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Tuesday, December 25, 2012

This Festive Season

Well, we survived the laughable apocalyptic predictions purported by some observers of a long extinct people. Jolly Old Saint Nick shed a few pounds to descend our collective chimneys, delivering the foreign-made toys (batteries not included) that will soon be forgotten. And, as we gaze forward to the unfolding of a new year, we make non-binding resolutions on ourselves to attain some lofty ambition that we know deep down is nothing but a recipe for failure.

Add in the social obligations of the December fare such as industry mixers, company soirees, family get-togethers (oh my goodness, do NOT get me started on this fresh hell), the claustrophobic malls with their snotty retail clerks, the take-a-cab-to-get-to-my-car parking stalls, and that endless regiment of chiming Christmas carols grating on the few remaining nuances of decorum you have, and you have yourself one heck of a stressful month that will take a two week vacation sprawled out on some white sand beach covered in coconut palm oil sizzling in the thirty degree sun, with a fancy beverage dutifully garnished with a slab of fruit, a requisite paper umbrella and a bendy straw in one hand, and that novel you bought seven months ago but haven’t had a chance to read in the other, just to recuperate.

And then there are the financial implications as well. If you are like most in North America, you will be reminded for several months just how splendid a time you had as you slice open your monthly credit card statements and anxiously gaze at the ‘minimum amount due’ line.

As the face of our country changes, so too does the mood surrounding Christmas. Absent are the houses displaying colorful blinking lights. Snow-capped lawns are void of the reindeer, Santa, or snowman ornaments that helped theme the season and carry forth the neighborhood camaraderie. And in the politically correct era in which we live, the mere mention of ‘Merry Christmas’ is now very exclusionary.

The spirit of Christmas, it would seem, is melting as quickly as the polar ice caps.

What we need is a new phrase and celebration for this general time of year. One that is inclusive of other faiths. One that embraces the experiences and lessons learned of the previous year and that welcomes with open arms the rejuvenation of a new year. One that can convey Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, Assalamu Alikum, and any other peaceful greeting used during such a festive time.

On its face, such a solution seems simple. In practice, if history is to be our teacher, it would take longer to get each representative to agree on a meeting place and time to discuss such a solution. The debate would soon turn heated, with one faction accusing another of some perceived threat or insurrection. Old rivalries spanning centuries would preclude any hope of agreement on what to have for lunch, let alone resolving how to be inclusive yet distinct. All this at a time when many religions recognize peace as a guiding principal within their faith.

Today and every day, may you find peace in your heart so there may be peace on Earth.

Saturday, December 15, 2012

Is Gun Control Our Savior?

Gun control laws have never prevented or deterred criminal activity, a fact every country in the world can attest to, despite what advocates to the contrary would have you believe.

That said, it is equally true that easy access to firearms 'to protect oneself' is not the answer either. The criminal element will always arm themselves in spite of any legislation.

With each tragic mass murder, particularly those occurring in the United States, the debate over gun control gets louder, more passionate, and more devisive. Like abortion and religion, gun control is a no-win argument regardless of which side of the fence you perch.

December 14, 2012 saw elementary school children gunned down in Newtown, Connecticut, a community of about 27,000 average Americans located about 60 miles from New York City founded in 1711, who had every reason to believe they were safe from such horrors. And who could blame them for their false sense of security? Smaller communities often are immune from 'big city violence', with their local police department filling their blotter with traffic tickets and petty crime. Neighbors know one another, and a primary choice to live in a smaller community is the quality of life aspects it offers. A great place to raise a family, so it is thought.

But it is misguided to exploit the Newtown tragedy, or any other for that matter, for sociopolitical gain, or to suggest as a knee-jerk response that such an atrocity in Newton would have been prevented had tighter gun control legislation been in place.

Purely for illustration purposes, on the very same day Newtown was plunged into shock and disbelief, another equally tragic event was unfolding thousands of kilometres away in Chengping, China. While it is not the intent to compare tragedies, those brutilized in the China attack are no less in shock. Their families do not grieve less. And in this particular attack, the perpetrator did not shoot a soul. He used a knife.

Possibly time and circumstance will better inform us as to the 'whys' these two sombre events came into play. We may learn of the clues and warning signs that presented themselves for action or intervention. And with any luck, we might even learn a few lessons about identifying similar people in our midst who are at risk of being the next villain. But to restrict guns, or contrarily, to ease gun controls, those are not solutions that will lead us to safer communities.

Take this opportunity to hug your children today, just because. Also take the message of this festive season to introduce yourself to your neighbors and to take an interest in those around you. Know your community!

