Letter to Tara Sawyer Re: World Famous Torrington Gopher Hole Museum

June 14, 2026

Once I had a blog called "Unanswered Letters to Pat Rehn". Then I moved, he got turfed from his party, then reinstated, then didn't run again. And I deleted the blog. But here's the thing: I write a fair number of letters to politicians. I don't get many answers. So I am going to put them on my blog. If I get answers, I will post them too.


Dear Ms Sawyer


As a former Albertan and lover of quirky museums, I am writing to you to beg you to help keep the World Famous Torrington Gopher Hole Museum alive. This museum, staffed entirely by volunteers, is a national treasure. It's been featured by the CBC and the AMA . Need I say more? Well, I will say more...

I have visited your riding of Olds-Didsbury-Three Hills on numerous occasions. We have camped in Carstairs for many days. Too many days. And I say "too many" because there is very little for tourists to do in your riding. There is no reason to stop except if your car breaks down and you need a place to camp nearby while it's getting fixed. No, there is almost nothing for tourists, except for one thing- the amazing, incredible, life affirming World Famous Torrington Gopher Hole Museum. There is something heartwarming about the personification of the ground squirrel in different domestic scenarios. Who doesn't love a diorama of a gopher priest and angel in a church? How can you resist gophers bonspieling? Who doesn't adore two gophers on their first date? Who doesn't smile at a gopher shooting a goose? It's all genius. And a wonderful way to teach our children that humans are not the only living beings deserving of God's love.

As Minister of Agriculture, and former Chair of the Grain Growers of Canada, I am sure you acknowledge the importance of gophers to the farmers in your riding. Including the gophers memorialized in the World Famous Torrington Gopher Hole Museum.

For the paltry sum of $200,000 -less than what your predecessor Mr. Cooper earns trying to sell Alberta to Washington, way less than a new carpet for the Premier's office and way way less than rebranding a government service - your government could keep this vital institution alive. Your government could provide great joy not only to the good people of Olds-Didsbury-Three Hills, but also to other Albertans, Canadians and international visitors. We all need a reason to smile in these trying times. Give us a reason. Give the World Famous Torrington Gopher Hole Museum a new home.


Sincerely,
Nicola Ramsey
Former Albertan

PS If you want to donate to the museum here is the link.

https://www.zeffy.com/en-CA/donation-form/save-the-world-famous-gopher-hole-museum

Be My Guest

In a house that no longer exists, near the end of World War II, my grandparents started keeping a guestbook. Even though they had been married for nearly 30 years and had ived in many houses in tiny prairie towns where my grandfather worked as a banker, the first entry in their book on December 25 1944 reads:

EDMONTON
10226 122 STREET

The first guest was Dorothy Mortwedt, a member of the family my grandmother's parents first met when they homesteaded in the Peace Country decades earlier. Her name is followed by the names of people who live on in my memory and in the stories I was told. My mom's high school friend Betty Murphy. Margaret Watt whose parents built the farmhouse where my grandparents later retired and my cousin Peter now lives.  Rowe Harris who married Margaret Watt sometime later-their married names reappear a few years later. Myrtle Melsness who writes "Who do you see more often?" Jean Mackie. The names of people who had come to the city from the north or from small towns where my grandparents once lived to shop or visit or receive medical care. Neighbours from just across the street. Soldiers stationed far from home during World War II.

By April of 1945, my grandfather was promoted to manager of the Highlands branch of the bank and they moved to 11215 68 Street in Edmonton's Highlands district. More names, like the Ingledews and the Dunbars from Halcourt, Pete McNaughton who "stayed the longest" according to his entry. The Hellers and the Funnells- more people i vaguely recall from my childhood. In a child's writing, Garner King's name appears. His mother was an old horseback riding friend of my grandmother. My uncle Sam's name first appears in 1946. 

Dinner parties, New Year's parties, Thanksgiving dinners, anniversaries. An entry from an engagement party where my mom's  friend wrote, "Evelyn Krantz- but not for long!"  An international dinner featuring Chicken Chow Mein and Crepes Suzette where the guests commented in French.  Visitors from Alberta and BC, but also exotic places like Nova Scotia and New York City and Jamaica and Seoul, Korea. 

