Dear "Albertans Against the NDP"

OK. You don't like the NDP. I get it. You don't like its platform, policies or ideology? Fine. You are free to hold your own opinions, campaign for another party, or run for office, Vote for another party at the next election. That is your right. Diversity of opinion and the freedom to vote are essential aspects of every democratic country.  But you can't expect a "recall" or a "vote of non-confidence" or demand that another election be called immediately. That is not how our democracy works.

Some of you are bitter that the party you supported for decades lost. Understandable. After 44 years in power, it must be tough to feel your views are not represented in the legislature. You'll get another shot at it in a few years,

But could I just give you a few tips-if you really want to advance your cause? Suggesting you tear down every NDP lawn sign you see and creating a big bonfire in the ditch violates section 325 of Canada's Election Act. Saying the Premier's office should be burned down or that Tom Mulcair should be hung from a tree is also illegal.

It might be a thought to tone down the personal insults as well. Among the over 600,000 "retarded idiots" who voted NDP on May 5 you may well find your neighbour, your local pastor, your kids' teachers, the nurse who tended to you during an emergency, the fire fighter that just saved your house from burning, and the doctor who diagnosed your latest illness.  Anyway maybe don't go around saying, "Any of you guys want to admit you voted NDP should give me your address so I can come over and slap your face." That kind of crude bullying doesn't help convince any thinking person that they should support you.

You don't like the Premier? Ok. But your misogynist comments, including calling her a witch, a f--king bitch, "an ugly whore", a "twat", a "no-good stupid piece of sh--", the "fricken devil I seen in my nightmares", a "stupid blonde thing" and a "snatch" doesn't demonstrate that you understand the issues that face our province.  It just shows that you hate women. And I'm not sure if anyone cares what your "buddy" who knew her in high school thinks, especially his view that she was a "high maintenance c--nt". 

And calling for her assassination? Enough already.

Every quotation in this blog was taken directly from the "Albertans Against the NDP" Facebook page, a page describes itself as not being affiliated with any political party. It  states "Anyone antagonizing or trolling will be banned." Yet apparently hate speech and threats of violence against individuals are ok.

It seems that the bulk of the people who comment on the page blame the NDP for the collapse of the energy sector. They frequently comment that anyone who votes NDP is a "leech", a "parasite", or a "lazyass welfare bum" who should "get off your asses and work for a living."

I don't expect people to understand the global economy or even know the basics about how the political system in their own province works. But can these people unite the right by playing on fear and ignorance, encouraging the hatred of women, and allowing vile name-calling and threats of violence?

On second thought, keep it up, "Albertans Against the NDP." Keep dividing the right. Because I hope the intelligent and compassionate supporters of a more right wing ideology, many of whom are my friends, will find another way.

There is too much hate in this world already.

Note: After continuing threats against the premier, on October 20 2015 the RCMP announced it was investigating continuing threats to Premier Notley published on the "Albertans Against the NDP" Facebook page. Later that day, the site was taken down. A new version was released the next day.

magical journey

"Come outside. You have to see this!" says my husband. I'm exhausted by the grueling uphill walk to Namche Bazaar in the Himalayas of Nepal. We had arrived in darkening skies, surrounded by dense fog in drizzling rain. We checked in at the first guesthouse we found where were to sleep on narrow benches under the windows in the dining room at the lodge, up a long flight of wooden stairs.

"Seriously? I'm too tired to walk all the way down the stairs!"

"It's worth it," he says.

So down I go, my legs ready to give out at every step. The fog has lifted. The village is surrounded by high peaks topped with glowing snow. The air is crisp and clean with a touch of woodsmoke. The sky is filled with enormous stars that seem close enough to touch. From the monastery far away comes the haunting moan of the dungchen, the Tibetan long trumpet. We stand in the stillness and take it in.

********************************************

Years later.

We arrive in the evening at  "Backwater Farmhouse," an oddly named string of cottages in a small village along a Kerala canal near the Malabar Coast. We feast on southern Indian specialties and then are shown to our one room cottage on a narrow point of land.

At sunrise, chanting wakes me. I walk out onto the small deck. In front of me is a completely still body of water,reflecting the surrounding palm trees. The sky is gently lightening into pinks and purples. There is a soft swoosh nearby and a giant cantilevered fishing net rises out of the water, its operator standing in the water below. A cormorant spreads its wings. The air is filled with singing from a nearby Syrian Christian church, invisible in the jungle. This time it's me who tells my husband, "You have to see this."

I have arrived and departed at hundreds of places over the years. Many times I have arrived in the dark and woken up to unexpected wonders. Woken up to the magic that is part of our lives. Magic that catches me unawares.

 My life. Full of magical surprises I did not expect. 

Behind the Wall

We just came back from a trip to Africa where we visited a large mining operation. In this operation, ore is mined miles away and the slurry is pumped through a pipeline to the coast where it is processed and shipped to other nations.

The mining operation is owned by a conglomerate of companies based in wealthier nations. They pay the nation a 1% tax on the land where the mine is based and 1% in royalties. They also employ many local people who might otherwise be unemployed.