Tuesday, December 4, 2012

Hopping Down the Bunny Trail

When I was in junior high, I had a pet rabbit for a while. I named it Sunshine, but for the life of me couldn’t tell you why, nor could I tell you its gender. Sunshine was the first pet I had all to myself.

In the Spring of 2011, one little baby rabbit sought shelter under the evergreen in our front yard. The neighbors reported finding a litter of newborn rabbits in their yard less than ten days prior and we all happily presumed this lonesome little creature was from that batch.

As quickly as he appeared, he disappeared. Just like a rabbit in the hat at the magic show.

Since that Spring, we have noticed a proliferation of rabbits in the neighborhood. The dogs chase them, and try as they might, our pooches are outrun, out crafted, and out of breath. I sometimes wonder if that little fella under the tree is one of the many who now romp through the neighborhood.

In Canmore, Alberta, a nifty picturesque town of about 12,000 whose borders kiss those of Kananaskis Country and Banff National Park, they are literally being over-run by an exploding rabbit population, to the point of issuing a RFP (Request for Proposal) for a rabbit cull with an apparent budget of $50,000. (Yes, the math is correct. That is $25 per fluffy)

According to Canmore officials, it is estimated that 2000 feral rabbits freely roam the town and they need an Elmer Fudd-style solution to ensure public safety. They have somehow determined that this burgeoning problem was likely incubated innocently enough with the release or escape of someone’s pet rabbit(s), and rabbits being rabbits, well, you get the idea. Further, they claim, these rabbits invite predators to the town.

I generally disagree with culls as a form of population control. To me, they are an admission of our failures as the top species. It is we humans whose encroachment on migration routes has gone too far and our tinkering with Mother Nature always ends up vilifying they prey. And as we further disturb the balance of nature, we continue to accumulate devastating and deadly consequences on those species who are able to partially adapt despite our best/worst of intentions.

Canmore’s issue is with rabbits. Communities throughout Alberta and British Columbia wrestle with deer populations, wolves, coyotes, groundhogs, and everything in between. While locally the Canmore rabbit cull debate may be as steamed as the low fat lattes poured in its many coffeehouses, it would appear that opposition to its planned final solution outside of the region has been anything but.

What appears to be missing from these equations is, why has there not been more meaningful incremental solutions implemented before these ‘pest issues’ become the embarrassing and emotionally divisional hotbeds of controversy and no-win ultimatums for communities such as Canmore?

Saturday, December 1, 2012

The Best Christmas Presents

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This short story was originally written and published in 2009 and I thought the timing was appropriate to resurrect it for a new audience.

The calm stillness and clear skies uncloaked a chilly Christmas Eve. Huddled together for warmth in the RV, the children bundled themselves in their sleeping bags trying hard to fall asleep. They knew how important it was for Santa not to be discovered when he made his annual visit. But, the harder they tried, the harder it was to fall asleep.

Christmas in the RV is not what the parents had planned, but circumstances being what they were, this is where they found themselves. Dad, mom, two kids and their ever faithful four legged mutt, Buttons. To be sure, it was cramped, with less than a hundred and fifty square feet of living space.

The kids and Buttons slept up top, over the driver’s area. The kids loved it because it reminded them of the secret tree-fort that they used to visit near their home. Mom and dad slept in the main bed to the rear. When all were asleep, nobody could feel the claustrophobic conditions. It rather felt like they were camping, as they had done so many times before, visiting relatives, taking long weekends in the mountains, and spending annual vacations in places where cell phones couldn’t find them. Better times indeed.

The tranquility of the evening soothed the kids to sleep and, before long, the parents as well.

As we can well remember from our own childhood, the anticipation of receiving gifts on Christmas Day seemed to prolong the arrival of the special day. Mom and dad remember too. And this year, they anguished over not being able to lavish presents on their two darlings, nor even have a tree.

Buttons, ever vigilant squire that he is, was the first to be alerted. Strange sounds atop the RV. First he whimpered, looking for someone, anyone, to hear what he was hearing. Footsteps on the roof. But not any ordinary footsteps. These sounded like a legion of reindeer scurrying about. Could it be....?

His constant whimpering and rustling about woke the kids, who scooped Buttons from his now frantic pacing, peering upward and now barking his protective, albeit yappy, bark. He meant business like only he knew. The kids usher him inside the sleeping bags to quell the warnings from Buttons, muzzling him with their hands.

“Shhhhhhhhhhhh. That’s just Santa. We have to be quiet”, Buttons heard in a whispered directive. The scampering overhead continued, conjuring up the wild imagination of the kids, and the constant disapproval of Buttons, his whimpering now barely audible, but his eyes fixated on the movement of sound above.