In June 1952, there's a new heading. "BEAVER LODGE". 

That's when my grandfather retired from the bank and they moved north to be near family just outside Beaverlodge, where they lived until they died. 

I keep reading. My dad's name appears for the first time on Thanksgiving 1953 along with the names of a bunch of other teaching colleagues of my mom. More people whose stories I have heard but I never really knew. 

December 30, 1965 was my grandparents' 50th wedding anniversary. It seems the whole community came out. On that date I come to my own name in the careful printing of a 7 year old.  Above it, my cousin Sarah has neatly penned the names of my younger siblings. Younger cousin "Karen 8" has also signed.

The entries continue up until 1974. the occasion of their diamond anniversary. Both of my grandparents were gone soon after that.

Fans of Swedish death cleaning-that practice whereby you clear out all the sentimental items from your home so your kids don't have to deal with them when you die- would have tossed that book into the dumpster decades ago, perhaps when my grandmother died in 1978. But my mom saved it and passed it on to me- the family historian. 

Taken together, the book and it's entries tell a story. A story of not only a home that no longer exists but a way of life that is almost gone. A way of life where people treasured their guests and honoured their presence. I hope to carry that tradition forward, so I have put additional pages into this book. Next time you visit, remind me to have you sign it.

Sign my book. 

Sign it to prove you were here.

Sign it so our history is not erased.

Sign it so we can remember our time together.

 

Lucky Man

I recently discovered the text of a speech my dad gave at the Remembrance Day service in Tumbler Ridge BC in 2004.

Dad was a bomber pilot in World War II. He was a kid when he signed up. He said he "lucked out" by getting to fly. Lucky to be chosen to fly a Lancaster? The real "luck" was that he and his aircrew survived. Most didn't. But he was lucky. He believed he was lucky. Lucky to be born into a loving family. Lucky to find good, lifelong friends in his aircrew. Lucky to get an education and a job he he was good at. Lucky to find love ,lucky to have children and grandchildren, lucky to be Canadian.  And I know I was lucky to have him as my dad.

Dad didn't like to be called a hero. But he was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross. His citation reads that he "invariably displayed the utmost fortitude, courage, and devotion to duty".  He says he wasn't a hero. Not a hero then never was a hero. He was wrong about that too. He was my hero. 

Remembrance Day 2004 

My message is for anyone less than 80 years old. Those of you just a bit older listen and suggest corrections if you want.

Why are you here today? Your reasons are your own, but I thank you for being here and for permitting me to have your attention for a few minutes.

Just after the schools across Canada had reopened in 1939, this country declared war against Germany.

In 1914 Canada joined with other countries declaring war against Germany in was then called the War to end all wars. In 1939 that war was to be called the War to end all Wars again.

Think about it for a few seconds:

I was still in school in Vancouver at the time, but when I was still just seventeen years old I was given training to learn something about fixing planes so that, when I was eighteen I could join the airforce and start fixing them. In 1941 I did just that.

By then I found that I could be taught to fly aircraft and I was lucky enough to start training as a pilot so instead of fixing the planes I could fly them.

By 1945 I was returned to civilian life because that war was over. I was twenty two years old and had returned safely from what was, for my mother, an awful awful time for her to have been waiting for one son, in the Airforce, one in the Navy one in the Army to get out of uniform and return home.

One aunt had embarrassed me no end by introducing me to her friends as a hero! Never was one, and never ever wanted to be one, but what could I do to correct her viewpoint? I do believe there were people who could properly be called heroes, and there still are, but I was never one.

What we were told to do, we did, and I lucked out by getting to fly and to find really fine people to fly with. Yes we did have an enemy to fight, and when the invasion took place in Europe, we were in Bomber Command and flew to France just a few hours before the ground forces arrived from England to get the invasion underway.