The mining operation has a residential programme for expat families. These families live in a pristine world behind a concrete wall protected by armed guards, razor wire and electric fencing. Behind the wall, streets are paved and immaculate. Tropical gardens flourish. Lawns are mowed. Pet dogs and cats are well loved. There are beautiful swimming pools, a well equipped gym, an international school, a medical clinic and tennis courts.

Inside the neat as a pin bungalows of the residential village you will find 54 inch flat screen TVs, microwaves, new large fridges, washers and dryers and silent and efficient air conditioning units, modern furniture and all the creature comforts. By Canadian standards, normal, pleasant homes. By the standards of this nation, unimaginable paradise. Residents have gardeners and drivers and housekeepers who come in once or twice a week-or every day should they so choose.  All of it behind steel roll shutters that are locked every night and whenever they leave the building.

It's a lovely compound. The walls keep the outside world at bay.

Just steps outside the gate is a gorgeous deserted wild beach that stretches for miles. We are told it is unsafe for foreigners to walk on without being mugged. After walking a few km down this beach to a near deserted beach bar at a floundering local "resort" we watch the blue green waves crash on the beach. Apart from a couple of fishermen and three or four kids, there is no one.

Next to the camp is the massive modern plant, fully illuminated by night. Reportedly, effluent from the plant flows into the nearby rivers and the ocean. We are told the foreign workers can trust no one. Theft is constant and a cultural norm. The prevailing attitude is that if something is there you want, you should take it. God left it for you. Considering the pittance the mining corporation pays the nation in royalties, maybe the multinationals feel the same way.

Past the plant is the town, more prosperous than any other town we have seen in this country, but still impoverished with bicycle rickshaws and flimsy grass shacks which are supposedly cyclone resistant. Decades of colonial rule followed by a xenophobic communist regime, years of political instability and a recent coup have led to decreased foreign investment and the elimination of most international aid. It is by far the poorest country I have ever seen.

The expats go to foreign owned guarded grocery stores where they buy imported goods. They eat at select restaurants where delicious cuisine cooked by foreign trained chefs. They go to the artisan market with their drivers who watch out for them. They visit the chocolate shop and the fish market and the export quality spice store.

Produce at the market

This, in a nation where 76% of people live on an average daily wage of $1.25 a day. Despite the abundance of fruits and vegetables, fish and meat, malnutrition is prevalent. 50% of kids under five receive inadequate nutrition which impacts physical and mental development.


The contrast between the world behind the wall and the world outside the wall is startling.  Inside the compound, the world is controlled and organized and clean. Outside, chaos. The company has brought money to this town  and the country where there is little foreign investment. There are natural resources in abundance in this nation but the multinationals fear unrest.

I am here as a tourist. As a tourist in the developing world you can stay in nice hotels and eat at decent restaurants and hire taxis for next to nothing. And you know you can do so because you live in a wealthy developed nation where you have a good job. You hope some of your money trickles down to the people and that is how you justify the disparity to yourself- if you feel you need to justify such a thing. Mostly you know there is no justice in this global economy. You know you are not rich because you work harder than an African miner. You are not rich because you are smarter than a third world maid. You are not rich because you deserve to be.

I don't much like this country. There are elements of beauty. There are kind and decent people. But it bothered me to see such disparity. I don't  know if I could live here as the expats do, in a world so separated from the people. The foreigners live so well, yet right beside them are hardworking people who live with nothing. And as much as the expats are safe, they are also imprisoned. The walls that keep the world away isolate them from everyone except each other.

Here in North America we live in our own little paradise, behind our own walls, separated from the majority of the world's people who live on next to nothing while we live in relative luxury. How often do we think of the grass shacks where the people who grow our rice and coffee and cocoa live? Do we ever think that it is likely a child who hauls our produce to market on his back? It's just easier for us to ignore the poverty that fuels our luxury because we don't see it every day.

Famadihana

I arranged to attend a famadihana in Madagascar. We had it all set up and then I became violently ill from a stomach complaint. I'm blaming it on a strawberry but who knows. So we cancelled out.

We weren't really sure if it was appropriate anyway. Would I have appreciated total strangers from another country attending my mother's funeral just to observe Canadian customs? Yet I had read it was something one should do if possible. The turning of the bones. A time of great celebration in this unusual country, where certain tribes visit the family tomb every 7-10 years during the winter months and retrieve the bones of the ancestors. They take the bones back to the village amid great rejoicing. They talk to the ancestors and share their news. The tell stories to the dead. There is music and feasting and drinking that goes on for days. Then the bones are wrapped in new shrouds and returned to the tomb.

My husband wonderers how the Malagasy reconcile their ancient beliefs with their stated beliefs in Christianity. If the ancestors have gone to heaven, why do they need to disinter the bones and communicate with the dead?

Along the road today we saw three famadihana processions. In the first, the bones had been retrieved and the families danced along the highway with trumpets blaming. They smiled and waved. The bones were carried high. It was a joyous occasion.

The guidebook said the if you were invited to a famadihana you should go. If only to revisit your own views about death and the afterlife. In our culture, when we say goodbye to our loved ones, that is the end. We may believe in life after death or we may not. But once someone is gone, we are left with just our memories and personal reflections. After the funeral there is nothing. No communal or formal sharing of memories. No visits to the tomb- if there is one. The dead are gone and that is that. Our ancestors are not venerated through any ritual or tradition. They are only kept alive in our hearts.

