Not Written in Stone

In January years ago I stood in the Halcourt cemetery watching my grandmother's casket being lowered into her grave. In the snow, surrounded by farm fields, with distant mountain views,  surrounded by the Canadian red granite tombstones of my maternal ancestors. There was something comforting about knowing my grandmother's remains would rest near those of her family. I knew her soul had left her body and those were just old bones that we were burying, but still, it seemed right that she was interred near all those she had loved in a place she felt she belonged.

Eventually, I thought, my parents would be buried there. And so would I. Generations of a family all in one place.

Years passed. 

And my dad said he didn't want a funeral, a grave or a tombstone. And really, what would connect him to the Halcourt cemetery? Those weren't his ancestors. That wasn't a place he had ever lived. It wasn't a place where he belonged.

"Just throw my body into the ocean," he said, ignoring the law and the fact that he lived hundreds of miles from the sea. As he got closer to the end of his life, he made arrangements with the local funeral home for cremation. When we talked about his passing, he repeated that he did not want a funeral. I told him his funeral wasn't for him. He would not be there to witness it. It was for us and he couldn't tell us how to grieve. "Just let us say goodbye the way we want," I said. He conceded. "I just don't want a fuss. I don't want any crying," he said. We had a funeral. And a memorial service. And there was plenty of crying. Later, my brother and his partner put Dad's ashes into the ocean. That's as close to honouring his request as we got, as close as we got to returning his remains to the sea. 

My mom refused to discuss any details about her funeral. To her dying day she rejected the very idea she would ever pass away. When she died, we scattered her ashes in the Murray River. "The Murray runs into the Pacific, doesn't it?" my other brother said. He didn't say it but we all understood. Eventually mom and dad's remains would be united.

When my father-in-law died, my mother-in-law did not want a funeral. She wanted a notice in the newspaper and that was all. The family gathered for a dinner. She never asked what we did with the ashes. When she dies, she wants the same for herself. No ceremony. No grave. Eventually her ashes will be united with his. She doesn't know that and she doesn't need to.

There are no tombstones to mark the lives of my parents or my father-in-law. There won't be one for my mother-in-law. There probably won't be one for me. Or my husband, when our time comes. No words etched on a rock sitting in a field of other rocks to remind others of our lives.  My mom and dad live in my heart and memory and in the lives of all they touched-as all people do. As I imagine I will do. I don't need words on stone for that.

I talked to some of my friends about their plans. Some have cemetary plots or columbaria already purchased. Others have nothing. One friend said she did not know what she and her husband would do, but "there should be...something?" It is part of our culture to leave something tangible behind.

As a young person I took comfort in thinking my remains would be surrounded by my ancestors in the place they once lived. But it is not a place where I have ever lived, nor is it a place where my kids will live. Part of me feels I belong there, but that feeling is fading with time. Now, I am connected to another family. We have lived in many places. Where I once felt connected to a particular piece of land, now I feel more of a connection with "the land" . My perception has shifted. I wonder about the point of buying a chunk of granite to sit in a graveyard. Wouldn't it be better to use that land to sustain the living instead of celebrating the dead?

I wonder why the fuss about statues erected to the memories of the "famous" people of history. What is the point? To remind us of their greatness? Of our history?  If I don't need a tombstone to remind me that my dad lived, why do I need one for Sir John A MacDonald? Will I forget he was Canada's first Prime Minister if there is no statue in his name? Will I forget there was a world war without a cenotaph of inscribed names?

History is not written in stone. History is alive and around us and influences us every day. My parents shaped who I am just as those who went before shaped Canada. Those influences, for good or ill, will continue to shape our identity as time marches on.

But history is not just about our stories. It's also about place. 

I think about the indigenous children who were buried in unmarked graves at residential schools across Canada. Not only the tragedy of their unnecessary deaths, but that their families had nowhere to go to mourn their passing. Where was their place? Like their lives, erased as if they had never been. Shouldn't there be ...something?

My grandfather was sent to Canada as an orphan. He came here for a better life and stayed for love. He lies buried in the Halcourt cemetery next to my grandmother. But what about his ancestors? They are buried in a tiny cemetery in the UK. 

My daughter said she would go look for the tombstones as the town is not far from where she lives. Maybe if she finds them, she will find a link to her own heritage. A Canadian who left her home country to pursue an education, like her great grandfather, she stayed for love. Maybe those old tombstones will give her a sense of belonging to the land of her ancestors.