However, this is 2004, not 1944, and you are here in this lively and exciting place we still call Canada. This is not the Canada recovering from a lengthy depression so long ago but we still have a neighbour country just South of us which still goes to war, so long after we went to war to end all wars, twice before.

If you are indeed Canadian, or believe in remembering your history, think about what is important to you and try to make wise decisions for yourselves.

Please, whether you are wearing a uniform, or not, our respect for you will be obtained by your actions as citizens in this ever increasing world of people of all faiths who genuinely are in love and charity to all.

Indeed, we need to remember the words of In Flanders Fields. Our cenotaph is a time for quiet reflection. Honour the dead and look to the future.

Little Engine

Every kid who is read to has a favourite book. That one book they insist on hearing over and over and over again. My daughter loved Woosh I hear a sound. My brother, oddly enough, loved Little Black Sambo.  

For me, according to my mom, it was "The Little Engine That Could."

The story was about a stranded train that has to go over a difficult pass. None of the big engines would take it on but the little engine tries, puffing "I think I can I think I can I think I can" as it successfully completes its task. We had the book and we also had it on an LP.

Another book I clearly remember but cannot find a reference to was something called "The Littlest Raindrop" or maybe "Little Bitty Raindrop."  It had pretty pictures and while I can't recall the whole story, it includes the little raindrop feeling hopeless and ends with the raindrop falling from the sky and a line something like, "because she was a little raindrop and she did what she could." I also remember my mom rolling her eyes when she read this book over and over and over.

You're probably sensing a theme here. A naive little kid thinking she could make a difference. Yeah, that was me. That still is me. I'm just not a little kid any more. But yeah, I'll do that boycott. I'll write that letter. I'll sign that petition. I'll march in that parade. I'll organize that rally. 

I know a lot of people think the action of individuais is pointless.

When it comes to climate change, they'll say individuals can't make a difference. They'll say the worst emitter is industry. They'll ask what's the point of our country doing something if the bulk of the world's population does nothing?  Some will say electric vehicles are terrible for the environment and windmills kill birds and the climate is always a cycle and we're just in a natural warming phase. 

When it comes to tariffs or dealing with corporations with questionable ethics or too much power, some say boycotts don't work. That individuals are powerless against corporations. For some, trying to figure out who to boycott is just too much work. And of course there are those who say nothing and do nothing because they love their bourbon and their blood oranges, their trips to the US, and their gas guzzling pickup trucks. 

And when it comes to political involvement, I know many will not bother to research the policies of the politics parties. Most won't display a lawn sign because they don't want to argue with a neighbour. They won't join a political party because they don't think they can effect change. And some won't even vote because they think it doesn't matter who you vote for. Sure. Ask the 90 million Americans who didn't vote how that is working out. Ask the one person in Terrebonne whose vote changed the outcome.

You can come up with all kinds of reasons not to act.  Not to stand up for what you believe in. But they aren't reasons. They're excuses. And most of them are pathetic.

if you don't do anything, if you don't say anything, nothing changes. Doing something shows you are trying. I don't think our ownership of a hybrid electric car is going to slow global warming. I don't thinking buying Canadian is going to improve the Canadian economy.  But if we ALL did it? Yes, we would make a difference.

I don't know if I was born that way or raised that way or influenced by what I read or what I was taught. And people can go right ahead and call me stupid and naive. 

I know what I believe.

I believe in doing my part. Even if it's small. Even if it's meaningless.

It may mean nothing to the world, but it means something to me.

I hope I go to my deathbed being that little raindrop that did what she could.

a river flows through you

Me and Mom along the Columbia River

I was born in Trail B.C. and spent the first 18 months of my life in view of the Columbia River, just a few kilometers from where the river crosses into the United States.

For the next 60 years, I lived in northern Canada. I lived near a creek. I lived on Great Slave Lake. I lived next to Lesser Slave Lake. Summers on the Red Willow River and later, Gregg Lake. I love the water. It brings peace to my soul.

In all those years, I didn't hear the Columbia calling me. Maybe I wasn't listening. But it drew me to it anyway. 