I'd like the chance to talk to those who have gone before. To tell my mom what is happening in my life. To let my dad know how proud he would be of his grand kids. To visit with my grandparents. And to share that with my family and whatever constitutes our "village" in modern Canada.

I think the Malagasy understand something we have forgotten. We should celebrate the lives of our ancestors as a community. They made us who we are.

Things I didn't know about Warsaw

I didn't know much about Warsaw before I arrived. In the video library inside my brain there rolled archival footage of the Warsaw Uprising and  tv coverage of Lech Walesa at the Gdansk shipyard riots. Memories of Life magazine photos of blocks and blocks of concrete Socialist Realist apartments and stooped old women in headscarves clutching meagre purchases. I imagined meals of cabbage and borscht accompanied by copious amounts of beer. In post communist Poland, I expected the addition of some poorly built disaster capitalist skyscrapers and angry street art.

The real Warsaw is not what I expected.

The taxi driver played classical music as we drove in from the airport. Wandering the streets that evening we discovered Warsaw's cafe culture. We listened to buskers playing violins and walked down wide sidewalks. We ate gourmet dinners featuring new and unusual twists on classic dishes. Saw pastel buildings ranging from the medieval to the baroque in Warsaw's old town. Used a fully modernized public transit system with brand new bullet trains from one city to the next. 

We stayed in an Airbnb advertised as "elegant apartment in central Warsaw." Housed in an old Soviet-style apartment complex surrounding a central courtyard, Maria's place was the last word in elegance with tasteful pale grey walls, a modern Euopean kitchen with hidden appliances, white antiques and glittery chandeliers, futuristic bathroom fixtures and high end bedding. Around the corner on the upscale Nowy Siwat Stret, Vincent's served delicate pastries and excellent coffee. The next door Bierhalle was a microbrewery.

Chopin is from Warsaw. So is Marie Curie. Copernicus and Peter Gzowski were Polish.

The spirit of Warsaw impressed me. Although I knew of the Warsaw Uprising, I did not know that 200,000 civilians died. I did not know the Old Town had been pummelled to near oblivion by the Germans afterwards. Himmler said "This city must be obliterated from the face of the earth." 

After the war, residents restored every building to its former glory based on memory, old paintings and historic photos. The royal palace however was left in ruins as the Soviets overtook Poland. Its meticulous restoration did not begin until the 1970s but today it is complete- and filled with original works of art that were saved in Canada of all places!

There is so much I didn't know about Warsaw. It's a surprising place-a world class city. It's alive and full of hope. Put it on your bucket list!

for the stars in your eyes

When I was a kid, we had Sunday dinner at my grandparents’ farm an hour’s drive away from our house. We would arrive back home late at night. My three siblings feigned sleep in order to enjoy the luxury of having my dad carry them into the house and tuck them in. No matter the hour, I waited for my own form of luxury, remaining in the car for my dad to come and get me and together we would look up at the sky. Overlooking fields and foothills,our house was at the very edge of town. There were no streetlights. The sky was velvet dark yet it sparkled with a million stars. He, pointing out constellations and recalling the myths that went with them. Me, basking in those few stolen moments when it was just me and my dad standing in the darkness, reveling in the wonders of the night sky.

One of my dad's photos,1957.

I blame my dad for my love of the sky. During the day we looked for shapes in the clouds. In the city once he told me to look up at a skyscraper- I reeled, disoriented as the fast moving clouds made me feel the building was falling towards me. Stormy summer nights, we watched the lightening as my mom paced around telling us how much she hated thunderstorms. When I was eight, he gave me a book about the sky, inscribed in his perfect handwriting "for the stars in your eyes."

Over the years, I’ve watched stars dance over farm fields. Seen shooting stars that made me question if I had really seen them flash by. Whistled to the aurora borealis in the far North. Rowed out on a mountain lake to watch a meteor shower. I've been shocked into speechlessness under brilliant stars shining down on a snow-covered Himalayan mountainside.

Sometimes the sky seems to reach out to you with its countless points of light. Sometimes you feel you will lose yourself in its wide open lifeless unreachable spaces. I know something about it scares people. Maybe it reminds us of the empty spaces inside ourselves as Robert Frost described in his poem Desert Spaces,

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars--on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.

Its enormity is humbling.  For each star is at the centre of its own solar system and each solar system has its own planets and satellites, all so far away you could never reach them and more stars beyond that and your place in it is as tiny as the universe is infinite. Maybe it is just that inexplicable space that led early man to describe it in terms of gods and legends.

Every night for the past few nights, my son has searched the sky in vain for the stars. Here at the cabin, we are just at the edge of the Jasper Dark Sky Preserve. The stars should be spectacular. But it’s early July and the dark sky is not to be seen, as the stars compete with the setting sun and the rising moon.

I wish the night was darker so we could see the stars.  I doubt I would be able to find Orion's Belt and relate the legend of Cassiopeia. But maybe, just maybe, we can find our own place in the vastness.

At My Mother's Table

My mother's table has been sitting in my garage since last July. We moved it here, along with a U-Haul full of stuff, after she went into a nursing home. I brought it home for my middle daughter who knew she would need a table when she got her first real job and her first real apartment. 