And in the end I wonder if that's the real point of a tombstone. Like a funeral, a tombstone is not for the dead but for the living. It's not to memorialize the past but to provide a connection for those who remain. It's a link to our heritage and to the people who left us their legacies-good and bad- and the land that shapes us. 

Halcourt Cemetery

All the things you took for granted

Packing the car, taking special care of the thing you're supposed to bring for dinner

The long drive and the luminous trees

The driveway full of cars

Cousins and aunts and uncles. Relatives that don't "get" you, even though they try

New girlfriends and new husbands and new babies and neighbours you've never met

The turkey plates

The kids' table where you once sat

Grandfather carving the bird

Small talk

The mounds of food. Turkey and gravy and stuffing and home made buns with real butter and harvard beets and cranberry sauce and sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes and brussels sprouts and turnip and ham 

And the pies. So many pies. Fruit pies. Pumpkin pies. Flapper pies. With whipped cream or ice cream or both.

The endless cups of coffee 

Cleaning up. The women in the kitchen. The men in the living room. Kids underfoot. You and your cousin sneaking another bun with turkey even though you feel you might explode.

The drive home 

Looking at the stars. Stars that seem to go on forever. 

All the things you took for granted.

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George Martin, My Grandfather

My grandfather was as charming a man as you would ever want to meet. He was also funny, romantic, opinionated, a devoted family man, a great writer, and a worrier, especially about money. 

We were always told that he was an orphan who came to Canada to train to be an Anglican minister in the Eastern Townships of Quebec but he wasn't suited for that so instead he went to work for the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce where he worked until 1966. My cousin recalled being told he had once worked at the bank in Montreal where his job was to remove old bills from circulation. 

Homestead Application

He ended up in Lake Saskatoon in 1914 which was a small pioneer town at the time. He met and married my grandmother, applied for a homestead, and then enlisted. A story he used to tell from this time period is how he extended his leave one weekend to marry my grandmother. He got into trouble when he returned to the barracks. "I'm very sorry, sir. I left to get married." "Good for you," his commanding officer said. "The army needs more brave men like you." 

Grandad at Sarcee Camp

During the war, my grandmother took a ship to England to be closer to my grandfather. She lived with his brother and sister-in-law, worked at a munitions factory, and met his relatives. He came home and worked in Lake Saskatoon. He must have given up on the homesteading idea and kept working for the bank in Pouce Coupe, Monitor, Delia, and finally Edmonton where he was in charge of the foreign exchange at the downtown branch. Finally he became manager of the Highlands Branch. 

After he retired, he and my grandmother bought a farm near Beaverlodge, next to her family homestead. He relieved for bank managers in the far north, including Uranium City, Inuvik, Aklavik, and Fort Smith. He loved the north and in a letter, told my grandmother life was hard there but (and "don't tell a soul I said this") "I far prefer them to those quiet prairie farm towns". He would be gone up to 9 weeks at a stretch and kept this up every year until he was 74. His brother in law Harold was coming for a visit and he planned to take him on a road trip to Yellowknife.

The farm

I know a lot about my grandfather. My grandmother saved every letter he ever sent, and there were many. But I don't know anything about his life before he came to Canada. I knew he remained in contact with his brothers and sisters back in the UK. He visited the UK several times and a couple of his relatives visited Canada. But was he an orphan? Why did he come to Canada and his siblings stayed behind? Was he ever a domestic or farm labourer like many child immigrants? 

The young George Martin

The Virginian

Lately I started wondering if he was a British Home Child. A little digging told me he had arrived in Canada on the ship The Virginian in 1907 when he was 14 years old. From there I contacted the British Home Children Advocacy & Research Association and they were able to help me fill in some missing pieces.

From Granddad's letters.

His parents were Arthur Martin (born 1862 in St. Ippolyts, a small village near Hitchen) and Elizabeth (Jackson). They were married October 22, 1881 at Barton le Clay, Bedford, England. Arthur's occupation is listed as horsekeeper on farm and they lived at Pound Cottage. Elizabeth died in 1898 and Arthur died in 1901 when my grandfather was nine. One of my cousins remembers Granddad telling him that he watched his dad take his mom to the doctor in a wheelbarrow. According to my grandfather's postcard, they are both buried in St. Ippolyts Cemetery. My daughter lives in the UK and plans to look for those graves.

