Dear George Clooney, It's about Argo.

Dear Mr. Clooney,

Perhaps this should be addressed to Ben Affleck, but I think I might be wasting my time.

First of all I should make it clear that I have not seen your movie, Argo. I will be there when it comes to the local drive-in in the summer. I do know the plot line.

Years ago, I followed the real story, as it unfolded on the national news in both Canada and the United States. It is clear the truth of a piece of real history was grandly manipulated to produce an American heroic thriller.

This may seem a little deal to the immense American ego, but to Canadians it is a much bigger deal.

You see Canadians do not grow up with sense of homemade hero worship. This to my mind is a good thing.

According to a large cross country poll, the most admired man in Canadian history is a Saskatchewan baptist preacher, Tommy Douglas, who as a member of parliament brought the reality of universal healthcare to  our country.

Incidentally, this man was father to Shirley Douglas, father-in-law to Donald Sutherland and grandfather to Kieffer Sutherland. These may still be familiar Hollywood names, however, his name will remain strong in Canadian history as the names of his relatives fade. Such is life.

Unfortunately, Tommy Douglas's story, is not the kind of story of which thrillers are made.

Here is the problem. When Canadians have a story of epic proportions, it is disheartening to see the story claimed and presented to the world as just another American escapade. The story is a story of brave men and women from both countries.

For the most part we are a good people, who recognize our weaknesses and who willingly offer our help where it is needed . We are a people with heroes, we acknowledge in our own way. Please understand why we are upset when you lessen the heroism of our citizens to aggrandize the myths of yours.

I live in a small fishing village on the Bay of Fundy, and see men and women and children of courage living their everyday lives. I am also witness to everyday drama. Everyday stories are more powerful than fiction. It is not always wise to mix the two.

It is not appreciated that you took one of the grand acts of heroism of our land, to embellish the myths of your own. Leave some of the leading roles where they belong.

Mr. President, Congratulations on a Fine Day of Celebrations

Here I sit at my computer, a grandma, in a little fishing village on the Bay of Fundy, in Nova Scotia watching your big day, your country's big day. I wish you well, I wish  your family well and I wish your country well.

There are ties, even strong family ties, that have bonded us together for over two hundred years.We are the same people yet different. Our nationhood emerged in a far different way. In a land of great cold, community was not an option, but a necessity.

Our country seems to be moving against the will of many citizens into becoming a less inclusive, less compassionate country. Our practical compassion for all our people and all the people of the world is being thwarted by our leader.

Many of us are striving to return to a more generous time.

My hope is that  your "We the people" are all people, not only the people within your borders. The people of our countries need to embrace the reality that all people everywhere are created equal.

You see my two daughters are now women with children of there own. Sometimes I think we are running out of time to make good on the promises we made for our  children and the promises we make for our grandchildren, and for all the people's children and grandchildren yet to come.

Let's hope that together all nations can come together to fulfill our obligations to posterity.

Good Bye to the Little White Church on the Cliff

To everything there is a season. A church is the people. The little white church on the cliff no longer has people and it is sad.

The one roomed building needs so much care and there are no longer the people to care for it. One by one the  shingles fly off in the magnificent winds. The foundations crack as the land shifts. The edge of the cliff moves imperceptibly closer. The walls need paint, the old oil burner is no longer legal and the outside privy has been neglected for years.

Almost all of the people who gave life to this church are gone.

For over one hundred and fifty years the church served the community and so many people served the church.

The church in its simplicity remains beautiful inside. The hard, straight backed pews were built by and for the hardworking, no nonsense Methodist people of a time gone by and have changed little from that time.

When I first arrived in Harbourville, the small, devoted congregation included many for whom the church had always been part of their lives. They had a fierce loyalty to the place. To a certain extent the matriarchs spoke and there will was done. This was not an oppressive situation. There was a sense that this was as it should have been. Those matriarchs are gone now and there are not others to take their place.

As someone from a different time and a different place I cannot speak with their voice, but a piece of my heart will remain with this church. No one else seems to claim the voice.

Throughout the years, the church has filled on Christmas Eve. The building gets this one night to remember what it was to be filled. One night is not enough.

We few are too few.

Others will make the decisions on what the future will hold in the seasons to come.




........ to be continued

Moses Goes for an Overnight

Moses and I were invited, as weekend guests, to friends home on the South Shore. The truth is this was my dog, Moe's, first invitation, anywhere.

I figured the same road that took us there could always take us home again, if all did not go well.

All went well.

We were greeted at the farm, by five cats, five horses, one small dog with attitude, and two wonderful human beings.  Given the option of sleeping in an apartment, in the horse barn or a bedroom in the house, I chose the barn for us. I was thinking thoughts of Mickey Rooney's bed in National Velvet, or my long ago Scots ancestors in the crofts of the Highlands. Perhaps I was thinking of a re-enactment of the Christmas Story, Moses having the starring role.

It was no surprise that our accommodations were most gracious. It was also clear that we were sleeping in a barn. On a cold winters night, as we snuggled in a cozy bed, the horses stamped their feet, rattled chains and made impressive horse noises. Although I am nervous around big animals without strong boundaries between us, I slept comfortably in their nearby presence. Moses to my surprise didn't acknowledge the sounds of their presence.