Today, my husband and I live just a few kilometers from the marshy source of the Columbia. Every day we look down at this beautiful valley, watching the river flow beneath the blue Purcells. We see it ebb and flow, waters at first trickling and then bursting into the wetlands with the spring freshet and the summer snow melt, gradually diminishing as summer turns into autumn and then winter. We watch the river valley green up in spring, turn golden in fall, and then turn white with snow. We hear the coyotes howl down in the river bottom. We listen to the chatter of the waterfowl, we see the ospreys and bald eagles soar above, and observe bears make their slow stroll from the mountain ridges to the valley below. 

Prairie Crocus on Old Coach Trail

View from our daily walk along the Tukats Trail in Fairmont

View from Mount Sabine

Autumn view from Old Coach Trail

Bald Eagle on the ice

We have floated down it, kayaked it, skated on it, skied on it and beside it, hiked along it and above it, and dragged our friends and family on walks to see it. We have canoed it, swum in it, and pulled our grandson over it on his sled. My husband has fatbiked it. We have read about it and driven along it.We have explored its source in the marshes of Canal Flats and walked along the sands of its delta as it exits the land and gently flows into the Pacific at Astoria, Oregon. 

If conditions are just right, it's just us and the dogs gliding along the river under the clear blue sky with only the eagles as company. On days like those, it's hard not to feel "peace like a river" in your soul, as the old hymn says.

Columbia Lake near the source of the river

Delta of the river near Astoria, Oregon 

The Columbia River is the lifeblood of our valley.  

It's a place where people work hard to preserve the natural environment. Wildlife conservation areas abound. It's a place where volunteers build hiking and cycling trails and walking paths. Where they count bats to monitor white-nose syndrome and pick fruit to protect the bears and lobby the government to build wildlife overpasses to protect the mountain sheep. Where Ktunaxa Elders and local school children gather to re-introduce salmon fry to the waters. Where people erect platforms for ospreys to nest on and ice fishermen feed their catch to the bald eagles. Where the biggest events are wildlife festivals and environmental film shows. The river has created an environment people will fight to preserve as many people embody the First Nations proverb, 

Only when the last tree is cut, the last fish is caught, and the last river is polluted, you will realize that you can’t eat money. 

Fairmont Float

Green view from Fairmont Ridge, July

Our daughter and her dog kayaking in the wetlands

Skating with the dogs

Skiing next to the river 

Hiking along Columbia Lake

Standup paddleboarding 

Our grandson and our dog, Columbia River in the background

The Columbia River starts in the Rocky Mountain Trench, in a boggy wetland that flows into Columbia Lake. The lake drains into the Columbia River near Fairmont Hot Springs, then meanders north to Lake Windermere, through the Athelmer wetlands, and continues north past Radium Hot Springs and onward through the Columbia Valley between the towering Purcell and Rocky Mountains. This first segment of the river - the one with which I am most familiar-is the largest intact wetlands in North America and part of the Pacific flyway, a safe haven for more than 160 species of migratory birds.  When the river reaches Golden, it joins the Kicking Horse River, then the Blaeberry, the Illecillewaet and other glacier-fed rivers and streams, before it reaches Revelstoke. There, it turns abruptly south. From that point, it It is joined by dozens of other streams rivers and becomes a broad and mighty force by the time it crosses the border into the U.S.

The Columbia near Trail, B.C.

The Columbia is 2000 kilometers long-the largest river in the Pacific Northwest with a drainage area the size of France.

David Thompson's map

Donald Trump speculates that borders are just arbitrary lines on a map. But that map could have been drawn differently.  David Thompson -arguably Canada's most prominent map-maker- explored the Kootenay region and paddled the Columbia for years, accompanied by his wife Charlotte Small, and assisted by indigenous guides and paddlers. While working for the North West Company, he was tasked with finding the mouth of the river and building a fort. He reached the mouth of the river in July of 1811, Historians speculate that if Thompson had arrived just two months earlier, he would have reached his destination before Captain Astoria of the U.S. He would have built his fort and the territory along its banks through what is now Oregon and Washington would be part of Canada today.

