The day of the Obama inauguration, CBC radio asked for reactions from listeners. In addition to the many who expressed great joy and enthusiasm, several were appalled at the amount of time, money and effort spent on the event, and others were disgusted by the outpouring of emotion for "just another politician." Recent events make their cynicism understandable. They see no hope in the efforts of a single man; they feel no optimism for a world weighted down by war, ruined economies and environmental degradation. Nothing positive can trump the awful hand they believe fate has dealt them and all of us. They lack perspective, perhaps, those nay-sayers. Or maybe they never developed the imagination to visualize the improbable, or build a marvellous fort out of a cardboard box, or create an impregnable castle in a tree.
Most people felt joy during the inauguration, and on the faces of many of the older American observers, the joy was expressed in tears. For once the symbolic significance of this particular African-American's election to America's highest office far outweighed the concrete realities he faces. The memories and lingering images of Selma and Birmingham, Alabama, of burning churches and police dogs, of three great leaders and three assassinations, of napalm and chaos in Viet Nam, and smart bombs and chaos in Iraq, all those memories and countless others bubbled to the surface in the minds of those older observers, who hoped that, though he could not make the memories disappear, he could show once and for all that they represented merely painful steps on the road that led to the fulfilment of all the lofty promises of the American constitution.
The more significant aspect of Obama's inauguration might be that so many people the world over could find such joy and hope in a symbolic event, that our capacity for dreaming and imagining, speculating and envisioning has not been diminished by world crises. It is after all what led us to create constitutions in the first place. And castles in trees.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Have a fearless Christmas
A parliamentary crisis, a looming recession, 100,000 stranded tourists in Thailand, terrorist attacks in Mumbai, and Britney Spears is making a comback. There is so much depressing news to comment on.
I listened to a CBC radio debate the other day about whether or not it was one's patriotic duty to go out and spend money to support the collapsing economy. Arguments were made on both sides. Opinions varied from "I owe it to my family not to spend and make our situation worse" to "You might as well spend the money and have something concrete in your hand when the whole country goes down the tube." I eventually formed my own opinion based not so much on any particular view that I had just heard, but the fact that the opinions were so diverse. No one knows what is going to happen in the world economy. The pundits don't have a clue, the politicians are all dithering, we know the financial movers and shakers who started it are obviously devoid of any reliable insight. So without anyone having the slightest idea of how things will turn out, what is it that forms our opinions on what course of action we should take? Fear, of course. Old Franklin Delano Roosevelt was right.
After that occurred to me, I started to become annoyed. Here I was, worried about my income, my property values, my pension, all because that gang of myopic, money grubbing, Wall Street mega-crooks had allowed their own swollen greed to displace not only all moral and ethical values but even all rational thought. They had made me fearful, and I resented it. In the past I have commented on the Americans use of fear as a motivator in elections, in the marketplace and in foreign affairs. The idea that their financial incompetence was now making me fearful, made me angry.
I have decided not to restrict my spending habits. It isn't that I have a particularly rosie view of the future, but I've decided that I 'm not going to be afraid. The idiots who invented the financial instruments that allowed the unrestricted packaging and trading of sub-prime mortgages, they can have my fear of financial loss instead. And while their lifestyles will no doubt hardly suffer at all, one can always hope.
Meanwhile, I will buy my Christmas presents in stores around town, go to the pub a couple of times a month as usual, and accompany my wife to the Christmas craft fairs. It is a good time of year to not be afraid.
I listened to a CBC radio debate the other day about whether or not it was one's patriotic duty to go out and spend money to support the collapsing economy. Arguments were made on both sides. Opinions varied from "I owe it to my family not to spend and make our situation worse" to "You might as well spend the money and have something concrete in your hand when the whole country goes down the tube." I eventually formed my own opinion based not so much on any particular view that I had just heard, but the fact that the opinions were so diverse. No one knows what is going to happen in the world economy. The pundits don't have a clue, the politicians are all dithering, we know the financial movers and shakers who started it are obviously devoid of any reliable insight. So without anyone having the slightest idea of how things will turn out, what is it that forms our opinions on what course of action we should take? Fear, of course. Old Franklin Delano Roosevelt was right.
After that occurred to me, I started to become annoyed. Here I was, worried about my income, my property values, my pension, all because that gang of myopic, money grubbing, Wall Street mega-crooks had allowed their own swollen greed to displace not only all moral and ethical values but even all rational thought. They had made me fearful, and I resented it. In the past I have commented on the Americans use of fear as a motivator in elections, in the marketplace and in foreign affairs. The idea that their financial incompetence was now making me fearful, made me angry.
