Thursday, 31 January 2019

Rules, Morality, and the Place You Call Home


“How do you know the difference between right and wrong?” A question that comes up from time to time in the classroom.

Some kids will tell you they know the difference because they know they will get punished if they do the wrong thing. Some will say they know something is wrong because it’s against the law or against the rules. 


Others say they know the difference because that’s what the Bible or the Quran or the Talmud or Buddha teaches. They might say it’s what their parents taught them or it comes from some fundamental principles that guide them. Others might refer to the little voice inside their head that makes them feel guilty or ashamed- similar to Abraham Lincoln’s statement, “When I do good I feel good, when I do bad I feel bad, and that's my religion.”

For kids with less sophisticated thinking, we must push a little harder for them to understand not just the social contract, but the difference between morality and legislation. Something isn’t wrong because it’s against the law. It’s wrong because it goes against the moral fabric of society. Right and wrong speak to the choices we make that demonstrate respect for each other so we can live well together. Without those morals, right and wrong are just a matter of what we can get away with.

When I was a naïve university student, one of my profs assigned a paper on discipline in the classroom. In my innocence, I expounded at length on how I, as a teacher, would encourage students to internalize the rules so discipline would not be needed. Students would understand what was right and wrong and act accordingly. Although my prof liked the paper, in the real world of the classroom it did not take me too long to figure out how ignorant I was. Even for those who have a strong moral code, the temptation offered by doing the wrong thing is hard to resist. A laugh from your buddy or the promise of a high mark can make a lot of kids ignore both the rules and their principles.


“I did not break any rules,” says Jason Kenney of his expense claims for “primary” residency in his mother’s basement in her assisted living facility which reportedly does not accept sublets. A basement he visited four times in a given year.

Probably not Jason's wallpaper,, but then again.
“The primary residence is occupied by the Member more often than the other residence,” the guidelines say. “The primary residence is where the Member most frequently resides on weekends and holidays.”

Mr. Kenney apparently did not consider the reasons behind the rules governing residency-rules that were created to allow elected officials -both federally and provincially-to retain a home in their riding while living where the legislature sits without undue hardship. These rules were designed on the principle of fairness. If your home is in your riding in Neerlandia or Stettler but you need to spend a large portion of your time on government business in Ottawa or Edmonton, is it fair to pay accommodations costs in both communities when your counterpart who lives near the legislature only needs one home?


My own MLA and my MP retain primary residences in their home communities. Their homes, where their families live and to which they return whenever possible.

Mr. Kenney said in his statement, “I was afforded the same living allowance that all MPs get for accommodation in Ottawa. All was in line with House of Commons policy, and my principal residence remained in Calgary throughout.”  Like a kid who says "everyone is doing it" as an excuse for misbehaving.

“I owe them everything,” says Mr. Kenney of his parents. Sure. Millions of Canadians would agree. Many of us would love the chance to spend time with our parents if only we could. And plenty of us have lived in our parents’ basement, myself included. All three of my adult kids have furnished rooms in my house, filled with their stuff. They are welcome to return any day. But that's not their home. That's not where they have chosen to make a life. But all of that is beside the point. The point is, most of us don’t use our relationship with our parents to make money off the taxpayer.

“Following my father’s passing, my mother moved into a detached bungalow unit that is part of a retirement community,” Mr. Kenney has said. “Not wanting to leave my widowed mother entirely alone, I also rented the finished basement of the bungalow so that I could assist her and provide company while in Calgary.”

I don't question his love for his mom or his desire to spend time with her. Paying her rent is something he could certainly afford to do as a senior cabinet minister who earned over three million dollars while in office. I also understand that as a senior cabinet minister there were many demands on his time that might preclude visits "home". But claiming a room in this seldom-visited basement in retirement community as his “home” seems like a stretch.



I won't deny there are many definitions of "home".  A traditional bungalow you share with your family, a little apartment you share with a pet, a fancy condo you barely see due to the demands of your job, a  house on a reserve without access to clean drinking water-all of these can be "homes." Places you sleep in, places where you hang your clothes and keep your mementos and your family photos. Not places you visit a few times a year.





The irony is not lost on me that Mr. Kenney and his former comrade Derek Fildebrandt were both former directors of the Canadian Taxpayers Federation, the euphemistically named organization to which few taxpayers belong. Two men who made careers out of complaining about  abuse of taxpayers' dollars and then, once they were elected to office, turned around and abused those same dollars themselves.  But at
 least when Mr. Fildebrandt was caught out regarding the fact he rented out his taxpayer funded accommodations as an AirBNB, he owned up to his error. 

