do I detect the aroma of Senate reform in the air? Hope so.

This week I came across a quote from George Elliot. She said, "It's never too late to be what you might have been." Maybe we need to go back to the beginnings of the Senate and turn it into what it should have been in the first place. Not modelled on the Brits, modelled on the Iroquois.

My proposal is that we base the new Senate on the Iroquois Clan Matron system. It would be made up of women. There are thirty-six there already and some of the names I recognize as women who have contributed greatly to Canadian society. We would start with them. The senators would continue to be unelected, continue to be chosen from all parts of the country, but have some real power.

The passing of the bills would not be a part of the Senate's mandate anymore. The Iroquois clan matrons controlled the warriors by withholding food if they disapproved of their actions. I'm not saying the Senators would starve an out of control House of Commons into submission. I'm suggesting that each new law or tax would have to be presented to the public showing the Senate's thumbs up or thumbs down. The withholding of approval could be very powerful.

The older I get the more I see the sexes as equal but different - way different. The House of Commons is never going to be a comfortable setting for most women. Why not just give it to the men? They can holler and shout and curse at each other all they want and the women can meet in the Red Chamber, bring the grandkids, drink tea and do the work of monitoring the actions of the Members of Parliament.

Then, truly, at long last, we would have the "house of sober second thought" that Sir John A. always wanted.