I have decided not to restrict my spending habits. It isn't that I have a particularly rosie view of the future, but I've decided that I 'm not going to be afraid. The idiots who invented the financial instruments that allowed the unrestricted packaging and trading of sub-prime mortgages, they can have my fear of financial loss instead. And while their lifestyles will no doubt hardly suffer at all, one can always hope.
Meanwhile, I will buy my Christmas presents in stores around town, go to the pub a couple of times a month as usual, and accompany my wife to the Christmas craft fairs. It is a good time of year to not be afraid.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Remembrance Day
Remembrance Day makes you think.
Of all human endeavours, war is the most troubling, and the most paradoxical. We despise the death and destruction that are caused by it; we celebrate the heroism and self-sacrifice that arise out of it.
Pundits often say that the victors get to write the history books, and there is some truth in that. The terrible actions of the Axis powers: the invasion of Poland, the bombardment of civilians in Britain, the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor, the Long March, the Holocaust, all are the stuff of countless documentaries, books and films with which Canadians, at least of a certain age, are familiar. The fire bombing of Dresden, Germany, however, in February of 1945 which incinerated an estimated 40,000 civilians in three days, is generally ignored by most citizens of the formerly Allied nations or recorded as a justifiable act by Allied historians, and the atomic bomb attacks on the civilian populations of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, which caused the death of 200,000 more, are commonly excused as being "necessary." After all, they started it.
I had four uncles who flew in World War II as either bomber pilots or navigators. All miraculously survived countless sorties over Germany. They flew repeated missions into ground and fighter aircraft fire that tore apart their planes and killed their crew members. Their bravery was extraordinary; none actually expected to live through it. Their superiors told them they were targeting military installations, industrial complexes, and suppliers of the German war machine, not people, not women, not children. They tried to believe it.
I came to Canada 40 years ago from Illinois to avoid fighting in a war started for vague reasons by men with little understanding of the people I was supposed to travel 10,000 miles to kill. I was bothered however by the efficiency of my draft board; I knew that they would fill the quota of Rock Island County draftees that month, with me or without me. There is a song called "Veterans' Day" by Tom Russell. It's about Jimmy McGrew, a soldier missing in action in Viet Nam. The chorus goes: "It's Veterans' Day, and the skies are grey/ Leave your uniforms home 'cause there ain't gonna be a parade/But we'll lift up a glass to the ones who didn't make it through/ And put a light in the window tonight for Jimmy McGrew."
I didn't sleep all that well a week ago Tuesday. At about 1:30 in the morning I got up without waking my wife and put a light in one of our windows, not for a fictitious Jimmy McGrew, but for some guy from Rock Island County whose name I will never know.
Remembrance Day makes you think.
Of all human endeavours, war is the most troubling, and the most paradoxical. We despise the death and destruction that are caused by it; we celebrate the heroism and self-sacrifice that arise out of it.
Pundits often say that the victors get to write the history books, and there is some truth in that. The terrible actions of the Axis powers: the invasion of Poland, the bombardment of civilians in Britain, the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor, the Long March, the Holocaust, all are the stuff of countless documentaries, books and films with which Canadians, at least of a certain age, are familiar. The fire bombing of Dresden, Germany, however, in February of 1945 which incinerated an estimated 40,000 civilians in three days, is generally ignored by most citizens of the formerly Allied nations or recorded as a justifiable act by Allied historians, and the atomic bomb attacks on the civilian populations of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, which caused the death of 200,000 more, are commonly excused as being "necessary." After all, they started it.
I had four uncles who flew in World War II as either bomber pilots or navigators. All miraculously survived countless sorties over Germany. They flew repeated missions into ground and fighter aircraft fire that tore apart their planes and killed their crew members. Their bravery was extraordinary; none actually expected to live through it. Their superiors told them they were targeting military installations, industrial complexes, and suppliers of the German war machine, not people, not women, not children. They tried to believe it.
