Another Pat on the Back

HEATHER'S NOTE: Below is an email exchange between Evelyn and a young Aurora citizen. I thought this was definitely worth posting. I've removed the young man's name.
~HEATHER SISMAN

----- Original Message -----
From: "Name Removedl" <_________@aci.on.ca
To:evelynb@aci.on.ca
Sent: Saturday, May 26, 2007 12:00 AM
Subject: Regarding your Blog


Dear Ms. Buck:

My name is ______________, a local Aurora resident (recently 18 years of age), and an avid reader of your blog online. I just wanted to take the time to comment on a recent town council meeting I had the opportunity to watch in which you suggested the potential for publishing town
council meetings onto the Town of Aurora's website. I think this is an excellent idea. It's not always convienient to sit down and watch ACI's channel 10 at the prescribed times that town council meetings air, and I think this would be an excellent way to make local politics more
accessible to people of younger ages.

On that note, I just wanted to comment / commend you on your adopted use of technology to get your ideas across. I take great pleasure in reading your blog, and I have quoted your writing in several occasions in politics papers I have written for various assignments.

Thank you for making your viewpoints, idealisms, and thoughts accessible for everyone. Your transparency in those matters has not only increased my interest in municipal politics, but it has driven me to pursue involvement in it.

Sincerely yours,
_______________

One Potato....Two Potato...

I have had comments.. to my blog. Heather says I should not presume to know from whence they came. But I do. They always have the same tone. The last comment was that I obviously have no idea how much I am revealing of myself when I write.

I have lived for more than three-quarters of a century. If you can't imagine that length of time, don't worry. I have trouble myself realizing it and it is my time. I have been writing blurbs of one kind or another for almost half a century. Reading other people's offerings for longer than that. Nothing reveals more about a person than their writing. It is the reason most active politicians are reluctant scribes...ergo anonymous.

Writing what I thought about a particular situation was my first political act, although I did not know it at the time. Not until a neighbour suggested I should make a bid for a council seat. When I was elected and others were not, an oft heard comment was ”I guess we should be writing letters to the editor.”

Had they asked, I would have told them - what you write reveals everything . You can't fake it when you write it.

If you are full of bluff and bluster, it shows. If you are full of bile and other digestive byproducts, it shows. If your logic is adrift and shifts in the breeze, oh dearrie me yes, it will show.

Of course I know how much I reveal . I do it consciously because I know I can strike a chord. I believe we are all the same under the skin. We are as good as the best and better than the rest.

I want people to trust their own judgment, make up their own minds, let no-one tell them what to think or how to vote. Look for someone to trust because they showed their respect by being forthright about themselves.

I do not believe a person should have to pretend they are something they are not to be able to win public office. I passionately disbelieve the right to govern belongs to the elite of society.

Furthermore, if Winston Churchill had not been raised as an elite, he could undoubtedly have made great strides to improve the system for which he had nothing but contempt.

Maybe just maybe, in this speck of the world, I might be able to use my opportunity to sow a small seed in an effort to increase participation in our political process. Is that too large an ambition? Or is that just what every person with the privilege of living in a society such as ours should be doing?

Newsflash!

HEATHER'S NOTE: Spring is a time for change, rebirth, and rejuvenation. To that end, Evelyn and I are revamping both her website, and the blog. I know that some readers have this blog tagged as an RSS feed - so I thought a new post would alert you to all that's transpiring.

Please visit Evelyn's Website Itself to see what we're up to. I'm still learning something new every day and so the site will continue its metamorphosis. For those of you using an RSS feed - you might want to set one up from the new site as well. ~HEATHER SISMAN

Noah's Modern-Day Plight

In the year 2007, the Lord came unto Noah, who was now living in Canada, and said, "Once again, the earth has become wicked and over-populated, and see the end of all flesh before me.

Build another Ark and save 2 of every living thing along with a few good humans."