My husband and I already have a lovely oak table, rebuilt by my father in law for us shortly after we married. He found it at an antique store, had a new skirt milled for it, and refinished it. I refinished it again not so long ago. It's a solid table, and it was built with love. But it is also small. So when Elizabeth got her apartment, we decided to give her the smaller table and use the larger one ourselves. 

Family Christmas

My mother's table has a heavy oak pedestal and a solid round skirt and 4 original leaves. Pulled out to its full length, it seats 14 comfortably as it did many times in my parent's house when our whole family was together. 

Cookie decorating

My parents bought the table from an estate sale when I was a kid. I have no idea where it came from. I refinished the top of it a lovely golden brown when I was 17. It hasn't been refinished since. And after we set it up in our living room, taking three of us to hoist it upright, I could see it needed refinishing again. One side was particularly worn and I realized that was the side where my mom sat-alone- for the past few years since my dad's death.  The finish was worn down to nothing by the caregiver's vigorous scrubbing.

I wondered if I should refinish it the same golden colour or a darker brown to match the sideboard and china cabinet?  Elizabeth said she preferred the brown. The stain at the hardware store did not have samples, so the kid in the paint department kindly tested at least 7 kinds of stain for me. None were golden brown. I finally settled on a darker brown called "Colonial American."  

Dad rolling out pie crust.

I love refinishing furniture. I don't do it too often and I'm too impatient to do a thorough job, but it's rewarding to see a solid piece of of craftsmanship regain it's original appearance. And as I scour and scrape and sand the table, I think about its past. A myriad of activities have taken place at my mother's table.  It's been the setting of breakfasts and coffee klatches and family dinners and staff parties. Many pie crusts have been rolled out by my dad on it's surface. Dozens of cookies have been decorated. Hundreds of figure skating costumes cut out.  I have stood on this table to have a hem measured. So many hands of canasta played until deep into the night. I've set it countless times, using the everyday china and cutlery- and the fancy china and silver. I discovered a small circular indentation- and remembered the little cylinder of metal used in making self-covered buttons. It must have slipped and left this mark. I left it alone. The table needs its battle scars.

Finally, the top of the table is smooth and bare. The sides and base will have to wait for another day. I spread on the dark brown stain and wait, then buff it off with a cloth. Then repeat. The patches scrubbed bare by Lilya over the years will not accept the stain, no matter what I do. After the second coat, I wait again. Lo and behold -the table is the exact same golden brown as it has always been. 

Canasta night

My mom and dad are both gone now. I don't know when my entire family will sit at my mother's table again. When they do, it will be ready.

Fear of Fifteen

As the "Fight for $15" continues, I hear a lot of scary stories from people in my part of the world. They are afraid of so many things. Mostly, I think, they are afraid of change. After all, this is a province that elected the same government for nearly 44 years, and before that, one party was in power for 36 years.

I hear anecdotes from people who base their opinions on stories about this and that. For instance, an article mentioning three restaurants that shut down in Seattle was proof that minimum wage increases led to job loss, despite the fact that the restaurant owners in question had named other reasons for their demise, and one specifically stated it was nothing to do with wage increases. I guess a personal story is easier to relate to.  It has power. It is easy to understand. It doesn't require looking at facts or statistics. Because, to quote former premier Jim Prentice, "Math is difficult." There are a few books out there on this topic, for instance Dan Gardner's Risk:The Science and Politics of Fear. 

But anecdotes are not evidence. 

Source: Doucouliagos and Stanley (2009)

I prefer to look at statistics and research when trying to decide what to believe, especially when it comes to the potential effects of government policy. Dozens of studies going back decades have found that an increase in the minimum wage does not lead to job loss. A recent study looked at employment in the restaurant sector in the U.S. over a 16 year period, comparing employment in 1381 counties. The study found no employment effects of minimum wage increases. In Britain, 140 studies have shown the same thing.  Meta-studies (“studies of studies” that pool the results of a large number of research papers)  found that that minimum wage increases had little to no effect on employment and one worldwide study even found that minimum wage increases led to increased employment.

B.C. froze its minimum wage for 9 years. When it raised it in May 2011, the Fraser Institute claimed that would lead to over 52,000 job losses- a 16 per cent decline in employment. Completely wrong. Instead there was a 1.6% decrease in employment for people aged 15-24. At the same time, 1.1% of that age group went back to school, which they should have done anyway.

Governor of New York Andrew Cuomo recently stated that a low minimum wage actually results in tax-payers subsidizing the fast food industry. Because fast food workers cannot live on their income, they need food stamps or turn to social services for income assistance. Because they are poor, they are far more likely to be sick and use Medicaid or in Canada, public healthcare services.

There is a lot of misinformation about who minimum wages earners are. The stereotype is that they are teenagers who don't really need the money. In reality, most minimum wage earners are are full time ethnic minority women who live on a wage that puts them below the poverty level.

In the minds of some, the working poor are lazy good-for-nothings. They are poor because they deserve to be. They don't understand what work means. Some of these people will tell you that minimum wage jobs were never meant to be full time permanent jobs. They were meant to be entry level jobs that would encourage people to work harder and get better jobs. Yet minimum wage employees do important work. Society relies on them to serve us coffee and ring up our groceries and take care of our kids and our aging parents, to say nothing of the working poor outside of Canada who grow and package our food and manufacture most of the goods we own. These people are far from lazy. 

