Canada Sucks?

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Well, so says Howard Lutnick, the USA Secretary of Commerce. The actual quote, when Lutnick commented on Canada’s negotiating strategy is: “That is, like, the worst strategy I’ve ever heard. They suck, they — look, we are a $30-trillion economy, right?”

Meet the man who derailed the Trade Talks between Canada and the USA. They were going well until Tariff loving, Trump adoring Howard Lutnick jumped into the negotiations. Howard is a Canada hater. And, while boasting bout their $30-trillion economy, he neglected to mention he $40 Trillion debt facing the USA due to Trump deal making.

Granted, Howard Lutnick’s expertise on sucking cannot be denied. After all those trips to Epstein’s underage party Island as the “financial adviser” to a financial adviser paedophile, not to mention his unabashed loyalty to the current moronic man-child misdirecting that 30 trillion dollar economy, Howard certainly knows how to suck up to people in power.

We get known by the company we keep, Mr. Lutnick. As we say here in Canada Howard, you need to “Phoque oeuf!” The way I see it.

The Gang of Five: 1 down, 4 to go

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  • For a full term in our current Caledon Council, we witnessed the negative impact of Strong Mayor Powers on democracy. We also witnessed a record of voting block blindness that boggled the imagination. The infamous “Gang Of Five” voted as a team on almost every issue that challenged the line between developer influence and citizen concerns.

Well, with our Strong Mayor suddenly announcing her retirement after her multi-thousand dollar  private fundraiser gala, we are one down, with four to go. Out of those four, only one is running unchallenged in his Ward. One is challenging for Mayor, and the other two are seeking re-election in their Wards.

The rest of the current list of candidates for Council consists either of Real Estate agents from Brampton, or Developers from Brampton, including a former Councillor seeking election as Mayor. Only one Councillor seeking election as Mayor represents the rural/urban composite that is Caledon.

Only five current candidates for Councillor positions are uncontaminated by the last term’s dictatorial behaviour. Let’s wake up, do our homework, and vote accordingly. The decision will obviously be up to Caledon’s constituents. I have my list of preferred current candidates based on track record, defence of democracy in Caledon, social justice and environmental literacy support, and no fear of speaking their truth to power.

And I can assure you that no member of the Group of Five will ever receive my support in a Caledon election. You are either with the people or with the Developers. Greed is not good, the way I see it.

Skid Crease, Caledon

The Song of Water

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I have recently returned from an overnight camping experience that renewed my belief that we all need to spend more time listening to the grand liturgy of the universe. After a full twenty-four hours of a beautiful sunset, a four winds campfire, starry skies, and a magically brilliant sunrise, the awe that was experienced by the children was humbling. It was proof indeed that the old adage: “children are healthier when in respectful contact with nature” was all too true.

Best of all was when those children passed our cosmic stories and their feelings on to their parents. It was one of those experiences that made me reflect on Gaugin’s three great existential questions: “From where did we come? What are we? To where are we going?”  A few days later, in a late night writing zone, this poem formed in my head and simply flowed out.

 

             The Song of Water

The song of water is the rhythm of our birth
It is the heartbeat of a warm salt ocean
In which we are the blind umbilicalled explorers.

The song of water is the rush
That pushes us out into the light
We cry for the loss of its warmth.
We cry in the room of sterile cold.

The song of water is bath time,
Bubbles and splashes and
Warm towels and snuggles.
We giggle with the water.

The song of water is the surge
Of waves on the shore, endlessly.
A rhythm that matches our heartbeat.
We listen and breathe a sigh of remembrance.

The song of water is a wild river,
Is an untamed coastline, is a
Quiet pond. is a drip of dew.
It is a thundering rainstorm!

And when we lay our head down
And take that last long, deep breath,
The sound of water is a song
That beats with our heart.

The song of water is the rhythm of our death
The slowing waves against the shore.
A quiet night, a soft wind. A deep sigh.

And silence.

 

An Elder Story

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Son, Always Leave Your Campsite Cleaner Than You Found It

originally published by  | 10/25/2018 | Intergenerational Story Project

 

by Skid Crease

My father was, and still is, my hero. A prisoner-of-war survivor from Stalag Luft III of “The Great Escape” fame, he raised me with stories of ingenuity, humanity, and perseverance. Some of our favourite times together were on our fishing, camping and canoeing trips, when stories around the campfire took on mythical proportions.

Some of the best lessons I ever learned in life came from those stories, and often those lessons were encapsulated in wise one-liners. Here is my favourite life lesson, and the basis of my environmental literacy.