Dad was awoken to the hushed alerts of Buttons, and reluctantly arose from his warm slumber to investigate the fuss. Mom was a heavy sleeper, a helpful trait to have during these challenging times. Dragging his feet toward the front of the RV, dad now understood why Buttons was unstill, for he too, could hear the pitter patter of feet on the roof.

‘Oh crap’ he thought. Just what he needed, squirrels or chipmunks making a home for themselves on or in the RV. He now realized parking so close to the huge evergreen may not have been such a wise decision, despite its obvious advantages at the time.

As suddenly as the footsteps began, they ceased. On hearing dad approach, the kids in unison exclaimed “Santa was just here daddy”.

“Shhh, you’ll wake your mother. They were just squir....”, catching himself mid-sentence. “Yes I think I heard him too. Go back to sleep for now. We can see what he left in the morning”, his hushed raspy voice decreed.

Christmas morning couldn’t come fast enough for the kids, awakening with Buttons and swooping down to the small dining table. You could have a palace and the kids will sniff out the presents in no time, but in this RV, one could pivot in a single spot and ....well, you get the idea.

There on the table sat two small gifts wrapped in last week’s comic strips from the local newspaper. Each grabbing a gift and like Olympic high jumpers, landing in bed with mom and dad, Buttons jumping up like an attention-starved athlete himself, his tail wagging vigorously. Nobody bothered to check which gift was for whom, nor was the wrapping ripped open.

Mom startled awake with all the commotion, sitting up like a shot. Dad rolled over, wakening to the veracious banter. Like a tag-team wrestling bout, the kids began swapped adventurous stories of how Santa found them at the RV, and how they heard the reindeer, and how Buttons almost scared away Santa, and how daddy just missed Santa, and how Santa makes his sled fly, and how Santa left them presents, and how many reindeer there were, and where Santa lives, and what his reindeer eat, and if there was a Mrs. Santa, and...and...and.

Saturday, November 24, 2012

We're In The Home Stretch Now

With Black Friday and its week of anticipation and anxiety under our belt, all eyes turn to the upcoming festive month, where we take time to let down our hair, share glad tidings with friends and coworkers, reminisce over important events in our lives, and look beyond the immediate horizon toward the proverbial pot of gold (whatever that may impart to you).

Regrets? Aye, they be many. Chief among them is a profound realization that despite the best of intentions, my accomplishments in the previous twelve months were comparatively inferior to the goals set. And yet, that being said, in this year my life found unintended pathways leading to experiences never before imagined, each with its own degree of reward.

One such event, very early this year, was being so filled with rage that my iPod and its 6285 entries was stolen from me as I lay in hospital recovering from surgery to save my leg.

The medical team indeed rescued my leg from almost certain above-knee amputation, albeit at the cost of a foot. But my sole thought at the time, despite the torment of full body aching pain and the stabbing sensation of phantom piercing delivered with the rabid ferocity of a bloodthirsty lunatic, was for a device designed with the functionality and obsolescence that could only come from the brilliance of the world's richest corporation (as per market value), and its almost fad-like contents. How myopic, I now realize.

Maybe it was the indignation I felt at being victimized while incarcerated (believe me, I can assure you at how appropriate this term fits) in a trusted medical facility. Perhaps it was the plethora of medications honing in on my psyche at a vulnerable time. Or even, it could have been what that iPod represented to me; an escape, my freedom, sharing with others, and being transported to those times in my life when things were different.

I find that as I ripen, the years seem shorter. As I mellow, the world seems angrier. As I age, I long for my youth.

What I should have been more cognizant of at the time, were the tribulations I experienced, how I got to that point, and what lessons I could glean from having all the terrestrial and extraterrestrial forces line up in the manner they did.

My inner journey continues, but it occurs to me now that a device fewer than a sixth of the world could ever afford to purchase took on a prominence in my life disproportionate to its actual value.

As the sun sets on another year aboard this ship called Life, perhaps the final Winter Solstice of our existence (if you put any stock in our interpretation of the Mayan calendar), challenge yourself to make a real difference in one person's life by inspiring he/she who is struggling. Allow your soul to be brave. Make peace in your heart so there may be peace on Earth.

Many thanks to Feral Dog Studios for the use of their photo for this article.

Saturday, November 17, 2012

How Shameful Our Nation

Perhaps it is naive to believe Canada would be any better at its treatment of veterans than any other country, least of all our closest foreign neighbors. But it always seemed to me growing up how proud we were that our young men and women served our nation. Certainly the parades were colorful and jubilant, even if I could not have at that time appreciated the experiences and sacrifices of our military.