In real terms, the minimum wage in Canada has only increased by one cent since 1975 while the wages of the people at the top steadily escalate. Income inequality is increasing dramatically, especially in Alberta. Especially for women. In Alberta, the top 10% of tax-filers in 2012 made 50.4 of all the income earned in the province. In a province where the CEO of an agricultural company makes over $23 million a year and the president of the U of A makes more than 1.1 million in compensation (all the while saying "the university can't withstand more cuts"), in a country where a hockey player makes over $16 million, I have to wonder why anyone resents their Timmy's clerk making over $19,000 a year.

Our minimum wage in Alberta is $10.20/hr (liquor servers $9.20)- the richest province in the country, with one of the lowest minimum wage levels. While only 2% of wage earners make minimum wage, nearly 300,000 Albertans make less than $15 an hour.  That is not a living wage. If raising the minimum wage doesn't lead to unemployment, it does lead to one thing. It leads to a better life for the poor.

And a better life for the poor is good for everyone.

My Reconciliation Includes

Truth and Reconciliation

I say it's complicated.
Others say it's not.
It's black and white
It's classic good and evil.

My history and your history is anything but black and white.

And while aboriginal and non-aboriginal Canadians try to reconcile their differences so too do I try to reconcile historical truths with the truths I know.

Letter about Wabasca Residential School, 1935.

Residential schools. Terrible things happened there. Thousands died. Thousands more ripped from the arms of their loving parents. Children who were denied love. Children who grew up not knowing what a family looked like. Children who grew up ashamed of their language and their culture. Children and their children who became adults who suffer the painful inter-generational effects to this day.

The "Sixties Scoop." Thousands of aboriginal children taken from their families in Canada in the 1960s, many with the mistaken idea that these kids did not have a family that would love and care for them. A whole generation of kids, victims of transracial adoption. A generation denied its heritage. Kids who as adults now don't know where they belong. People who now suffer identity crises and mental health issues after growing up outside of their own culture.

How do I reconcile what I know with those truths?

Some of Grandad's young friends in the Far North

Because I know people who worked in residential schools who were not evil people. They were good people. People who were trying to help. People who did not beat or abuse their young charges. People who tried to teach them the skills to succeed in Canadian society. People like Heather who taught in a residential school in Wabasca in the 1960s. As kind a woman as you will ever meet. People like my grandfather, an immigrant from England, who volunteered in the 1950s in Inuvik while he worked for the Bank of Commerce. In his spare time, he taught gymnastics to young Inuit boys. A gentle funny man who enjoyed working with kids.

My brothers, sister and me.

My brother and sister were adopted by my parents in the 1960s. My parents married late in life and did not expect to have any kids after I was born. They applied to adopt. They were asked if they would be interested in an aboriginal child. They said of course. They would take any child who needed a home. My brother came from Penticton Indian Band and my sister from the Tsawout First Nation on Vancouver Island. Although they grew up knowing they were aboriginal and adopted, they also grew up in a white house in a white neighbourhood with the accompanying values and culture. And they grew up with love.

I have a letter my mom wrote to my sister. My sister was speaking on cross cultural adoptions at a conference. My mom related a story about my brother.

When he was about four he said, "Mom, I'm not an Indian, am I? I don't want to be." We had never kept this a secret but a ten year old had taunted him I guess. This was in the sixties and he hadn't seen many aboriginal people except in Cowboy and Indian movies, so I said "Are you thinking of the movies where the Indians fight the Cowboys? Where they are barefoot, ride horses and carry bows and arrows?  He said "yes."  I explained that the pictures were of olden days and that all people are different today...

Just once, he said, why can't the Indians win?

Looking back, we cannot imagine our lives without our four children...They are all well educated and gainfully employed and now we have grandchildren. Most important, all of them have learned that people are people and cannot be judged on race or other differences but only on the values they hold.

When my brother and sister each turned 18, they met their birth mothers and chose to live near them for some time. My mother never expressed any concern with their choice. Their birth mothers attended their weddings. My sister now lives on the Tsawout Reserve, three doors away from her birth mother. She herself has an adopted aboriginal son and is an adoptions worker. I can't say whether adoption ruined my siblings lives. You would have to ask them. But I think I know what they would say.

My husband and I are both teachers. We worked in the NWT for two years where we taught aboriginal kids. Wonderful, creative kids. Many of them lived in atrocious conditions- some of them did not get enough to eat. Others lived with alcoholic relatives who went on month-long binges, leaving young kids to fend for themselves. Others were sexually abused by family members. Five young people committed suicide in a five month span in a town of 450 people. We did our best with these kids. We fed them. We visited their homes. We talked to their parents and uncles and aunties and grandparents. We communicated with liaison workers to find better living conditions. Did we try to assimilate these children into mainstream Canadian culture? Were we part of a tradition of cultural genocide? Perhaps. But I also know it is the only place I have ever worked where I truly believe I made a difference. It mattered that I was there.

Today, I am a distance education course writer. My course materials include lessons about residential schools and aboriginal issues. I hope one day to assist with building courses in Aboriginal Studies for all Albertan students, including my First Nations students who tell me "I don't understand what land claims are" and "Can you explain treaty rights again?" And while I do that, I ask myself who am I to teach kids what it means to be aboriginal? Maybe right now, I am the only one.