Pound Cottage today

My great grandparents had the following children:

Lilly Martin born 1882 married to Sidney Pinn, Child Ida Lilly born 1909.
Berty Martin born 1886 married to Annie M Mansell. My grandmother Marion lived with them during the war and was good friends with Annie, according to my grandfather's letters. Berty's occupation was listed as railway fireman and later railway mechanic. Children Marion and Victor. Marion was born in 1919 and I believe she was named after my grandmother.
Percy Martin born 1890 married to Emma Langridge 1911, occupation - railway carriage cleaner and later, woodkeeper. Children Lilian E Martin born 1917, Queenie S Martin born 1920, Stanley J Martin born 1923.
George Jackson Martin, later named George William Martin, July 20 1892,  at Bishop's Stortford, an historic market town in Hertfordshire. Married Marion MacNaught, Dec 1914 Children Margaret Elizabeth Martin born March 20 1920 and  (my mom) Janet Isabel Martin born July 9 1922.

Sarah (Cis) Martin, born 1895, married to Harold Pontin, 24 May 1919, child Ronald Pontin born 1932, died 1999.

Tunbridge Wells Home

When his parents died, my grandfather was placed in St Georges Home for Boys in Tunbridge Wells, run by the Church of England. I assume his older siblings were old enough to make a go of it on their own and his younger sister was taken care of by other relatives. By weird coincidence, my Canadian born daughter was married in Tunbridge Wells. Here she is in front of the old home for boys.

Jordan at the former location of St. George's Home.

Passenger List for The Virginian

From there Granddad travelled by ship along with 14 other boys, accompanied by a Mr. Brewster. My cousin Jansi remembers that he told her a nun on the ship gave him a small elephant carving. He collected elephants for his whole life and frequently made up stories about Jumbo the Elephant when we were kids . He went to Gibbs Home in Sherbrooke Quebec when he arrived in Canada. I don't know what those years were like before he started with the bank. Did he really start training to be an Anglican minister? Did he work on a farm as many home children did? 

Grandad's name appears in the middle column. 

The helpful archivist at the Bank of Commerce was able to find out that he started work as a ledger keeper in Bishopton Quebec in 1912, moved to Winnipeg where he was a clerk, and then Lake Saskatoon where he met my grandmother. He stayed with the bank for decades, relieving for bank managers everywhere from Beaverlodge to Aklavik for years after his official retirement.

My grandfather had a wonderful life. He loved his wife and family. He had a rewarding career, becoming bank manager in Monitor in 1929, and later manager of the Highlands Branch in Edmonton. He and my grandmother raised two daughters during the depression. Their home was a welcome haven for both new employees of the bank and soldiers from the Peace Country during WWII. My mom and aunt were educated with impressive careers of their own, they were great moms, and active members of their community. My grandparents were married for 62 years. They  left behind 10 grandchildren, 21 great grandchildren and 25 great great grandchildren at last count. 

Granddad at Lake Saskatoon bank, supplied by CIBC Archives.

Monitor Branch, supplied by CIBC Archives.

Taking Root

Last year I wrote about leaving our house behind for another family to use. Leaving the house was hard. Leaving the yard that we spent years nurturing was really hard.

Len and Pippa on the back deck of the old house

When we bought that house, we were the fourth owners in just over 20 years. Like many houses in our northern town, it had been owned by one family after another who perhaps knew they would not stay. Maybe that's why no one had had put much time or effort into the little yard. There was one spruce too close to the house, a pyramid cedar, and a scraggly lilac. You could see right into the neighbour's yards. The first year we were there, we planted 9 trees. We added more over the years, along with some shrubs and numerous perennials and even a tiny raised plot for tomatoes. By the time we left, our modest and somewhat exposed yard was a green bower, shaded on all sides by growing things. 

Back yard 

Every time we planted a tree in our little yard we would ask, "How big is this thing going to get? Will it be too big for the space?" And then we would shrug and say, "How long are we going to live here anyway? Not long enough for any tree to get too big."  That wasn't true. We stayed for 14 years. Long enough for the apple to produce more fruit than we could ever eat. Long enough for the volunteer mountain ash we dug out of our previous yard to tower over the store bought mountain ash, the amur maple, the columnar cedars and Hart's grade one spruce tree.