Growing up, the inevitable comparison we drew with United States permeated every nuance of our lives, from entertainment to manufacturing, from currency to vacation spots, and everything between. I recall during those formidable years the one thing we always seemed to do better than our American neighbors was how we treated our servicemen and women. We didn't seem to forget our debt to those who gave so much.

Over the years, the US media showed countless examples of veterans living in abject poverty, inching their wheelchair through the soup line, dressed as shabbily as some third world refugee. I never saw that here.

But then again, how would I know?

It's not as if a Canadian veteran living on the streets would be in dress uniform, with spit-polished boots, freshly pressed shirt, and colorful ribbons from which shiny medals are proudly displayed. It's only when I think of it in this manner and with my more worldly eyes that I can begin to fathom the truth behind stories published in our major media.

I saw a news story on television about a Canadian veteran living on the streets of Edmonton and it made my heart sink. After serving our country, MY country, and as a result of a number of issues, this man was scratching out a bare existence on the streets of the city in which I lived. How shameful our nation, I professed.

The news story was so close to home that I could almost reach out and touch it, given the amount of time I donate to charitable causes in Edmonton.

Compelled to do something but blind to what I could do, I was then relieved to also hear in the same news story about an organization called VETS Canada (Veterans Emergency Transition Services), a not for profit organization dedicated to helping Canadian veterans in need. They reached out to this particular man and gave him the hand up he needed. And they have done so for many others as well.

So maybe the something I could do was write and publish this small story. And even though I was ill-equipped to touch this one particular fellow's life, he indeed touched mine - once for serving his country, and once for being the catalyst in the news story that spread the word that there are some Canadian veterans suffering and need some help.

Let us all step up to the plate, because it is the right thing to do. We can all do something. Help VETS Canada help. Donate your time. Buy some merchandise from their website. Donate some money. They even accept Canadian Tire money. Surely you can at least do that much, can't you?

Thank you to Feral Dog Studios for the use of their photograph for this article.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Remembering Remembrance Day

I didn't pay attention to the weather forecast. All I knew is that it was to be south of cool and with a wind, not unexpected at this time of the year.

It was Remembrance Day and I had chosen to attend the ceremony being held at City Hall, partly because the first half of this somber remembrance would be held indoor under the towering glass pyramid that so smartly beacons from downtown Edmonton, and partly because the cenotaph area that rightly pays tribute to those who serve(d) has ample space for photographing without interrupting the procedings.

Driving toward downtown it struck me as somehow wrong that stores were opening up for regular business. The economic machine couldn't spare a couple of hours, it seemed, so that ordinary citizens could have an opportunity to pay their respects to the men and women who sacrifice(d) so much.

The indoor portion of the City Hall ceremony contained the obligatory speeches using the equally de rigueur wording expected at such an occasion. Nothing new seems to be said, and yet, we continue sending troops to wars, conflicts, or other insert-your-euphamism-here arenas. But I digress. The only new whiff was the welcomed recognition of mental illnesses suffered by the men and women who serve(d). With any luck, that will translate into some real action on the part of our country to help those who suffer as a result of their service. Again, I digress.

Outdoors was no place to be unless necessity dictated. The temperature was -15C, but that wind was biting, easily plunging the mercury several more degrees. Salutes, music, and the clickity clack of proudly uniformed parading armed forces filled the still air. Wreaths were placed at the foot of the cenotaph, where each of its four corners were guarded by the silent vigil of a cadet.

As I snapped photographs, my hands became numb to the cold. Frostbite to one of my fingers is now a permanent record of that morning. As cold as it was to my bare skin, my thought turned to wondering how cold it must have been for a soldier in the trenches, or marching to the next battlefield, or as a prisoner of enemy forces that lapsed into inhumane treatment of fellow man. And for one selfless moment, I no longer felt cold.

On the return drive home, I stopped at one of the cemetaries that was a recipient of a school children visit to place a poppy on the headstone of each person who served our country and has since passed. The project is called No Stone Left Alone and it started right here in Edmonton.

Eighteen, twenty one, twenty six. So young. These brave souls stepped up to the plate so I have the choice not to. Hard to imagine an eighteen year old boy fighting, shooting, defending, attacking, and yes, brave. Think of the eighteen year old boys and girls you know now. Can you picture them in a poorly constructed, mass produced, olive drab uniform without a designer label, putting their life on the line with each pace?

One day a year we set aside to recognize the immense contribution men and women of our armed forces make to our daily lives. In fact, were it not for the bravery and sacrifice of those heroes, opening the store each morning would not be one of the choices we have today.

Thank you to Feral Dog Studios for the use of their photograph in this article.