History is not black and white. It is a place of shadows. It is gray. It is not simple. I know there were atrocities committed. Perhaps my protestant guilt has led me to where I am today in my relationship with aboriginal people. Perhaps it is how I was raised or who my parents and siblings and students are. Or maybe just simply my humanity. Whatever it is, my reconciliation includes looking at my own history and knowing that somewhere between our good intentions and their evil effects is truth. And I have made my peace with that.

Celebrate Democracy

If you have never worked at an election before, I highly recommend it.

There is something almost sacred about it.

One person after another enters the polling station, presents ID, receives a ballot, chooses a representative, and drops their slip of paper into a box. There is no chatter. People often seem lost in thought, absorbed in the seriousness of voting.

The atmosphere is at once respectful and festive, tense and friendly, nervous and hopeful.

On Tuesday I worked as a scrutineer in a largely aboriginal community hours from any major centre. The polling station was in the college. There was a sign telling people to take off their muddy shoes and they did, walking in stocking feet into the room to vote. Old and young, with wheelchairs, canes, and with babes in arms.  In they came, in a steady stream. One by one they cast their ballot and left. I had no idea who they were voting for until the votes were counted.

At a previous federal election, I worked as a poll clerk. New Canadians came in, voting for the first time. Many had never been allowed to vote in their native land and were proud and excited to cast a ballot. One gentlemen almost panicked when he thought his name was not on the elector's list. I wondered where had he come from- what had he witnessed to cause such a reaction?

The vote count itself is conducted with complete transparency. The name of the chosen candidate on each ballot is read out loud, the ballot shown to anyone who wants to look, the totals tallied by poll clerks and scrutineers from each party who check for accuracy. Even though those working the election are from different parties, there is a feeling of teamwork and respect for the end result. Everyone believes in the process. And to anyone who says the results must be rigged, you have not worked a Canadian election.  

A serious business, voting. A grown-up thing to do. Something that makes me proud to be Canadian.

Do the Right Thing

So this guy says "you just don't get it," referring to my position on Alberta's NDP. Apparently I do not understand the "economy".

Here's what I DO get.

In 2001 the corporate tax rate in Alberta was 15.5 %. The economy was booming.  In 2007 it dropped to 10%. Another thing happened in 2007. The first deficit budget. For past 7 years the corporate tax rate has been the lowest in the country, steady at 10% and the province has run a deficit for those same 7 years. Coincidence?

In every budget you have revenue and expenses. As anyone who has watched "Till Debt Do Us Part" knows, if you choose to reduce your income, you can either cut expenses or go into debt. The PCs chose debt. The Wildrose choose cutting services. The NDP choose to increase revenue-from those who can clearly afford it.

Pouty millionaires club. 

On Friday PC donors raised $800,000 for the Prentice campaign. These wealthy business people have enjoyed their cosy relationship with the government for decades and now fear they will lose their undue influence. On the same day this fundraising dinner was held, 5 millionaires held a press conference to support the PC party, telling Alberta voters to "think straight" and  threatening, among other things, to withhold their (tax deductible) donations from the Stollery Children's Hospital if the NDP is elected and they have to go back to the corporate tax levels of 7 years ago- a mere 2% increase on their profits.

John Cameron of Keller Construction. 

"I can't afford a raise in taxes...
Why is it always the corporations?
Why is it always? Why? Why is it me?"
Keller donated $16,000 to the PC party.

It's pretty hard to feel sorry for multimillionaires. It's just a bit hard to sympathize with guys who say "Why is it always me?" when it's clearly never them- they are the ones receiving government contracts and tax breaks. Especially when we live in a
province with the highest income inequality in the country. When these are MEN telling us what to do-in a province with the highest gender wage gap in Canada. When we live in the last province in the country to increase minimum wage above $10/hr.  A province that - despite being the "economic engine" of the nation- still insists on a minimum wage that is below the poverty line.

As a teacher, my salary has been frozen for 3 years while the cost of living has increased by over 5%. Tuition for my 3 university students has nearly doubled. Did I reduce my donations to worthy causes?  No. Because was raised to do the right thing whatever government was in power.

Oh, I get it all right. 

I get who has been controlling the provincial agenda.

And now it's time for change.

Time to do the right thing. 

Family

Margaret, John and Marion with brother
Bobby who died as a child.

In 1912 my ancestors on my mom's side of the family came from Brantford Ontario to  homestead in the Appleton district near Beaverlodge Alberta.

My great-grandparents Charles and Eliza McNaught travelled by ox cart from Edmonton along the Edson Trail to Grande Prairie along with their daughters Betty and Marion, my grandmother. Daughters Isabel and Margaret stayed behind to finish their schooling, but joined the family the next year along with Charles's sister Janet, called "Aunt Nin" by my mother and aunt. Their son John, a graduate of the University of Toronto, was teaching in Manitoba at the time.

When they arrived at their plot of land, a stake in the ground told them they were home. They were treated to a salad by the farm wife next door, Mrs. Mortwedt. My grandmother told me it was made with red leaf lettuce and a dressing of brown sugar and vinegar and it was delicious.