We had many failures in our tree planting adventures. A Chinese weeping willow from Hole's Greenhouse was a gorgeous tree for many years until a harsh winter caused it to die back. It kept regrowing from the base but it was no longer a tree- it was a weedy shrub that was impossible to kill. We had a fabulous flowering plum that thrived for years and then faded away and died. A hybrid rose that bloomed for years and then gradually died away. 

The maple thriving in the back corner

Our biggest challenge was in the back corner where a greenhouse had once stood. Try as we might, we could not get anything to grow there. We first tried a silver tip maple that lasted a year, obviously not hardy enough for that zone. Once we planted a Russian Olive, knowing that several neighbours had massive ones. Surely it would live. But no. It was frustrating.  Around about that time, a maple started growing outside our bedroom window. The key must have blown over from the Tange's massive tree across the street. Under the window was no place for a tree since it was in a narrow passageway between two houses. But we let it grow because I loved seeing something green instead of a blank wall. However, it did not take long before it was just too big for the space. "Let's dig it out and stick it in the hole in the back corner," I suggested. By then this thing was a good 8 feet tall. My husband had to hack out most of the root since it was growing right up against the house. "That's not gonna live," we said as we stuck the bare root in the sad mix of clay and old muskeg in the back corner. But if we didn't transplant it, it was going to die anyway. It didn't cost us anything but labour. And it obviously liked our soil and climate. Darn it if the thing not only lived, but flourished. 

Unlike our previous yard, the yard in our new house has not been neglected. Under the stewardship of its only owners, every inch of the yard has been meticulously landscaped and loved. The plants have been fertilized. The well-placed trees and shrubs have been pruned. When Jack and Nancy designed their yard, they designed it for the future. They grew a garden that they could enjoy for years. And now it's ours.

It is odd, tending someone else's garden. But it has also been fun discovering what grows. What plant is this popping up so soon in the front yard? Oh, it's a bleeding heart! The bears seem to like the shaggy nanking cherries-should we take them out? But oh no, look at how beautiful the blossoms are, how sweet it smells, how many bees buzz around. What are these, cropping up all along the retaining wall? Anemones nodding their white heads. Clematis creeping up the wall. The climbing rose. A little patch of rhubarb, nothing like abundant plant from the last house, which pleases my husband who apparently doesn't like rhubarb. Peonies that I was never ever able to get to grow in my muskeg based dirt. 

Peonies in the back garden

At the edge of the property, a patch of native mahonia aquifolium blooms. Oregon Grape. It has planted itself along with a little nanking cherry and a willow. Found throughout the nearby forest, its early yellow blooms have the most amazing smell. Its holly like leaves last year-round and its bitter fruit makes a lovely jelly.

Mahonia aquifolium

Towering grasses and Humpty Dumpty dwarf pines and a massive maple whose red leaves are a sight to behold in fall. There is almost nothing to do with this yard but to enjoy it. 

Sir Isaac and Guapo under the maple

Still we want to make it our own, just a little. We are trying to figure out where to plant an apricot tree and how to protect it from the deer and bears that wander freely through the unfenced neighbourhoods. There was a dead plant out front. "I think a hydrangea would do well there," I said to my husband. As he was digging out the old plant he said, "Did you know they used to have a hydrangea here?" For sure enough there was the old plastic tab of the previous hydrangea, a pink one, just like the one I bought with my Mother's Day gift certificate from my daughter. 

Deer hiding under the mountain ash

One of the clematis in the back is dead so I dug out a wild clematis columbiana- a native species also known as "virgin's bower" - from the wooded lot next door and planted it next to the dead one in the garden. It had an impressive root system and I am not sure if it will survive. It is is a native species, and like that volunteer mountain ash in our old yard, I hope it will take root. But I also know not all wild things can survive in the richer soils of the domestic garden.

Clematis Columbiana in the wild

Whenever I stick a new plant into the ground, I talk to it and encourage it to grow. "Bloom where you're planted' is nice sentiment. But it doesn't always apply to plants. Some plants cannot grow wherever we plant them, no matter how much care we give, any more than they can thrive wherever their seeds blow. But according to the saying plants and people are supposed to thrive wherever they find themselves. 