He gave Noah the blueprints, saying, "You have 6 months to build the Ark before I will start the unending rain for 40 days and 40 nights."

Six months later, the Lord looked down and saw Noah weeping in his yard - but no Ark.

"Noah!" He roared , "I'm about to start the rain! Where is the Ark?"

"Forgive me, Lord," begged Noah, "but things have changed. I needed a building permit. I've been arguing with the inspector about the need for a sprinkler system. My neighbors claim that I've violated the neighborhood zoning laws by building the Ark in my yard and exceeding the height limitations. We had to go to the Development Appeal Board for a decision.

Then the Hydro One demanded a bond be posted for the future costs of moving power lines and other overhead obstructions, to clear the passage for the Ark's move to the sea. I told them that the sea would be coming to us, but they would hear nothing of it.

Getting the wood was another problem. There's a ban on cutting local trees in order to save the spotted owl. I tried to convince the environmentalists that I needed the wood to save the owls - but no go!

When I started gathering the animals, an animal rights group sued me. They insisted that I was confining wild animals against their will. They argued the accommodation was too restrictive , and it was cruel and inhumane to put so many animals in a confined space.

Then the Ministry of the Environment ruled that I couldn't build the Ark until they'd conducted an environmental impact study on your proposed flood.

I'm still trying to resolve a complaint with the Human Rights Commission on how many minorities I'm supposed to hire for my building crew. Immigration and Naturalization are checking the Visa status of most of the people who want to work. The trades unions say I can't use my sons. They insist I have to hire only Union workers with Ark-building experience.

To make matters worse, the Revenue Canada seized all my assets, claiming I'm trying to leave the country illegally with endangered species.

So, forgive me, Lord, but it would take at least 10 years for me to finish this Ark."

Suddenly the skies cleared, the sun began to shine, and a rainbow stretched across the sky. Noah looked up in wonder and asked, "You mean you're not going to destroy the world?"

"No," said the Lord. "The government beat me to it."

Prejudice and Its Absence

I have learned some of my readers have no interest in blogs on town matters but they do enjoy the personal ones. It occurs to me the web site would be the best place for town matters and the blog for the personal. My website is being updated, for the first time, by my friend Heather. It is taking time. In that time, the winter has ended. My garden is tugging at me for attention and the warm sunshine is an enticement to be outdoors.

I have also discovered Facebook. Most of my grandchildren and some of their friends have claimed me as a friend. It is another reason to look forward to each day.

I had an anonymous comment on my Scarlet Fever Blog this morning. “Anonymous” thought my reference to a penny bank which was in the shape of “the bust of a black man” was “an offensive and derogatory term”.

The penny banks were made of iron. The colour was applied so that it never chipped or faded. I have seen them for sale in antique stores. They look smaller than I remember them. Canada was not an industrialized society until after the second world war. Manufactured items were, in the main, imported from other places. That must be why so many items familiar to my childhood, are almost as common here as they are there.

There were very few black people in the place where I grew up. I recall nothing offensive or derogatory about being black. Nor was there anything offensive or derogatory about being Jewish. It seems we were not touched by these lethal prejudices.

The only class deemed to be offensive or derogatory in my particular part of Scotland were Catholics. I was one of those. I can't say I ever felt my religion to be a blight on my life. Of course, that may have had something to do with the teaching that we were the only ones who ever had a chance of entering Heaven and seeing God. It wasn't much of a chance mind you, considering we were all such sinners and all.

Yet even the institutionalized bias against us never did impress itself upon me. Nor does it seem any of the previous generations of my family on hand were ever particularly unhappy about their state in life.

I think, it may be, that those who find it easy to criticize others and use terms like “offensive or derogatory” with regards to people or penny banks, may very well be the ones most negatively affected by their own thinking.

I bid them peace.