McNaught Homestead

How different  their new lives must have been from the ones they left behind. They left a farm and a large comfortable house just outside Paris, Ontario. My grandmother walked away from her dream of becoming a nurse- she had just been accepted
into nursing before they left. They were in search of adventure and opportunity and a drier climate for my great grandmother, or so I have been told. And they found it all in the Peace Country. They soon became pillars of their community, building a home, planting an impressive garden (including aspargus beds!), setting up their own tennis court, starting a ladies basketball league and bringing in other aspects of civilization to their new home. Every fall they hosted a "ghost walk" on McNaught Lake.  It is said that their home was the centre of community gatherings and I know their daughters broke many hearts!

John McNaught

My grandmother never became a nurse. She fell in love with a charming British orphan, my grandfather George Martin, who worked nearby at the Bank of Commerce in Lake Saskatoon.

Soon war was declared, and my grandfather and Uncle John were off to the front, soon followed by my grandmother who worked in a munitions factory in England during the war.

Uncle John wrote many letters to my grandmother and to his relatives back home during the war. His letters home from the front were chilling-both for what he included and what he left out. He was gassed at Ypres. Upon return to Canada, he was unable to work indoors due to the injury to his lungs and he joined his parents in running the family farm. An academic and a gifted writer, who might have become if he had not been injured?

John on the Nose Moutain
Expedition, 1937

Margaret was the first teacher at the new Appleton School and continued to teach in the area. Junior High and special ed were her areas of specialization. She had a wicked sense of humour and raised turkeys among other things. Isabel became a teacher and married late in life, continuing to teach grade one after her daughter Liza was born and her husband Judd Perry unexpectedly died. She loved nature and knew the names of every plant which she delighted in explaining to her young visitors. She was an avid photographer with her own darkroom.

During the Depression, John and some other Beaverlodge residents formed a riding club that went on many excursions into the mountains.  I have a 12 page diary of one of those expeditions, to Nose Mountain, along with accompanying photos I plan to turn into a book some day. Humour and adventure and love of the wilderness feature prominently.

Betty's artistic talents were encouraged by her family, who sent her off to study at the Ontario College of Art under Arthur Lismer and A.Y. Jackson of the Group of Seven. She later taught art in Calgary and then returned to the family homestead where she continued to paint and sculpt and teach art to others for the rest of her life. Her work has been displayed in art galleries across Canada and she inspired generations of people to pursue artistic endeavors.

John and Noel's wedding

Upon the death of his father, John took over the homestead. Late in life, he married Noel Cameron from New Zealand. John was a prolific writer whose diaries and letters now form part of the South Peace Archives in Grande Prairie. The McNaught homestead -its buildings and 160 acres of land-was donated to the Prairie Gallery by Noel in 2002 and is now owned and by the McNaught Homestead Preservation Society. It is a designated historic site that is being lovingly restored for future generations.  The society holds its own ghost walk every Hallowe'en.

My grandfather returned to banking after the war. He and my grandmother and their little family of two girls lived in many small southern towns, eventually landing in Edmonton. Upon retirement, they bought the property across the road from the McNaught homestead and lived there until they died. My cousin Peter lives in the old house and my cousin Erin lives next door. They are active in preserving the old homestead, along with several of my relatives who live in the area.

Who are we?

We are our genetics and our environment and all the factors around us. We are the result of opportunities gained and opportunities lost. We are the result of relationships foreordained and unexpected. We are the result of enduring love and broken hearts.

We are where we live, with all its quirks and challenges.

We are not just who were taught to be but also who we learned to be through example and experience and the lack thereof.

Knowing who we are comes in part from knowing where we came from.

My daughter Jordan, her great great aunt
Isabel, Betty McNaught and Jordan's second cousin
Mia Freeman,

IF

If…

With apologies to Rudyard Kipling

If you are happy with cabinet ministers giving themselves 30% pay increase while freezing teachers’ wages

If you like driving hundreds of KM to see a doctor

If you enjoy highway potholes that can’t be filled due to cuts at Alberta Transportation

If you think democratically elected school boards should not be allowed to use reserves in times of need

If you agree that our natural resources should be sold out from under us so corporations can profit

If you enjoy paying a “healthcare levy” that goes into general revenue

If your corporation benefits from the lowest tax rates in Canada

If you blame yourself for Alberta’s financial woes

VOTE PC

If you want smaller government

If you can afford to jump the cue because you can afford privatized health care

If you can pay thousands in tuition for your kids to go to private school

If you think climate change is a myth

If you think your wife belongs in the kitchen baking a pie

If you don’t care what postsecondary education costs

If you think nonprofits should deliver mental health services

If you think industry should monitor itself

VOTE WILDROSE

If you want corporations to pay their share through increased royalties and corporate taxes

If you want teachers and nurses to be paid what they deserve

If you want decent class sizes and support for kids with special needs

If you think school fees should be eliminated

If you want appropriate monitoring of pollution and environmental protection

If you want quality, free, universally accessible health care

If you believe Alberta belongs to Albertans and not foreign corporations

VOTE NDP

Dear Mr. Risinger

I really don't know what possessed me, Mr Risinger. 

I don't know what was going through my head. 