Thinking you didn't do anything wrong because you didn't break the rules is the kind of immature thinking I can accept from a high school student. Saying "everyone else is doing it" or using other excuses is also something I have come to expect from kids. But I don't accept it from an adult who aspires to lead. A man who may soon be making the rules.


I don't think Kenney's "rental" of his mom's basement is a scandal. I don't think it has anything to do with whether he is really an Albertan. I don't care if he lives with his mom on his off days, but he shouldn't be disingenuous about it. That's not his primary residence. That's not where his life is.  When a man who chooses to ignore right and wrong in favour of his own self-interest, that concerns me.

Probably not Jason Kenney's kitchen.





Sunday, 6 January 2019

Burn Every Candle


"Are you sure you want to put out ALL the Christmas decorations this year?" said my husband.

"All nine Rubbermaid bins full? " (Yes, NINE.)

"Uh, yeah, I've been thinking I should pare it down a bit this year," I say. "Pare it down as in just throw some of it away."

"Like what?" he says.

"Like these, " I say. "Like these three candles,"  indicating three identical cellophane wrapped candles shaped like Christmas trees. "They have never even come out of their wrappers.  Just put them in the trash."

"I kind of like them," he says.

"Okay. But this year I am going to actually burn them. Along with all the other candles."

"Like these?" he says, pulling out a box of sparkly red poinsettia candles designed to float on water.

"Yes, those will be burned as well."

"What will the kids say?" he says.

"They will say nothing. They got those candles 15 years ago."

"Little stocking gifts?" he asks, referring to the 24 tiny stockings that were religiously filled with tiny gifts for our three kids for more than 20 years.

"Yep."  Like the three candles, our Christmas boxes are filled with things in threes. Matching ornaments, toys, puppets, plates, mugs and everything Christmas-themed. Things I always thought they would take with them when they moved out. Yet here they are.

As we contemplate a move, I wonder if I will have room for nine Rubbermaid containers of ornaments. I wonder if I should practice "Swedish Death Cleaning" as some of my friends have. Getting rid of all the nonessentials so my kids don't need to deal with all that stuff when I go. And then I also think of an acquaintance of my mom's, a lady who lived 15 years in the same house without unpacking her wedding china, because she was sure she and her husband were going to move. That's not me. I want a life that explodes with colour. I want a home that is full.

So, the candles and the decorations and the Christmas tree ornaments all came out this year. This year our bushy local wild spruce, despite it's crooked trunk and bare spots, was robust enough to bear every single one of our dozens of ornaments. Yes, sure, we had to saw off the top to fit it in the house, but there was room, as always, for the fragile Christmas angel my paternal grandmother made for my maternal grandmother, the brittle organza dress covered in peeling paper stars. My husband is careful not to put it too close to the old-school lights. Our bookshelf held the nativity scene from the Philippines, given to us by my parents after one of their Ten Thousand Villages craft fairs. The sideboard bore the runner that took me years to embroider and the funky wise men we bought early in our marriage. The upstairs mantle covered in the numerous nutcrackers the kids (and then I) gave my husband over the years, minus the 3 foot high one that I can't find in the garage. The basement mantle held the Lemax village that now falls to my husband to set up, instead of my middle child who used to painstakingly set up the tiny scenes of characters. My new son-in-law asked how long it takes us to decorate the house for Christmas. Many days. Many days until we light the lights and burn the candles.




And now it's the Epiphany. The kids have all gone home. This is the day it all gets taken down. I've read it's an ancient tradition, incorporating the belief that the tree spirits contained in the boughs and branches and holly and ivy must be released back to nature after the Christmas season ends to guarantee good crops for the coming year. Those who abide by this tradition hold that if you fail to remove your Christmas decorations by this date, they must remain untouched until Candlemas, a day upon which all candles to be used in the upcoming year are blessed. 



It seems a bit crazy to have nine boxes of decorations. It seems ridiculous to spend days setting them out each year just to take them down again a few weeks later. Crazy to need space to store things that are packed away for so much time. But in another way it feels like the house waits all year for that special burst of colour and light. For the days filled with friends and family. The experimental cocktails served at the mood-lit bar. The cookies made once a year, set out on my mom's tiered cookie stand. The coming and going. Visitors from near and far. The good dishes laid out on the good tablecloth. Old favourites like my mom's parsnip tomato casserole and Sarah's sweet potatoes with pecans, and new ones like Dave's potatoes roasted in goose fat, rosemary and garlic. Mom's "good dessert". 



And now, the house waits. 

I wait.

Until I burn every candle.

How blessed I am to have such things to wait for.