The McNaught descendents, Beaverlodge Alberta

My ancestors were pioneers. My great-grandparents and their many descendents have transplanted themselves far from where they were born, working hard to flourish in new environments from the Peace Country to southern Alberta to Vancouver Island to California to France to the UK. My husband's family is much the same. Some places are easier than others. Just as it is for plants, some species are best suited for certain environments. Some can adapt better than others. The ground may be fertile for a maple or a mountain ash, but not for a Russian Olive. The weather will be ideal for rhubarb but not hydrangeas. 

Some species will take root, but others will find their environment too inhospitable. They may find their tender new growth eaten alive by animals or insects, mowed down by weed wackers, destroyed by herbicides or even blasted out by a tiger torch. Or they might try really hard for a long time but be taken out in a single season by unexpected events. Or eventually they may succumb to the elements, wither and die. While some invasive and introduced species survive by nature or nurture, sometimes the indigenous species are all that will live. 

Arrowleaf balsalmroot, a native species in the forest nearby

Unlike plants, humans can try to create their own environment, water and fertilize and create their own little microclimate. Sometimes that works. But if you are fighting Mother Earth, eventually the real nature of the place will win. You might survive but you'll never blossom.

I have always tried to bloom where I was planted. Tried to live my best life no matter where I have lived. I haven't always succeeded. Sometimes I wonder if it's not just easier to relocate to a place where you fit in instead of constantly battling elements outside your control. 

Will we thrive here? Right now we are finding the climate and soil pretty sustaining. Let's see if those roots will hold. 

Before and After the Fire

 May 15 2011

If you didn't live there before the fire, you don't know.

You don't know what it was like that day, watching the sky, talking to your neighbours, scanning social media and internet news.

You don't know what it was like to listen. Listen so hard for a voice that told you to go. 

A voice that never came.

You don't know how the news the fire had breached the highway shot through town like an electric current.

You don't know the weird mix of fear and calm as you fled.

You don't know the anxiousness of waiting. 

Waiting to find out if anyone had died. Because surely someone had.

Waiting to find out if your house was still standing. 

Waiting to hear who among your friends was homeless.

You may have heard the stories, but you don't fully understand how people helped save each other.  

And you can't know the stillness in your car when you drove back into your town. When you had no words to describe what you were seeing.

You can't know the devastation that no picture can show, as much a feeling as an image. You can't know that particular sadness.

But you might know. You should know how people came together to try to rebuild something. Something better.

Before the fire. 

After the fire.

A day that defined Slave Lake.

In front of our house. Photo Credit: Len Ramsey

Fire breaches the highway. Photo credit: Bruce Turnbull

Making our escape

Watching the fire burn through town.

Photo credit: Len Ramsey

Where is your empathy?

A bunch of people at my former workplace were let go. One teacher with 14 years teaching at the same school survived the cuts. Another with 12 years experience was let go. The one who kept her job said she was wracked with "survivor guilt".

After wildfires destroyed much of Slave Lake ten years ago, a friend who had lost her home was visiting her sister who had not. As my friend walked up to the house, her sister leaped up from her gardening and dropped her trowel behind her. "What are you doing?" my friend asked. 

"Nothing," said the sister. 

"You are gardening," the friend said. "Why are you trying to pretend you are not?"

"I am just so guilty that I still have a garden and you don't. I don't want to rub it in. I don't want you to feel bad."

Survivor guilt is the term we use when we survive a tragedy and others don't. You lived but others died. You weren't hurt but others were. Your house didn't burn down, but others did. You kept your job and others lost theirs. It can be almost overwhelming. You want to be happy for yourself but at the same time you feel sad for others. But is guilt really the right word?  Don't you feel guilt when you do something wrong- when you are responsible for the bad thing that happened to someone else? Maybe, but it's not guilt when it's not your fault. My colleague was not responsible for her friend losing her job. The gardening woman was not to blame for her sister's loss.  But 'survivors' feel terrible for those who aren't as lucky as they are. They know it could just as easily have been them. In their minds, they have already experienced the loss of job, income, health, possessions, home or whatever, if only in their imagination.  Because they have been so close to the loss themselves, they know the feelings others are experiencing. Their elation at surviving the tragedy while others suffer feels like guilt.

But it's not really guilt they are feeling. They are feeling empathy. Empathy doesn't mean feeling sad for others. That is sympathy. Empathy is something else. Empathy is the ability to understand - to really know- people's feelings even if you are not experiencing them yourself.  Empathy requires compassion and imagination. And in our culture, empathy is often thought of as weakness. Guilt however, is not.

