Family Care Clinics

March 22 2014

Open Letter regarding Family Care Clinics

In April 2012 the first three Family Care Clinics opened in Edmonton, Calgary and Slave Lake. The aim of these clinics is to reduce non-urgent visits to the emergency department and to deliver greater and timelier access to care through an interdisciplinary team.  Alberta Health Services has announced these clinics are a success and plans to open dozens more across the province.

Let us share our Slave Lake story.  We hope it opens your eyes to the problems an FCC could create for your community.  Before the Slave Lake wildfires, we had 13 doctors practicing in two clinics. Today our 11,000 people have one option- the Family Care Clinic, staffed with 4 doctors and 7 nurse practitioners. 4 longtime doctors resigned and although they still live here, they practice elsewhere.  AHS has been unable to recruit new physicians.  Wait times at the clinic, where walk-ins are encouraged, can be up to five hours and it is not unheard of to have twenty people ahead of you in line. Now many residents drive from 100 to 500 km roundtrip for basic health care. All first time and high risk moms travel 200 km or more to deliver their babies. Seniors no longer have a family doctor. Referrals for specialists are becoming more difficult to schedule. Since patients are directed to the most “relevant” or next available primary health practitioner (a nurse practitioner, doctor or chronic care nurse), the same patient may see several different people in the course of a week or two, leading to lapses in continuity of care with potentially life-threatening consequences.

Ask your municipal government, Alberta Health Services Clinical Director, MLA and local Health Advisory Council the following questions:

·       Are your local doctors on board with the FCC concept? If they are unable to work with the FCC model, you will lose them- and there are very few doctors available to replace them.

·       Will you have a choice in your medical care or will the FCC be your only option?

·       Will you continue to have your own family doctor or will you be assigned to the first available practitioner?

·       Who will determine who the “most appropriate” person is to address your needs? (In our case, it appears to be a receptionist.)

·       Who is ultimately responsible for continuity of care?

·       Who will advocate for your needs if a specialist is required?

·       Who is responsible for follow-up care?

·       Who will sit on your local advisory committee and what is its mandate?

If your community is about to establish an FCC, please ask questions and demand answers. Our community was not given the opportunity to look into this model and today we are suffering the consequences. If you are concerned about healthcare in your community, please get more information and advocate for quality of care.  

Premier Redford: Please Accept My Application

March 10 2014

Office of the Premier
Room 307
Legislature Building 10800-97 Avenue
Edmonton, Alberta
T5K 2B6

RE: Application for the position of Official Letter Writer to Her Majesty Queen Alison Redford

Dear Ms Redford:

It is wonderful to see that the province of Alberta has seen fit to provide an additional budget for the Premier’s office to hire a letter writer.  A royal personage such as yourself must be absolutely inundated with mail! With all those important international royal duties and obligations, one must certainly not have the time to reply to one's loyal subjects! I know I have not received a reply to any letters I have sent your way and I am sure that must prey on your mind.

Therefore I am happy to offer my services for the stated amount of $300,000.00. For $300,000.00 I will compose replies to each and every item of correspondence you receive. For $300,000.00 I will craft a 100% made in Alberta product, written in longhand with the finest Alberta red ink, produced with petroleum by-products from the Alberta Oil Sands on clean, bright, high quality Peace River White Spruce softwood Kraft paper. For $300,000.00 I will employ as calligraphers the legion of skilled Slave Lake labourers who sit patiently every day in the highly successful Family Care Clinic piloted by Alberta Health Services, waiting to see one of the three doctors who serve the community’s 11,000 citizens.  For $300,00.00 your loyal subjects will be more than happy to assist you #BuildingAlberta with the diligence, care and compassion we have come to expect from your office.

Thank you for your consideration.

Your most humble servant
Nicola Ramsey
Stand Up Slave Lake

Dear Mr. Horne

Nicola Ramsey
Slave Lake Alberta

March 6 2014

The Honourable Fred Horne
Minster of Health
Edmonton, Alberta

Dear Mr. Horne:

As you are aware, the people of Slave Lake are very concerned about the lack of doctors and other health services in our community. We are confused as to why you, as Minister of Health, have denied that our community is in a state of crisis regarding local healthcare.  We are not sure if you are misinformed or are deliberately misleading the public- but either way, you are not easing the tensions for our residents and healthcare workers. 

The people of Slave Lake are not alarmists, Mr. Horne. We do not panic over nothing.  Our 11,000 people calmly exited our area in May of 2011 as our homes burned down around us, assisting friends, neighbours and total strangers as we did so.  Our 11,000 people lived in hotels, tents, trailers, evacuation centres and the homes of others as we waited to know our fate. Our 11,000 people returned to the devastation of our community and rebuilt our homes and our lives without protest, letters to the editor, or complaints to national news about a lack of government support.  So if we say today that there is a crisis, please listen. We know what a disaster is.