When we went up to the house, his behaviour was exemplary. He behaved in a most respectful manner with the cats. To be honest, he was a little intimidated by the sweet things. The little dog's proprietary rights were respected and he even ate a big, bloody bone on the sheet provided.

While exploring the great outdoors, he found himself in a paddock, as the horses were entering it from the barn. A very large grey didn't want him there and took off after him in a most ungracious way. Moses fled into the woods. I was with him in the paddock and was just about as welcome. Thinking, "don't run, don't run, don't run", I made haste to the closest exit.

In time Moses returned from the woods, as we called him with our sweet voices offering all sorts of delights.

When  our visit was over, before he fell fast asleep in the back seat of the car, the big old dog let me know he would be happy to come back;  but, was there anything they could do about the horses?

Another Christmas Slips Away

There was no Christmas Tree to de-decorate this year. The Christmas Spirit came quietly and slowly, asking no fuss or bother of me. What a wonderful gift !

Of course, Christmas was welcome. The Christmas dishes filled the kitchen cupboards throughout December. Christmas packages were unhurriedly wrapped. The parcels sent to far away places were mailed days before the post office deadline. For the first time in ages I mailed Christmas cards and even enjoyed it. The sparkly wreath hung on the door and a  child's sleigh, bedecked with a great big red bow, until a strong wind blew it away,  hung from a porch pillar.

Unexpected snow lightly covered the ground. Others busied themselves with preparations for a Christmas Eve Service, in the little white clapboard church on the cliff.

My cousin and I were off to a new Christmas in the city, at my daughter's and her husband's house. What a treat it was to have a merry little elf about, taking in the magic with his big brown eyes.

The stockings were hung on the bannister with care, and indeed at some moment St. Nick was there.

We woke to a morning of the fun of enough, without the burden of too much.

My daughter entertains with simple elegance. Next year if she wants, she can have a chance not to be Mrs. Christmas. It sure suited me this year.

Perhaps differing Christmases are the new norm.

Let the Connecticut Children Rest in Peace

When my younger daughter was in grade four, a little girl in her class, who sometimes called for her on the way to school, died violently.

On Saturday, my daughter went to her birthday party and had a wonderful time.

The following week, the father took the mother and his daughter for a late evening drive. It was their last drive. He intentionally drove up an exit ramp of a multilane Toronto highway, the wrong way and steered the car under an oncoming transport truck.

All were killed instantly.

The father had previous mental health issues.

The next day the school informed the parents of the children, in Desiree's class of the tragedy. Of course the members of the community already knew the horrid news.

My daughter's first reaction was surprising. "Why didn't her daddy let her have ice in her pop ?" Apparently, he was concerned about ice and teeth. "Why was he worried about her teeth if he was going to do that ?"

When the children arrived at school, they were met by their teacher and a team of grief counsellors. For several days the children drew pictures, went for walks in the park, listened  to stories and expressed their ideas and emotions in small groups. Too be frank, it was just too much.

These were not the normal school days the children wanted.

About day four, my sunny dispositioned little girl, came home for lunch, furious. That morning the class had been read Desiree's personal classroom journal. The children had been assured, when they started these journals, they were for their eyes only. "What colour is maroon anyway?" That was her favourite colour. My daughter was offended, as only a young child can be righteously offended. The privacy of her friend was being invaded.

"Why can't they just leave Desiree alone to be dead?"

A death of a child who was tragically killed will always remain a part of the children's  childhood memories. She was a sweet little girl.

The class went on to plan a little ceremony and plant a lilac tree in Desiree's memory. That was as it should be.

My daughter knew instinctively as a child, there was a time to let Desiree rest in peace.

My wish for the twenty children in Connecticut, who were brutally slaughtered in their classroom, and their friends and family, is that they will soon be given a chance to be at peace. They have no need for more flowers, balloons and stuffed animals.

I'll plant a tree, but the more fitting tribute will be when the laws of their country are changed to make future massacres of this kind, less possible.

Rest in peace.

North Mountain Chorus Sings 2012

North Mountain Chorus sings, and I find myself singing with them. I have never fancied myself a singer. The only place I can imagine myself musically inclined is rocking wee babies to sleep, with lullabies.

And here I find myself dressed in black, like those around me, with unfamiliar bling around my neck, trilling away with the best of them.

That is the point. The less than expert trillers can trill, when they find themselves surrounded by the voices of fine trillers. 

There we were, standing on risers at the front of the United Church, down the mountain, in the nearby town. We were making a joyful noise that was welcomed not only in ourselves, but by the many listeners as well.

I have always thought that perfection sucks, or as my late mother would prefer me to say, perfection isn't everything. There is no question near perfection is sometimes required; however, the hands of a potter or the hands of a weaver create objects touched by hearts, that no machine manufacturing the physically perfect object can ever produce. 

The joy of singing enters songs. The strong singers clear a path for the less strong singers to move along. The voices are joined together in a hall up the mountain, where we practise each week. Here freedom is given each voice a chance to sing well enough to release joy into the songs, that is released into a world badly in need of joy.