I came to Canada 40 years ago from Illinois to avoid fighting in a war started for vague reasons by men with little understanding of the people I was supposed to travel 10,000 miles to kill. I was bothered however by the efficiency of my draft board; I knew that they would fill the quota of Rock Island County draftees that month, with me or without me. There is a song called "Veterans' Day" by Tom Russell. It's about Jimmy McGrew, a soldier missing in action in Viet Nam. The chorus goes: "It's Veterans' Day, and the skies are grey/ Leave your uniforms home 'cause there ain't gonna be a parade/But we'll lift up a glass to the ones who didn't make it through/ And put a light in the window tonight for Jimmy McGrew."
I didn't sleep all that well a week ago Tuesday. At about 1:30 in the morning I got up without waking my wife and put a light in one of our windows, not for a fictitious Jimmy McGrew, but for some guy from Rock Island County whose name I will never know.
Remembrance Day makes you think.
A Silver Lining?
I really don't like writing about "silver linings." I much prefer to write a lengthy diatribe describing in overly ripe language one or more of the dark, weighty, rain-filled clouds hanging over us: economic collapse, corporate greed, George Bush or any one of the numerous human frailties that we can so readily observe in society. So many things exist that can provoke me into a lengthy rant.
So when I say that there may be a silver lining to the economic disaster generated by greedy corporate gamblers on Wall Street, I do it reluctantly, especially since the avarice displayed by those soulless sociopaths will indubitably result in the suffering and death of thousands of people in the Third World who as part of the "New World Order" either have come to rely on foreign aid or have been forced to turn their meager self-sustaining farms into producers of cash crops which now no one will buy.
The silver lining may be, however, that we will see an end to the kind of thinking that has manipulated the lives of millions of the poor world-wide. Perhaps as well we will see the end of the idea that those in the G7 countries know what is best, that their vision of a world united under some sort of free-trade, unregulated, corporate hegemony is not in fact the way to universal prosperity, but only another attempt by a few to control and profit from the majority.
In addition, North Americans may be forced to think on a smaller, more local, more affordable, more sustainable scale. Smaller cars, smaller houses, more careful choices and greater appreciation for what we have may be the result of many people losing their big cars, big houses and high paying jobs, though as always the people hurt the most will in fact not be the very wealthy but those who can least afford it.
In the mean time, I would encourage everyone to join me in a rant of your own choice. Your displeasure may have an effect if it is loud enough to be heard by the movers and shakers of society, and if not, well, at least it feels good.
So when I say that there may be a silver lining to the economic disaster generated by greedy corporate gamblers on Wall Street, I do it reluctantly, especially since the avarice displayed by those soulless sociopaths will indubitably result in the suffering and death of thousands of people in the Third World who as part of the "New World Order" either have come to rely on foreign aid or have been forced to turn their meager self-sustaining farms into producers of cash crops which now no one will buy.
The silver lining may be, however, that we will see an end to the kind of thinking that has manipulated the lives of millions of the poor world-wide. Perhaps as well we will see the end of the idea that those in the G7 countries know what is best, that their vision of a world united under some sort of free-trade, unregulated, corporate hegemony is not in fact the way to universal prosperity, but only another attempt by a few to control and profit from the majority.
In addition, North Americans may be forced to think on a smaller, more local, more affordable, more sustainable scale. Smaller cars, smaller houses, more careful choices and greater appreciation for what we have may be the result of many people losing their big cars, big houses and high paying jobs, though as always the people hurt the most will in fact not be the very wealthy but those who can least afford it.
In the mean time, I would encourage everyone to join me in a rant of your own choice. Your displeasure may have an effect if it is loud enough to be heard by the movers and shakers of society, and if not, well, at least it feels good.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Beware the Green Police
I was speaking with Kalyeena Makortoff, the Grand Forks Gazette's youngest reporter, the other day about her experiences during and after a protest she was involved in on the UBC campus a few weeks ago. She discovered the difficulties one can have when confronting "the Man." That's my expression not hers; she would never use a Sixties term like "the Man."
Of course, whenever one confronts the prevailing authority of the day, one can expect to be received with less than kindness. In her case, she was arrested and thrown in the clink over night. In the Sixties in Illinois where I grew up, protesters were hit with clubs, bitten by dogs and then thrown in the clink over night. At least neither Kalyeena nor I were Tasered.
Prevailing authority doesn't have to be the police or government of course. It can consist merely of commonly held beliefs or opinions.
The problem is that when large numbers of people hold similar strong beliefs they reinforce one another's certainty that those beliefs are correct and absolute. The fervor with which those beliefs are held can be astonishing. I am not just referring to the obvious fanatics who blow themselves up for holy causes; one doesn't have to belong to an extreme religious sect to exhibit fervor.