On the day you announced in the legislature that there are six doctors working in Slave Lake, there were in fact three doctors and three nurse practitioners serving our 11,000 people. Two doctors were fully booked. On that same day, Slave Lake's AHS Clinical Director shared the new Q&A webpage that acknowledges that we need more physicians, and stated that four doctors are working in Slave Lake. Four doctors, Mr. Horne. Four doctors for 11,000 people. Four doctors cannot possibly cope with our healthcare needs. People wait for weeks for a doctor’s appointment or sit for hours as a walk-ins patient or drive for hours for routine treatment. Your office has received many of accounts of people whose needs are not met.

Further, your statement to the media that there was one doctor practicing in Slave Lake when you became Minister of Health on October 12 2011 is incorrect. In fact there were twelve doctors practicing medicine in Slave Lake on that date.  The people of Slave Lake have nothing but admiration for the doctors, nurses, and other healthcare professionals who returned to our community to serve our people after the fire in the face of great personal loss.  We ask that you respect their contributions.

Our 11,000 people have fought tooth and nail to restore our community to what it was before the fire. Our citizens including our local AHS administrators, front-line healthcare workers, municipal leaders and every day people are struggling to restore our medical services. 

If we say there is a crisis, please acknowledge that reality. Please do not belittle our situation. Please do not disrespect our community. We have suffered enough.  

Standing Up

The first time I saw an MLA on the run was prior to the 1982 provincial election.  The Social Studies teacher at the small Sexsmith Secondary School where I was librarian had arranged to host the first all-candidates forum. Diploma exams had just come in and two of our high school boys began questioning the PC Candidate about their validity. These were two smart kids, both on my Reach for the Top team (one is now an assistant superintendent of schools and the other is an international tax accountant) who had good, well researched questions. The MLA, a soft-spoken agricultural researcher, did not have answers. He did not attend another forum before the election.

The second time was shortly after Ralph Klein imposed his cuts in 2003. Our PC MLA was holding some kind of love-in at our local mall.  The teachers from our local primary school showed up wearing bandannas over their mouths to symbolize the gag order that had been placed on many provincial government workers.  They started asking questions. A grade two teacher, a well loved, grandmotherly little lady, started scolding "our girl Pearl," reprimanding her for saying teachers only worked 200 days a year. "The legislature only sat for 38 days last year, Pearl," the teacher said. "Did you only work for 38 days? Shame on you!"  It was a classic moment. The MLA was literally and figuratively backed into a corner. Rumour has it she asked her riding president to call the RCMP.

Last week some tensions regarding healthcare in Slave Lake came to a bit of head at a protest outside the offices of MD 124. Services had been dwindling for years, exacerbated by the 2011 wildfires that saw several doctors lose their homes and leave the community and a new provincially implemented model of delivery that led to more doctors resigning. 

I'm a Social Studies teacher.  I try to practice what I teach. When I first realized what was happening, I did my own research into the issue. I sent many letters to my MLA, Alberta Health Services and the Minister of Health. So did others. No answer. Time to call in the fourth estate. I sent a letter to the Edmonton Journal, the local Lakeside Leader, and the Grande Prairie Herald Tribune. I contacted CBC, CTV and they, along with our local newspapers and Global News attended a town hall meeting hosted by Friends of Medicare and a local advocacy group where our Mayor and the NDP and Wildrose healthcare critics spoke. Our own MLA had a "prior commitment." The Edmonton Journal covered it the next day. 

The next day the media interviewed Health Minister Fred Horne and he said "Slave Lake has more than enough resources to meet its needs." This absurd statement, combined with the lack of communication from AHS, led to outrage. People were talking roadblocks to make the government sit up and listen. Saturday I sat in a hotel room in the city and set up a Facebook group with a couple of other ladies. In 20 minutes we had 80 members. We planned a "silent protest." Suddenly people were making signs, sharing information, talking strategy. It felt good to be doing something.  

The night before the rally we got wind of the fact that at the MLA's request, the location was going to change. Or maybe it wasn't. Or maybe it was. Around 6 pm MD 124 posted that the meeting was being moved from main street to their office on the highway out of town.  That just seemed to rile people up more and even though it was -25 that morning, by 9:45  there were 125 people there. Moms with kids in strollers, retired teachers and other seniors, guys from the oilpatch, business people, professionals, newcomers and oldtimers- a real community event.  Not exactly a silent protest and our MLA was once again put on notice. After the meeting started people stood outside the window of the board room peering in and holding up their signs. The meeting lasted seven and a half hours. That evening our story was on the CTV news and the next morning Edmonton AM. We have been told via our Mayor's blog that significant progress has been made.  On March 5 a rally was held at the provincial legislature and later that day I was interviewed by CBC's As it Happens about the Slave Lake situation.