One for the Wake

It was a great day. Winter was over. There may be a few frosty mornings yet but it's a time when things happen in the garden in a matter of hours - if you don't stop to watch you miss it. It won't happen again for a year . . who knows where you will be then. I had two choices I could sit on the deck at the back or I could start the tidy-up at the front.

The clematis at the front door has needed attention since fall. Last year it climbed to the eaves; a bit lost among the Swedish Ivy. Then it pulled the ivy off the wall and tumbled in a heap into the garden below. It is a tangled mess and if I don't get at it, it will start putting out leaves on what appear to be dead stems and I will have a hard time cutting it back. The clematis won out over the deck.

I went in with the calipers. I figured I could stand long enough if I leaned against the wall, but I couldn't. Then I considered my options. I'd just flooded the bed with rain and melted snow from the pool cover. The metal tube legs of the stool would simply penetrate the soil. The pink plastic chair had wider legs. They might stay on the surface.

I can't ask my son to do this kind of garden chore. He does a great job of cutting grass, edging beds and digging out weeds. I used to do that happily for hours. I can't tell him that. Sons don't like to be told they have inherited any of mother's eccentricities. Not my sons. If I ask him to do any of the finicky chores, I will, in effect, be inviting him to tell me it's time to reduce the garden. Under no circumstances will I open that door.

I put the pink plastic chair in the garden in front of the clematis and sat in it and started chopping. . . not exactly chopping. . . . more like gnawing. Clematis vine is a skinny scrawny dry thing but it's tougher than rope. As I wrestled I didn't notice the chair sinking. That's when I realized I had made no provision for getting out of that chair.

I examined my options. My cane was out of reach and it would not have been any help anyway. The snow shovel was near to hand. I was sitting in the sun. I was comfortable. My back was to the street. I had been contemplating a snooze on the back deck. Maybe I would just snooze for a bit. In time, my son may drive by and notice me sitting in an odd spot.

My neighbour might come out to put something in the garbage box. It has a heavy lid, no doubt to foil the raccoons. It seems every time it is opened, it is opened high and allowed to drop shut. At times it seems they are visiting the garbage box every five minutes. They wont see my predicament because of the cedar hedge. I could call and ask if they would phone my son and ask him to come round for a minute.

The afternoon was early - not yet time for people to come home from work. But I am still comfortable. The sun is still warm. I consider other options. The clematis vine is strong. It is tangled in the ivy. I could pull myself up out of that chair. It was risky. If the clematis could pull the ivy off the wall, the chances it would stay put against my weight were slim to nothing. If I took the chance, I might end up sprawled on my back with my legs in the air. Not an option.I notice that I am seated close to a thorny rose. I have been close to that rose before and suffered the consequences. I also notice I have sunk further - my shoes are stuck in the muck. If I move my feet, my shoes will not come with them.

For no reason that I can think of, I recalled a story oft told by my mother. She had to send off a government form in the window envelope provided. It came back to her by return post. Puzzled, she examined it - found nothing she could change and sent it off again. Back it came. Now she was really angry. More typical government stupidity, she thought. Sent it off again. Like clockwork it returned. Finally. the light dawned, every time she folded the form her own name and address were in the window.

The recollection comforted me. If I ever get out of it, this story will be a good one for the wake.

I positioned the snow shovel like the mast in a boat. The shovel part was between me and the thorny rose. The chair had tilted. The rear left leg sunk further than the other three. I put my hand over the side and it rested firmly on the dirt. It was an easy roll out of the chair onto my knees. I wrestled the chair from it's sunken position and manouvered it forward - inches at a time. I crawled behind it until it reached solid brick and finally I hoisted myself upward.

Hands, arms, knees and bare feet were mucky but undamaged . I rescued myself from ignominious circumstance and the story is mine and mine alone to tell. . . or not.

I haven't heard my cousin Eileen, in Scotland, laugh like that since the last time I was there. She was telling me how she was starting to forget things. . . I said. . . “That's nothing - wait till I tell you this!”