If that had happened, imagine that map. Imagine how different things might have been.

There would have been no need for the Columbia River Treaty (see note below). Perhaps the Columbia and its tributaries would not have been dammed in dozens of locations, interrupting the waterflow and preventing the Chinook salmon-  at one time numbering in the millions - from spawning in its waters. Perhaps the river would still flow, clean and clear, instead of being polluted with the radioactive waste generated by the building of nuclear weapons. (See note below about the Hanford site).

Map of the Columbia River. Drainage area in green. Wikimedia Commons

But I digress. What worries me right now is what is happening south of the border. 

Right now, the Columbia is being threatened.

You have millions of gallons of water pouring down from the north with the snow caps and Canada, and all pouring down and they have essentially a very large faucet. You turn the faucet and it takes one day to turn it, and it’s massive, it’s as big as the wall of that building right there behind you. You turn that, and all of that water aimlessly goes into the Pacific , and if they turned it back, all of that water would come right down here and right into Los Angeles. (Donald Trump, September 2024)

 

President Trump has pulled out of talks regarding the modernization of the Columbia River Treaty. 

He is threatening our sovereignty, our economy, and our water.  

This river, the river that brings peace and joy to Canadians, is at risk.

That makes me angry. 

And I am ready to fight.

Me and Finny on the river

NOTES

*The Columbia Valley Treaty.  In the 1950s, flooding in the U.S. led to Canada and US. signing the Columbia Valley Treaty. The agreement, signed in 1961 by the US and ratified by Canada in 1964, saw the province of BC build three dams (the Mica on Kinbasket Lake, the Revelstoke and the Keenlyside on the Arrow Lakes) to prevent flooding downstream. and to provide water for hydroelectric power to our southern neighbours. In exchange, the U.S. agreed to pay B.C. a portion of the hydroelectric power generated by the dozens of dams south of the border. Thousands of acres of farmland and sacred indigenous sites were flooded by these dams. Irreparable damage was done to ecosystems, including the decimation of the salmon population. Today, B.C. is required to release water into the U.S. even when it means erratic water levels along the Arrow Lake reservoir, impacting farms and ranches in the area.

The treaty, according to experts, needed to be modernized. First Nations, never consulted in the original agreement, were involved. A move to make environmental changes to support the reintegration of the salmon, was initiated. For ten years, changes were discussed and an Agreement in Principal was reached in 2024. It has not been ratified and negotiations are currently on hold.

*The Hanford Site, part of the Manhattan Project. This 600 square mile nuclear processing plant at one time contained 9 nuclear reactors. The site was selected due the to cold waters of the Columbia needed to cool the nuclear reactors, and the abundant hydroelectric power produced by dams along the river. Plutonium produced there was used in the first nuclear bomb and in the the "Fat Boy" bomb used on Nagasaki as well as thousands of other nuclear weapons. It released radioactive material into the river that caused elevated cancer rates in the area. It is now the site of the largest environmental cleanup in the US, currently employing 10,000 people. Some say the site, containing contaminated water that leached from underground storage tanks, will never be fully cleaned up.

Hanford Site, 1945. US Signal Corps

where does your grief go

 How do you deal with your grief?

You cry

You call your people

You think about who that person was, the person you grieve

You hold it in

You let it out

You write it down 

The stories. The memories. The things that matter. The things you wish you said and done when they were still here.

I think that's what most people do.

That’s what I did when I learned about Dave. We were driving. I got a message. I told my husband. I cried. Later, we called the kids. I contacted some friends. I tried to write something. Then I sat with my husband in our living room drinking endless cups of coffee, sharing our memories, reading through the dozens of plays we wrote together- words on a page that bring him back to us. And we laughed. I forgot how funny the three of us found ourselves.

For a moment, Dave was with us in that room, just like the old days, drinking those endless cups of coffee, telling stories, adding funny bits to the script, getting wrangled back into line by me, and laughing. It was like our memories had the power to bring him back to us.

I deal with my grief by remembering Dave. Who was he, really?