An acquaintance of mine who drives a large diesel pick-up was confronted at a gas station by a young mother in a Smart Car who loudly proclaimed her disgust at his disregard for the planet.
While glancing at a fish display in Overwaitea, I was myself told by a woman in her thirties: "Don't you dare buy farmed salmon; they're killing all the real salmon."
Environmental issues have become rallying points for millions who may or may not really understand the issues but are certain that whatever changes might be taking place are bad and must be stopped because the consequences will be... well, no one is really sure, but they are bound to be disastrous. Terms like "extinction," "extermination," "death of the planet" are used to make sure the significance of potential ecological change is taken seriously.
I don't presume to know any more about the speed or direction of climate change than anyone else. Neither do I object in any way to the measures proposed by those who wish to keep earth as close to its present state as possible. I just hope that the environmentally concerned will not turn into some form of Green Police. I don't want to be beaten with a loaf of locally grown, organic nine-grain bread any more than I did a police baton.
Of course, whenever one confronts the prevailing authority of the day, one can expect to be received with less than kindness. In her case, she was arrested and thrown in the clink over night. In the Sixties in Illinois where I grew up, protesters were hit with clubs, bitten by dogs and then thrown in the clink over night. At least neither Kalyeena nor I were Tasered.
Prevailing authority doesn't have to be the police or government of course. It can consist merely of commonly held beliefs or opinions.
The problem is that when large numbers of people hold similar strong beliefs they reinforce one another's certainty that those beliefs are correct and absolute. The fervor with which those beliefs are held can be astonishing. I am not just referring to the obvious fanatics who blow themselves up for holy causes; one doesn't have to belong to an extreme religious sect to exhibit fervor.
An acquaintance of mine who drives a large diesel pick-up was confronted at a gas station by a young mother in a Smart Car who loudly proclaimed her disgust at his disregard for the planet.
While glancing at a fish display in Overwaitea, I was myself told by a woman in her thirties: "Don't you dare buy farmed salmon; they're killing all the real salmon."
Environmental issues have become rallying points for millions who may or may not really understand the issues but are certain that whatever changes might be taking place are bad and must be stopped because the consequences will be... well, no one is really sure, but they are bound to be disastrous. Terms like "extinction," "extermination," "death of the planet" are used to make sure the significance of potential ecological change is taken seriously.
I don't presume to know any more about the speed or direction of climate change than anyone else. Neither do I object in any way to the measures proposed by those who wish to keep earth as close to its present state as possible. I just hope that the environmentally concerned will not turn into some form of Green Police. I don't want to be beaten with a loaf of locally grown, organic nine-grain bread any more than I did a police baton.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Savng the planet through guilt
The Green Movement, the 100 Mile Diet, Save The Planet, Carbon Credits: it turns out that determining the best way to go about putting environmental concerns into action just isn't that clear or easy. Take shopping at the grocery store for example. Do you want to help the impoverished grape pickers of Chile eke out a meager existence and have the bunker fuel burning cargo ship's pollution on your conscience, or do you want to buy those somewhat more local Fraser Valley blueberries and subsidize the destruction of valuable disappearing wetlands? Do you want corn on the cob in January brought in the tens of tons by train from California, or are you willing to wait until August when Jerome drives three bushels over from Midway in his rusting out '73 Ford pick-up? Which is more eco friendly? And then of course we still have to bag it. Paper or plastic? Do you want to pillage the green treed slopes of Beaverdell, or ravage the oil sands of Alberta? Normally I'd say Alberta, but you can't even joke about this anymore; it's become just too serious.
Power generation is another area that poses a dilemma for the environmentally concerned. Recently in the Vancouver Sun, former Socred minister Dr. Pat McGeer ranted against the move to small privately-funded power projects. Instead he wished for a return to mega-dams, the Site C project south of Fort St. John in particular. If built, such a dam would indeed provide great amounts of power, 900 megawatts, but flood 80 km. of the Peace River Valley. The small run-of-river power generating projects on the other hand flood nothing. Instead they divert water around waterfalls and rapids that are enjoyed by outdoor enthusiasts and require the construction of access roads and power lines through often environmentally-sensitive areas.
When I was growing up, the issues people faced were local or perhaps just family related. Now we are expected to think regionally, nationally, and globally.