Social Studies teachers encourage their students to use critical thinking skills to form and support a position on an issue and to practice appropriate forms of dissent as citizens in a democracy. We know it doesn't always work.  Maybe it won't this time. But as a teacher I will continue to stand up. Among many other things, that is my job. 

A True Pioneer

My great-grandfather was a homesteader in the Peace River country. His obituary was published in the Northern Tribune in December of 1937.

Charles McNaught Appleton District Passes Away

Was Pioneer in Western Area, Having come into The Country in 1912 A True Pioneer-Funeral One of the Largest Ever Seen in the District-Death Casts Gloom Over Whole Community

APPLETON, Dec 14  A shadow fell over this and surrounding districts when the death of Charles McNaught on Friday morning at the family home became known. While it was known he had been in poor health, it was hoped that he would regain a measure of good health again.

Born in Brantford County, Ontario, in 1856, son of Samuel McNaught, Scotch immigrant of 1834, Mr. McNaught with his brother Samuel (late of Halcourt), operated the family farm three miles from the city of Brantford.  He married Eliza Connor of Brantford and later moved to the village of Glen Morris, where he farmed until he left the East for the last frontier of the West- the Peace River country.

With Mrs. McNaught he made the trip over the Edson Trail, homesteaded and filed on land in the Beaver Lodge Valley in 1911.

The following year Mr. McNaught brought in his family and farm effects and built was has been not only the family home but also the centre of all community activities in the early days. (The McNaught homestead is now a designated provincial historic resource) 

McNaught Homestead

The McNaught home in a new land has ever cherished the hospitality and helping spirit that characterizes the true pioneer.

For several years after 1912 Mr. McNaught was a familiar figure on the old Edson Trail, making the trip down to Edson on eleven different occasions as well as trips to High River for supplies.

Whenever he came among men he brought June sunshine and made even despondent and surly men feel a fuller and warmer summer was at hand for in the late Mr. McNaught was embedded all the great and noble traits of the Scotch race. 

No more eloquent nor true tribute could be paid by his friends than to say he was one of nature’s noblemen.

The late Mr. McNaught had the courage to come to a new country, and he would not shudder to go out on a voyage of discovery which shall reveal a vaster and more brilliant country, not fear the ascent of the eternal hills.

Left to mourn Mr. McNaught’s death are his wife, one son John, four daughters, Margaret, Isobel, Euphemia at home and Mrs. George Martin of Edmonton; also two grand-daughters, Margaret and Janet Martin.

The funeral cortege was one of the largest ever seen in the western district.  

Funeral services were held at the family home Monday afternoon, Rev. Sidney W Semple officiated.  J.B. Olivers had charge of the funeral arrangements.  Internment was made in the family lot at Halcourt.  Pallbearers were Messrs E.J. Heller, B Elcome, J Perry, Mortwedt, L. Mackie and J Dixon, close friends of the departed

To the bereaved ones the sympathy of the community is extended.

There were many floral tributes.

O sweet be thy sleep in the land of the grave
Where suffering can no longer harm ye
Where the songs of the good, where the hymns of the blest
Through an endless existence shall charm thee.

-Robbie Burns

The Northern Tribune

December 16 1937

View the family tree on ancestry.ca

Robbed

I've been robbed a few times. It's kind of unsettling.  The first time I was a university student.Someone gained access to our apartment building and broke into every single apartment, leaving every drawer in the suite open. We were university students.  We had no cash or anything worth stealing.

Hong Kong 1987

The second time my husband had his wallet stolen from the counter of the Hong Kong Post Office.  It was an inside job. He set his wallet down to put a stamp on a postcard, went to pick it up and it was gone.  There was no one else at the counter. But he got nowhere in getting it back.

The third time was a Walkman stolen out of our room at 3 am in Dali, China. A guy reached through the window from the balcony, grabbed the old Walkman and ran off with hubby in hot pursuit.  He reported it to the hotel and by noon the next day the police escorted him to a house, told him to look through the window, and lo and behold there was the robber listening to the Walkman. Crazy.

Next, we had a bunch of CDs stolen from our car in Tumbler Ridge.  Part of a rash of vehicle break-ins.  My brother thought he knew the culprit and went to scare him into returning them.  Nothing doing.