Years ago, I took a bible study course with some ladies from church on spiritual gifts such as faith, prophecy, teaching, healing and so on. My friend Susan and I were both said to have the gift of empathy. "Great," said Susan in her classically cryptic fashion. "Why do I always get the crappy ones?"

Why is empathy considered a "crappy" gift?  Critics of empathy see it as weakness. They believe empathetic people "won't make the hard choices". Empathetic people are "easily taken advantage of". However, that is often patently false. Empathetic people may understand the impact of their decision but that doesn't mean they don't know it has to be made. 

And empathy is hard to monetize. You can't sell empathy. You can't get rich by empathizing with others. Nursing, Child care, teaching and social work -often considered "woman's work" -require empathy to do well. Perhaps empathy is considered a feminine quality and thus has been traditionally undervalued.  

But where would we be without empathy? Our world would be a hard place indeed without people or governments that are able to put themselves in someone else's shoes and by so doing, go on to demonstrate compassion. Because empathy isn't just a feeling. It's also action driven by those emotions. Action that can include short term help for the suffering but also a more far reaching quest for justice. Not only in times of tragedy but also when things are going well. Rather than being a weakness, isn't empathy is a strength?  You have to be strong to repeatedly endure powerful emotions and come up with ways to help.

Empathy keeps you awake at night. Empathy hurts. It hurts to feel other people's' pain. It hurts not to be able to take it away. As one friend said, it can also be paralyzing. Sometimes it feels like more of a curse than a blessing.

So when I hear these "tough guys" refusing to wear masks or stay home or take simple measures to protect others during the pandemic, I don't see strength. I see people who refuse to draw upon their own life experiences to remind them of what suffering is. I see people too cowardly to try to think about what it is like to watch a loved one suffer.  I see people too afraid to admit to the reality of a disease that could easily strike them down. And instead of facing their fears, they deny deny deny, pretending "covid isn't real" or "the economy takes precedence over public health" or "you can't take away my rights..." That's not strength. That's selfishness. That's weakness.

Lack of empathy is confusing. I don't know how it is that some people don't have empathy. Was it how they were raised? Weren't they taught to try to understand what it would be like to be someone else? How is it possible not to care about other people? 

Whatever the reason, I'm sick of it. I've had enough of the covid deniers and anti-maskers.  I don't understand where they are coming from, as much as I try. I have no experience to draw upon to help me empathize with their lack of compassion. 

Image from @BLCKSMTHdesign on Twitter

Be Still and Listen

The philosopher Pascal once said, "All of humanity's problems stem from man's inability to sit quietly in a room alone."

Pascal was writing from 16th century France. I doubt he was thinking about a pandemic when he wrote those words. But since the advent of COVID-19, his words resonate. 

Awhile ago my husband and I watched the Superbowl, alone in our basement. A far cry from every other year where we have joined a small group of friends to feast and laugh and sometimes watch football. Before the game started, U.S. President Joe Biden called for a moment of silence in memory of the over 440,000 Americans who lost their lives due to covid-a number that stands at 576,000 today.  Here in Canada, our numbers have been better but with over 24,000 deaths at the end of April and rising every day, we have nothing to brag about.

It's no secret that the virus is spread through social contact and governments around the world have instituted restrictions to control its escalation. Yet it continues to spread. In my own little valley our numbers were pretty good for weeks and weeks. And then our 2 cases a week became 14 and then 24 and then 46. My son lives alone in Calgary. Last week parts of the city had 753 active cases per 100,000. How is this happening?

We are social beings. It goes against our nature to be alone. Being alone is hard.

A  2014 study found that people would rather give themselves electroshocks than be alone with nothing but their thoughts for 6 minutes. Perhaps it is that inability to be alone with their thoughts that drives people to events such as the "No More Lockdown" Rodeo Rally recently held in Central Alberta. In today's world, some people will risk giving themselves and others a potentially fatal disease rather than spend time alone.

You might say Pascal's words are truer today than at any time in history, but how alone are we, really?

Today we can still connect with others via technology. We met our Superbowl friends for a little bit of the game. We couldn't share food, but we had a few laughs and there was even a little football talk. Every Sunday, we play D&D on Zoom with our kids who live far away. My husband meets monthly with old friends. I have reconnected with a group of university friends on What's App. Not a day goes by that we don't converse about topics ranging from how to get gummy stickers off glass to religion. My friend Heather started an online cooking class. Another friend started a Facebook group called the Covid Collective Isolation Fun Time Group. In some ways, I feel more connected today than pre-pandemic.