The guilt we are supposed to feel about our actions or inaction has now expanded to embrace the rapidly expanding deserts of Africa to the dwindling ice caps of both Poles.
I can't allow myself to become depressed, however; the medication I would then have to purchase would merely support the irresponsible policies of the avaricious multinational drug monopolies. At my age, any more guilt might kill me.
Power generation is another area that poses a dilemma for the environmentally concerned. Recently in the Vancouver Sun, former Socred minister Dr. Pat McGeer ranted against the move to small privately-funded power projects. Instead he wished for a return to mega-dams, the Site C project south of Fort St. John in particular. If built, such a dam would indeed provide great amounts of power, 900 megawatts, but flood 80 km. of the Peace River Valley. The small run-of-river power generating projects on the other hand flood nothing. Instead they divert water around waterfalls and rapids that are enjoyed by outdoor enthusiasts and require the construction of access roads and power lines through often environmentally-sensitive areas.
When I was growing up, the issues people faced were local or perhaps just family related. Now we are expected to think regionally, nationally, and globally.
The guilt we are supposed to feel about our actions or inaction has now expanded to embrace the rapidly expanding deserts of Africa to the dwindling ice caps of both Poles.
I can't allow myself to become depressed, however; the medication I would then have to purchase would merely support the irresponsible policies of the avaricious multinational drug monopolies. At my age, any more guilt might kill me.
Celebrating Christmas
For some reason, memories of Christmas seem particularly clear and unusually plentiful. I can’t remember what I ate for breakfast, but I can tell you what I got for Christmas when I was 11: a World Book encyclopedia in twenty four volumes. I had wanted a set of swim fins, a mask and snorkel and a rubber band powered spear gun. Okay, I knew my parents wouldn’t get me the spear gun, but an encyclopedia? What a let down. That’s the other thing about Christmas: our memories of the holiday cover such a wide range of feeling. Joy and sadness, elation and disappointment, togetherness and loneliness, Christmas has a way of heightening every emotion and magnifying every perception.
I missed Christmas entirely when I was eight, brought low by a bout with some bug that rendered me comatose from Christmas Eve Day until Boxing Day. Actually, my mother might have knocked me out with one of her Scottish Highland medications designed to stop coughing, clear sinuses and aid sleep, and which as an adult, I began to suspect contained some quantity of whiskey. At any rate, I missed everything: the playing with my cousins, my Uncle Pete’s fabulous animated outdoor Christmas displays, my grandfather’s sweet smelling Swedish “glüg” distilling slowly on the kitchen stove, and the laughter. Everyone’s laughter. It wasn’t that my own family didn’t laugh, but it was different at Christmas. The petty concerns of being a kid were momentarily forgotten. You didn’t have to worry if your parents were still mad at you for breaking your glasses – again, or be jealous of your older brother’s 26 inch bicycle, or plot how you were going to catch your younger brother stealing from your piggy bank. You could just be happy and laugh. When I was eight, I missed all that laughter: the tittering of the other kids at silly knock-knock jokes and comic books, my grandmother’s warm, quiet chuckle, the sudden grinning outburst from my father, my Aunt Betty’s ironic comments muttered out of the side of her mouth, and most of all, the laughter that welled up and resounded from my Uncle Ray. Uncle Ray wasn’t a big man, but he had a deep, warm laugh that filled the room and enveloped everyone in it. The laughter that came from him was slow and rich and conveyed a sense of pleasant well-being that I don’t believe I have experienced since. I loved to hear Uncle Ray laugh.
We opened our presents with my cousins at their house on Christmas Eve, in the Swedish tradition, the tradition of my father’s family. After a few years, a clever child could predict what the presents would probably be: clothes mostly. A sweater from my grandparents, a shirt from each of my aunts, practical things, with a box of chocolates thrown in for fun. The main presents from Santa, the bikes or trains (or encyclopedias) would be delivered the next morning at home. I welcomed the clothes though, mainly because my other relatives had different taste than my mother and I could expect to receive something that had a little flair, a little chic, a little colour, and that didn’t always itch. Like the paisley shirt my Aunt Betty once bought for me, or the cowboy belt with imitation silver buckle and end tip that my Grandmother gave me. My grandmother’s sense of humour carried over into her gifts. When I was in my early teens she began a tradition of bringing a box of neckties to the Christmas Eve celebrations to be given away to all the men. The ties came from the closet of a wealthy friend who had passed away without any heirs, leaving a multitude of clothing items behind. The eight males in the family would draw numbers that determined the order of tie selection and then pick their favorites until all the ties were gone. Then we would offer a Christmas toast to the late Mr. Forsinger. For years the most valuable clothing items I owned were a half dozen of those Italian silk neckties; I still have one.