People will tell you he was funny, maybe the funniest guy they ever met. With his encyclopedic memory for jokes and one liners, his mellifluous voice and his expert timing, no one delivered a joke or told a story quite like Dave.

People will tell you he was smart, maybe the smartest guy they ever met. When Dave turned 50, Gail had pencils made up for him that said “polymath’ because he knew so much about so many things. Science. Nature. Music. Warfare. History.  Obscure references to weird things-movies, books, TV shows. Things you knew nothing about.

He was an independent guy. He didn’t like to plan. He didn’t like to ask for help. He liked to think of himself as a handyman. He talked about building his garage and coming up with projects just as an excuse to buy new tools. I'm just gonna leave that there.

Sometimes he talked tough about himself as a teacher, but tough was the opposite of who he was. He had a soft heart and an endless capacity for second chances. He was a conflict avoider and a peacemaker.  He was generous with his time except when he really didn’t want to do something and then he just wouldn't.

He played things close to the vest and it was hard to know what was in his deepest thoughts. Gail called me shortly after they were married and she said, “You and Len know more about what goes on in his head than I do,” to which I replied, “I don't think so, Gail. No one knows what goes on in Dave’s head.”

Our kids at Dave and Gail's wedding

When Dave and Gail got together, it was a miracle. There in a town as small as Slave Lake, these two unique people found each other. Gail with her big heart and strong political views and quirky fashion sense and inappropriate remarks. Dave with his big heart and no political views and no fashion sense and inappropropriate jokes. Maybe it wasn't a miracle. Maybe it was inevitable. Dan says Gail saved Dave's life and in a way, she did. He had a darkness in him, and the darkness abated when she came in. It came back when she left.

After he and Gail got married, their home came alive. It was like the loving home they made together needed to be shared with everyone. Whist parties, Family Day cookie parties with foosball in the basement, NDP organizing meetings. A place where all were welcome, including the strays Gail brought home from the gym and the couples she tried to set up. 

Gail at a Christmas Party

I don’t know what the stages of grief looked like for Dave as he mourned the loss of Gail.

When we visited, he didn’t say what was in his heart. He didn’t need to. It was there in the dying plants and the unopened mail and the empty shell their once vibrant home had become. His grief lay heavy. I know friends and family rallied around. His family and his friends and his community were there on every step of his journey back to the light. Each time we saw Dave, we saw progress out of that emptiness.

Grief is why I write this. 

Grief is why I share this. 

Grief is why we drive 9 hours in the winter cold to be with our friends as we pay tribute to Dave.

Because although grief is intensely personal and private, it’s also shared.

Len and Dave in "The Nerd"

No one knows what lies in wait for us on the other side. Maybe- as Dave and Gail believed and I fervently hope- there is an afterlife. Or perhaps there’s a parallel universe of infinite possibilities. In that other place, here’s what I imagine:

A dark and intimate theatre. 

Everyone you know and love is there. There’s Bill and Ellen. Neil and Sue. Sean and Kim. Jean and Roy. The Lehmans. The Schuellers. The Symington brothers and their families. Dorothy and Roald and all the Ungstads. There’s Bruce and Kelly. Dan and Caroline. Joe and Connie. The Allans. The Tanasiuks. Like, ALL the Tanasiuks. And all the others. You'll be there too, you know who you are.

Everyone is waiting. 

They’re waiting for Dave.

And there he is. Up on the stage, illuminated by the overhead lights he installed himself. Probably just minutes before the show.

He’s telling one of his million stories about the seven Symington brothers. 

His voice is warm. He pauses in all the right places as he waits for his audience to join him in the world he recreates for us.. We follow him into his chaotic house, trooping after his brothers as they steal the flag or shoot the arrow. We follow him as his harried mom gets the call about the flag, as his dad snaps the arrow in half. The room comes alive with his stories. Everyone smiles. Then they laugh. Slow at first and building. 

One laugh is louder than all the others. It’s Gail. Her laugh so loud and infectious, it fills the room.  

That’s what I picture. Dave and Gail together again. Everyone where they belong. A community. Conjured up through the power of memory and spirit, Dave and Gail live.