That being said, the pandemic has forced us to be by ourselves for hours at at time. Being by yourself gives you time to consider your life. 

Is it what you want it to be? 

When you can't rush around socializing and doing this and that, what do you DO? 

That empty space may encourage us to re-evaluate our priorities.

Perhaps that re-evaluating accounts for much of what I see around me. I see people making major changes in their lives, as my husband and I have done. I see people changing jobs. I see people slowing down. I see parents-especially fathers-doing more things outside with their kids. I see people moving to communities that represent more of what they value in their day to day lives. I see huge numbers of people exercising, camping, boating and visiting our Canadian parks. My daughter figures it would be easier to get crack than a puppy. I see people taking up new hobbies, cooking better, reading more. 

A grade eight teacher asked her students to describe the impact of the pandemic. Many wrote about the positives of being unscheduled which allowed them to discover their creativity. They experienced a kind of power in learning how to be alone. For many of us, time and solitude has allowed us to prioritize what matters and live with intention instead of just riding out the storm. 

The pandemic has changed the world. But like all personal tragedies, it forces us to think and act differently. Perhaps the thought of our own possible impending doom "concentrates the mind wonderfully", as Samuel Johnson once said.  

in the bleak

QEII, December 10, 2020 

red pickup passes on the right.

window sticker reads "Fuck Trudeau"

black truck with an unsecured load passes on the left

driver is texting

one semi after another passes

not one pulled over

i'm going 117 on the QEII

hoar frost and gray sky 

getting grayer 

snow on snow

wind-drifted crystals float across 6 lanes of traffic

pump jacks

rusted cranes

empty shops

 "China virus! Buy the book!” 

"AB COVID. New Health Orders in Effect” 

Alberta

bleak midwinter

It didn't have to end this way

This week, close to 40 of my former colleagues were handed their termination notices.

40 or more others took a buyout in the weeks preceding the terminations. A similar number of support staff are losing their jobs. This follows a massive buyout of senior staff  two years ago when Alberta Distance Learning Centre restructured itself in a desperate bid to retain its longstanding government funding. 

All for nothing in this government's relentless quest to reduce services to Albertans.

For nearly a hundred years, Alberta Distance Learning Centre has provided educational opportunities to Alberta's kids. From its humble beginnings as a one woman show in the back room of the legislature to its heyday with more than 30,000 students in schools and homes all over the world, ADLC has changed and grown in its quest to meet the needs of kids from virtually every walk of life. From kids living on remote farms, to families who moved abroad for work, to kids with addictions, to kids staying home to care for disabled parents, to gifted kids looking for enrichment, to adult students who fell through the cracks when they were younger.  Kids with mobility issues and mental health issues and autoimmune disorders. Elite athletes and aspiring entrepreneurs. Students in small schools that cannot offer a full range of programming. Students wanting to learn another language or explore areas of interest such as Aboriginal Studies or forestry. Students who lost every worldly good due to fire and flood. Students from large schools who don't fit it. From First Nations to recent immigrants. Christians and Muslims and those whose life experiences have left them with nothing to believe in. Teachers in outreach centres and private schools. And most recently, teachers and students who work remotely due to the COVID-19 pandemic. 

All of these-thousands of people-were able to use ADLC to teach and learn.

All were welcome. 

"Success for every student" was not just a motto. It was something we believed in and worked to achieve.

Through the decades, ADLC teachers experimented with all kinds of technology to engage kids. Lessons delivered via CKUA radio. Television programming through the now-defunct ACCESS TV. Telephone conferencing. Online learning. Interactive virtual labs. Personalized instruction. Video conferencing. Forestry and rig simulators. ADLC and its programming was recognized throughout the world. 

I spent 20 years trying to make course content come alive for thousands of kids. So did dozens of my colleagues who created and revised hundreds of courses at all grade levels. I don't know what will happen to the resources we so painstakingly created and left to others to tend. Left to a faceless bureaucrat to maintain until they wither and die from neglect, I imagine.