The memories of Christmas that Canadians have differ significantly one from another; our families are so very different. Our traditions are wonderfully varied as well, garnered from the many lands and cultures around the world where the Christmas story is celebrated. They shift and refocus over time, as families change and grow and new memories are added.
My Uncle Ray died last week. He was 89. I hadn’t seen him in 10 years, or more than four times in the last 40. Circumstances and geography got in the way. But as I celebrate Christmas this year with my own children and grandchildren I will think of him and my other relatives who are no longer with us. Those memories will make the holiday even richer. And at some point, in the midst of the celebration, above the sound of children and Christmas music, I know that I will smile to hear in the background a certain familiar, deep, resonant laugh. I always do. I always will.
I missed Christmas entirely when I was eight, brought low by a bout with some bug that rendered me comatose from Christmas Eve Day until Boxing Day. Actually, my mother might have knocked me out with one of her Scottish Highland medications designed to stop coughing, clear sinuses and aid sleep, and which as an adult, I began to suspect contained some quantity of whiskey. At any rate, I missed everything: the playing with my cousins, my Uncle Pete’s fabulous animated outdoor Christmas displays, my grandfather’s sweet smelling Swedish “glüg” distilling slowly on the kitchen stove, and the laughter. Everyone’s laughter. It wasn’t that my own family didn’t laugh, but it was different at Christmas. The petty concerns of being a kid were momentarily forgotten. You didn’t have to worry if your parents were still mad at you for breaking your glasses – again, or be jealous of your older brother’s 26 inch bicycle, or plot how you were going to catch your younger brother stealing from your piggy bank. You could just be happy and laugh. When I was eight, I missed all that laughter: the tittering of the other kids at silly knock-knock jokes and comic books, my grandmother’s warm, quiet chuckle, the sudden grinning outburst from my father, my Aunt Betty’s ironic comments muttered out of the side of her mouth, and most of all, the laughter that welled up and resounded from my Uncle Ray. Uncle Ray wasn’t a big man, but he had a deep, warm laugh that filled the room and enveloped everyone in it. The laughter that came from him was slow and rich and conveyed a sense of pleasant well-being that I don’t believe I have experienced since. I loved to hear Uncle Ray laugh.
We opened our presents with my cousins at their house on Christmas Eve, in the Swedish tradition, the tradition of my father’s family. After a few years, a clever child could predict what the presents would probably be: clothes mostly. A sweater from my grandparents, a shirt from each of my aunts, practical things, with a box of chocolates thrown in for fun. The main presents from Santa, the bikes or trains (or encyclopedias) would be delivered the next morning at home. I welcomed the clothes though, mainly because my other relatives had different taste than my mother and I could expect to receive something that had a little flair, a little chic, a little colour, and that didn’t always itch. Like the paisley shirt my Aunt Betty once bought for me, or the cowboy belt with imitation silver buckle and end tip that my Grandmother gave me. My grandmother’s sense of humour carried over into her gifts. When I was in my early teens she began a tradition of bringing a box of neckties to the Christmas Eve celebrations to be given away to all the men. The ties came from the closet of a wealthy friend who had passed away without any heirs, leaving a multitude of clothing items behind. The eight males in the family would draw numbers that determined the order of tie selection and then pick their favorites until all the ties were gone. Then we would offer a Christmas toast to the late Mr. Forsinger. For years the most valuable clothing items I owned were a half dozen of those Italian silk neckties; I still have one.
The memories of Christmas that Canadians have differ significantly one from another; our families are so very different. Our traditions are wonderfully varied as well, garnered from the many lands and cultures around the world where the Christmas story is celebrated. They shift and refocus over time, as families change and grow and new memories are added.
My Uncle Ray died last week. He was 89. I hadn’t seen him in 10 years, or more than four times in the last 40. Circumstances and geography got in the way. But as I celebrate Christmas this year with my own children and grandchildren I will think of him and my other relatives who are no longer with us. Those memories will make the holiday even richer. And at some point, in the midst of the celebration, above the sound of children and Christmas music, I know that I will smile to hear in the background a certain familiar, deep, resonant laugh. I always do. I always will.
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