The last time we spoke I told you I was proceeding with small claims action against United Airlines after my family's fiasco at Christmas. My instincts told me to NEVER FLY UNITED. But then I chickened out. Or maybe I should say cheaped out. Or I just got lazy. And as much as it shames me to admit, I took the $150 voucher you offered and flew to Austin for my spring break.

"Really," I told my husband. "What happened to us on our return from Panama must have just been bad luck. Let's use the vouchers. What are the odds they will screw up again?" He agreed. It just wouldn't happen again. And besides, we left ourselves several hours of wiggle room if there was another delayed flight. Really, what were the odds? Well Mr. Risinger, as it turns out, the odds were good. Pretty damn good. In fact I'd venture the odds were about 100%.

Our flight was scheduled to leave Edmonton at 6:20 a.m. on April 6. On the day before the flight, we took the dogs to the kennel, checked in online, checked the flight status at least five times, and went to bed. 

At 1:14 a.m. I received a text. 

Your flight on Apr. 6 (UA3488) from Denver to Edmonton has been canceled due to flight crew availability. 

Well Mr. Risinger, although I hadn't learned my lesson after the massive Panama City-Costa Rica-Newark-Phoenix-Edmonton cock-up, I did learn something-"Don't go to the airport and expect United to help you." So I booked an alternate flight via San Francisco online. It added three hours to the trip, and as I flew over the Golden Gate Bridge I thought of the new slogan for United that my son had dreamed up. "United:Taking you places you never dreamed you'd go!"

In fact I had a little chuckle to myself as I updated my Facebook status with those very words. And then I breathed a little sigh of relief. Yes, United had messed up once again. What were the odds of it happening again on that very flight? Well Mr. Risinger, as it turns out, the odds were pretty damn good. In fact I'd venture to put the odds at about 100%.

So. We spent an enjoyable few days at our Airbnb in Travis Heights, took in some great live music, ate some good food, saw some sights and enjoyed the sun. The day before our flight was to leave, we checked in online and checked the flight status over and over again. United's website assured us there was no record of delays or cancellations for this flight. But once again, just a few hours before our flight was scheduled to leave, I received another text:

Your flight on Apr.10 (UA3530) from Denver to Edmonton has been canceled due to flight crew availability.

Now this time I wasn't quite so casual with my re-booking. We absolutely HAD to be in Edmonton by 1:30 the next day for our daughter's university graduation. I looked at the United website. There were no flights that would get us to Edmonton that day. Panicked, I phoned and got cut off twice. We headed for the airport with my husband on the phone. He told the agent that we would travel across the country and back but please just get us to Edmonton. 

Meanwhile I started checking Expedia for any possible route, including travelling to Phoenix or Las Vegas or Vancouver or departing out of Houston. Basically any route I could find. All the while cursing myself for not following own advice, freely offered to anyone who would listen, my advice to NEVER FLY UNITED. Finally my husband was told the only route was to overnight in Denver and fly to Seattle and then Edmonton the next morning, arriving at 12:39. Impossible to get to downtown Edmonton from the airport in time for my daughter's ceremony.

My husband was then asked if he wanted a hotel booked. He said yes, and much to our amazement- well, it really shouldn't have been amazing considering United's track record- we were told we would be charged for our hotel stay, despite the fact the delay was 100% the fault of United. We were also told United has a discount for the hotel so we were getting a deal. That, as I soon discovered, was a flat out lie as the hotel's own website quoted the identical rate we paid.

So...

YEG via Seattle

overnight at the Denver Hyatt House Airport hotel, on to Alaska Air (a lovely airline by the way) via Seattle and then to Edmonton where we arrived on schedule, paid the extra day of parking, and were in our car heading for the grad ceremony by 1:14 with my husband driving the 30 kilometers of busy Saturday traffic like a maniac. He parked illegally and we ran flat out into the conference centre, still dressed in our casual clothes. Thank GOD the mechanical engineers had messed up about something or other and the ceremony was delayed by 20 minutes. Sheer luck.

When I got home, I checked United's website for the flight record for our two cancelled flights. More lies. The "See on-time performance for this flight" link for BOTH cancelled flights states that there is no record of recent delays or cancellations. Maybe that means your airline doesn't keep records? Or recent means yesterday? Is there even a YEG-DEN flight? Or do you just cancel them whenever they aren't full and tell your passengers whatever excuse you can dream up?

Flight was cancelled April 6.

Flight was cancelled April 10.

My experience leads me to believe that December's Panama City fiasco was not just some weird aberration on the part of United Airlines. It's standard operating procedure. Departure times are vague estimates, flight routes are suggestions, and delays and cancellations are the rule rather than the exception. The information on your website is just plain wrong as is the information provided by your telephone agents. 

I can't help but wonder how the world would work if everyone managed their affairs like United. What would happen if parents received a text at 1:14 a.m. telling them school was cancelled because teachers hadn't shown up for work? Time after time after time? Or if we repeatedly shut down hospitals and electricity and telephones and ambulance services and banks and the myriad of services people rely on? 

Anyway. We suffered a great deal of stress from your airline's incompetence. We're out of pocket by $250 bucks. I know we won't get it back. Maybe I will put in a claim. Maybe not.

I just wanted you to know that your airline sucks. 

If you haven't figured that out already.