As the threats to defund escalated, the restructuring began. Teachers who previously worked in communities across the province were brought back to the mothership in Barrhead, transferred or offered buyouts, removing almost all institutional memory from the school. Regional offices closed. The time-tested, flexible and cost-effective marker model was eliminated. Services to adults were withdrawn. Summer school opportunities were reduced and then eliminated. It's not what I would have done. But it wasn't up to me. 

When the announcement that funding would be phased out, rather than face death through a thousand cuts, ADLC decided it would close early, rather than try to do the impossible. It will close its doors for good in June 2021.

It is hard to know who to blame for this travesty. Certainly the government must accept the lion's share of the blame. But Alberta Education began the defunding process long before the UCP was elected.  

Large boards like Calgary Public and Edmonton Public, with their own distributed learning platforms have long resented what they perceived as an unfair funding formula that favoured ADLC - despite the fact that  they themselves benefitted from its province-wide mandate. They lobbied for funding to end. Ironically, thousands of students and families from Alberta's two largest cities make up the bulk of students at ADLC and its sister school, Vista Virtual. Make of that what you will.

Sadly, more than 60% of Alberta's superintendents said they did not need ADLC. Apparently the thousands of students from their schools who use ADLC can receive instruction at the hands of their own already overtaxed teachers who will now be expected to create their own materials and complete their own assessments. Or perhaps their schools can buy courses from Pearson or another corporation with a for-profit motive. Or maybe those students just will not have their needs met. Superintendents can take some responsibility as well.

Did local officials fight hard enough to retain this valuable resource? I don't know what they did or didn't do. Whatever it was, it wasn't enough.

Maybe it doesn't matter who is to blame.  Alberta's students will suffer. 

And that makes my heart hurt.

I will honour the rich history and dedication of those who built Alberta Distance Learning Centre. Not only for their expertise, dedication, creativity, and vision but also for their very real love for their students. Alberta has lost a vital resource. 

It did not have to end this way.

Consent of the Governed

I stand at my window.

Bright snow on the distant mountaintops.

Clouds drift up the valley from the south.

Not long ago, that same sky was filled with the purple orange smoke of a wildfire just kilometers away. The fire went from out of control, to being held, to extinguished, due to the hard work of over a thousand firefighters, supported by heavy machine operators and water bombers.

As the sun creeps along the horizon, the frost on the metal rooftops dissipates. All around me, houses of stucco and concrete. Yards immaculately firesmarted. The community takes the wildfire threat seriously.

I gaze out over lovely yards, through which bears and deer roam freely. The fall was busy as they forage for fruit. Sometimes they walk right through our yard.  The regional district and the local community organization keep us updated with bear sightings. Just today, I read that a large grizzly boar is roaming the river bottom to the north. We and our neighbours try to live in harmony with these creatures. If someone pulls out a gun, it's to scare them away- not kill them.

The  newsletter from the regional district informs me that there are 4 new covid-19 cases in the valley, bringing the total since the beginning of the pandemic to 43.  Recently returned from an overseas trip, we are on day 7 of quarantine. We hope we do not add to the statistics and we report daily on the ArriveCan app that we still have no symptoms.

Almost within earshot is the lovely Coldspring Creek which burbles happily down to the river. In spring however, the creek turns to a torrent, washing debris downstream and risking property damage. The regional district recently commissioned a study which recommends a mitigation project that will soon be underway.

Much further to the south, summer wildfires devastated parts of the country. 46 people died. The president blamed government agencies for mismanagement of forests. 

Yesterday, there were over 1200 covid deaths in the U.S., bringing their death total to over 238,000 human lives since March. There were 53 in my own country- a total of just over 10,000. The U.S. has had 723 covid deaths per per million, while Canada has 273. Instead of listening to science, hundreds of thousands of citizens in the U.S. pretend that wearing a mask and avoiding large gatherings is a some kind of affront to their liberties. When it comes to "Give me liberty or give me death," it appears they have chosen death. A decision that mystifies me and most of my fellow Canadians, who have consented to respect the advice of government and the science on which they rely.

The US election is still not settled, with the sitting president tweeting that elections workers should stop counting votes. Armed, unmasked supporters surround voting stations and threaten elections workers. The National Guard is standing by. The rest of the world holds its breath.

And I wonder how it is that in my nation, the vast majority of citizens believe that the government is not the enemy. We may not always like the political party that was elected, but we recognize the right of the majority to form government. The vast majority believe in working together to keep each other safe and prosperous. That is how democracy is supposed to work.