It was the late 1950’s, and we had spent a week out camping and fishing on Rice Lake. He was a wise teacher, framing every lesson in a story credited to some other person. When he showed me how to tie on a hook, or find bait under a log, or look for the ledges and overhangs and riffles and reed edges where fish might be waiting, or to eat what you caught, it was always something passed on from someone else.

It was an Anishnaabe guide from Temagami, or a trapper from Golden, or a canoe maker from Peterborough who had taught him. He was just passing on their wisdom. He was wise enough to know that it is very difficult sometimes for a son to listen to his father’s advice, but if it came from someone else’s wise father, well, that was acceptable. To paraphrase Mark Twain, “When I was a kid, I couldn’t believe how dumb my dad was; by the time I’d turned twenty, I couldn’t believe how much the old man had learned in ten years.”

On this particular trip, I learned to fillet a fish, cook a full meal over a campfire and make certain that fire was dead out before leaving. I learned how to select and prepare a safe and appropriate tent site, scavenge for firewood far away from the campsite, search for wisps of birch bark that had blown off the trees, chop and split wood safely, and light a fire in the pouring rain. I learned to find the North Star off the cup of the Big Dipper, read the wind and the clouds and the skin of our canoe in the morning for weather wisdom. All of this was taught to me through stories allegedly from someone who had taught my dad. He was simply passing it along.

He never took credit for any of these wisdoms. His motto was: “First, comes the Great Spirit that Loves Life; my fellow creatures come second; I am third.”

But the greatest lesson of all came when we prepared to head home. My dad walked me around the campsite, even back to the farthest areas from where we had collected firewood. Every trace of our time there was removed.

Even the campfire rocks were moved back and the ashes washed into the duff. The only thing left behind was a small pile of kindling and birch bark protected under a piece of tree bark, “For the next campers, if they know where to look,” he told me. Then he stood with his arm around my shoulders, looked out over the lake and said, “Son, always leave your campsite cleaner than you found it.”

The wisdom of our elders.

 

In memory of Harry S. Crease, father and friend

Stop Signs and Literacy

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It should be quite simple. The big red octagon with the four large white letters spelling S-T-O-P. Even for a driver with severe dyslexia, the visual clue alone should do the trick. When we get our driver’s licence we are all taught to come to a full, complete stop at that Big Red 8 sided Sign. We are taught to stop completely being able to fully see the stop line, to  check left, right, left again for vehicles, and to scan for pedestrians before proceeding.

We are also taught that failure to stop completely, if observed by an attentive police officer, is worthy of a $110.00 fine and 3 demerit points. A reasonable deterrent considering we are now sharing the roads with 10 year olds cruising on electric scooters at 25 klicks. We will discuss Parental Literacy in another post. Back to Stop Sign literacy. If we can’t stop at a Stop sign properly, we should turn in our car keys.

First, there is no such thing as a “rolling stop” often used as an excuse by illiterate drivers in a hurry. Still the same fine for failing to come to a full, complete STOP at the big red sign. Having pulled bodies from cars at the scenes of failure to stop fully completely, I have absolutely no patience with people who fail to stop in my child filled neighbourhood in Bolton.

Let me recount a recent incident with a resident driver who I will refer to as Simple Simon. I was just leaving my local Fortinos the other evening, when a vehicle cruised right through the stop sign at the street I was about to enter. I slammed on my brakes and hit the horn. I was fearful that their brakes had failed. The vehicle turned right, right down my street and sped away, As it did so, the male driver waved to me to follow. It was then I noticed he had a birth defect, only one finger on his hand.

Fearful for his safety I followed him home to advise him of my concern. His family must also have been concerned, because they all came out to greet me when I pulled up beside his home. I noticed that they also had the same genetic disposition to only having one finger on their right hands, which they proudly displayed. When I explained that I was concerned that the vehicle’s brakes had failed and I wanted to make sure the driver got home safely, I was told to pleasure myself. It was then that I realized the whole family was illiterate. I also noticed that they were all heavily tattooed.

Ah, perhaps new immigrants from the indigenous population of New Zealand. Although they looked a lot like the cast from Sons of Anarchy. I should have been more sensitive. Special needs and adjusting to our North American customs.

I wished them a nice day, and drove off as hey all rushed out into the street and saluted me as best they could with only one finger. I drove home slowly, realizing that we must do more to educate new immigrants to our driving rules that keep our communities safe. But also recognizing the reality that if you are illiterate, perhaps you shouldn’t be given a driver’s licence. The way I see it.