That’s how I deal with my grief.

Photo courtesy Joe McWilliams

Everything we teach our kids not to be: a teacher’s thoughts on Trump

Teachers in Canada's public schools see a true cross section of humanity in their work every day. They see the rich and the poor, the talented and the struggling, immigrants, refugees, longtime citizens, kids with disabilities, those with devoted parents and those with parents who are challenged to support their kids. Out of that whole mix of people, they create community.

One might think political leaders would understand their job is to build and support communities that serve all their constituents. Those born to intergenerational wealth and intergenerational poverty, as well as the nouveau riche and the recently impoverished. The successful and the struggling. "Old stock" citizens, refugees and recent immigrants. Those who share their ideology and those with whom they disagree.

Sadly, this is not the case. Politicians today thrive on creating a divisive attitude. They do not thrive on creating inclusivity. That means putting some people down and raising other people up, even if they are not deserving. It means mocking those who are different. It can mean saying those who disagree are "the enemy" or "the enemy within". It can mean making up "facts" to suit their purposes. If they benefit from having rich and powerful friends or nations, they are happy to kowtow to them.

No one exemplifies this more than Donald Trump.

Trump is everything we as teachers teach our kids not to be. 

As teachers, we teach our kids not to make fun of others. It's not ok to mock their disabled classmates. It's not ok to call people names. We teach them to accept and learn from people who are different from ourselves- not to demean them for their race, gender, beliefs and ideas. We teach them not to be bullies and not to exert power over other peoples’ bodies. We teach them about consent. We teach them not to lie to get out of trouble. We teach them not to make things up to build themselves up. We teach them to share. We teach them to use reason in their arguments. We teach them to tell the difference between fact and fiction. We work to create a community where all voices are heard. At least, that is the hope. That is the dream.

Trump exemplifies everything we teach our kids not to be. He mocks people relentlessly, he calls people names, he instills fear of the "other", and he works to divide instead of unite. He makes up lies about his own intelligence, his income level, the size of his crowds, his medical knowledge, who he knows, what he can do, and his sexual prowess. He doesn't appear to distinguish fact from fiction. And he is proud of all those things. I wonder how he thinks he can serve others with that attitude and the answer is simple- he doesn't care about service.

I wonder how many of Trump’s followers got into trouble at school because they mocked a disabled kid or made a racist remark or bullied another kid? How many of them got a bad mark on an essay because they couldn’t back up an opinion with facts? And now along comes a man who is celebrated for all the things they got into trouble for. A man who is vindication for all the things they were told they shouldn’t be. No wonder some people love him. He criticizes the very foundation of a society that they believe has failed them.

Teachers know that a community is a tapestry composed of many threads that all need to support one another for the fabric to hold. Trump and his followers are working to destroy the fabric of American society- a fabric that was based on freedom, equality, and opportunity for all- on democracy and rule of law and the institutions designed to support a just society. All Trump's talk about “making America great again” is just code for giving some Americans more rights than others. He plays into the inequality experienced by Americans as a way to gain power. He knows it's easier to promote division and unrest than compromise and consensus. It's easier to break than to fix.

In a classroom, when teachers see this kind of behaviour, they have to try to see where it’s coming from in order to correct it. If we don't think about the conditions that have created people who think and behave in certain ways, we can't even start to move forward. There are issues confronting American society- in fact, confronting everyone on this planet. Population growth, climate change, economic inequality, poverty, homelessness, the rising cost of living, the inordinate power of the rich over the poor, changing demographics, changing values, the loss of power for young white men - all play into what is going on. Not simple problems, nor simple solutions. But if you don't see where it's coming from, how do you change it? Change is hard. Anger is easy.

Countless books and articles have tried to explain the rise of Trump. I've tried to understand it. I understand that people are angry with the status quo and Trump promised change. Now he is in charge of the most powerful nation in the world. How do we deal with that?  I know a lot of people who are just burying their heads in the sand, turning off the news, and focussing on local issues. Lately that's become hard to do when the man wants to turn your nation into the 51st state.