The next was another wallet grab at the Guinness Factory in Dublin, Ireland's #1 Tourist Attraction. My husband knew the thing was gone within 30 seconds, went back to the counter, got told it was probably nabbed by the person behind him in line.  No attempt to watch the CC TV tape or do anything.  They basically shrugged it off like it happened every day. Maybe it did.  Maybe by one of their employees right there at the counter- they were that nonchalant.Maybe our Irish doctor is right when he says "the Irish are all t'ieves."

Mexican Police.

The worst theft of all was by the Mexican police. We were driving in Mexico City, a bit lost, when we got flagged over. "Great," we thought, "The police will direct us to the right road."  Wrong.  "Your licence has a 7 in it. You need to pay us $100 right now." Bastards.  I know the guidebook says Mexican police scams are commonplace and you should insist on being taken to police headquarters and given a proper form with a description of your violations on it, but when two guys with guns and badges demand $100, your tendency is to give it to them. 

The returned camera in its evidence bag.

A couple of weeks ago I was in Havana. It seemed totally safe...until a guy lunged at me in broad daylight, snapped the camera from off my wrist and ran off chased by my daughter in her little skirt and flip-flops screaming "Give it back, you motherfucker!" She didn't catch him. We didn't report it to the police, thinking it would be a pointless waste of one of our seven days of vacation. Imagine my surprise the next day when I was at a homestay in another town and got a call saying the police had the camera- they had tracked me down to my previous casa using the photos on the camera. Could I identify the thief so they could send the "bad boy" to jail? I'd only seen his face for a second but I did want the camera back.  After filing a report, translated by my Havana homestay host (and if you are even in Havana, stay with Rigo at Sierra Barroso's Colonial House!) and two trips to the police station, I had the camera back! 

Now what is the lesson in all this? Apart from the fact that I may be a bit careless with my stuff? Hmmm.  I've had items stolen on three continents, in democracies and non-democratic states. And where did I get the stolen items back? CHINA and CUBA.  

When the people were looting Baghdad, Donald Rumsfeld said, "...free people are free to make mistakes and commit crimes and do bad things."  And from my experience, free to get away with it too.  I'm no hard-ass law and order person, but you know what?  I like getting my stuff back. 

Advocacy Fatigue

I'M JUST SO TIRED.

• I'm tired of winter
• I'm tired of bad roads and icy sidewalks
• I'm tired of "updates" that are really downgrades
• I'm tired of my MLA not responding to my emails
• I'm tired of cuts to public and post-secondary education 
• I'm tired of not knowing if I will have a job next year

U of A motto:Whatsoever things are true, think on these things.

I keep lobbying for change.  I don't know why. Must have something to do with how I was raised.  I wrote letters to the premier, the U of A Board of Governors, and the Edmonton Journal about what the Alberta government was doing to post secondary education. My daughter said it gave her goosebumps.  No one from government or the U of A replied to my letter, but the Journal published it (after doing a butcher job on their edit.)  I petitioned for the Slave Lake air ambulance to be restored and it was. I work tirelessly for the things I believe in my personal life. But advocating for myself is strangely much more difficult.

I don't know what I am supposed to do about my job.  I think what I do matters. I think distance education, offered by certificated teachers, provides a vital service in our province.  I have seen it over and over again with my students- each one with an individual reason for learning at a distance instead of in the classroom. My professional association used to strongly disagree with the whole idea of distance education.  Now they see the threat of privatization they are singing a different tune. The government would just as soon see us go down. They cut funding to schools offering publicly funded distance education by 56% in their March budget. A couple of years ago a colleague was told by a government flunky that "there are organizations out there that are going to eat your lunch."  I'm not sure what that means.  But I don't want anyone eating my lunch.  It's mine!  I made it! I should get to eat it!  Maybe the dude was talking about the online cyber schools so prevalent in the US, owned by multimillionaires and operated for a profit.

I'm not any kind of conspiracy theorist, but when big business dumps millions into educational technology, bad online cyber-schools spread like weeds across the face of our southern neighbour, our government de-funds public distance education, promotes charter schools and has an ideology to privatize privatize privatize...what's a girl to think?

So I did what I always do when I think something is wrong.  I connected with people.  Former students.  Parents of students. Co-workers. Their stories gave me great encouragement that what I am doing is not lobbying for my own job, but lobbying for those individual kids and families whose needs are not met by traditional means, and whose needs will not be met by private businesses out to make a buck.

Feel free to lobby the government yourself.  ADLC supporters will be at the Alberta legislature on Saturday, November 30 at 3 p.m.

Without a History

Me and my mom in Trail B.C.

I've lost some things in the last little while.  My dad passed away; my kids moved on; my dogs died; a third of my town burned down and friends moved away. I miss what I've lost. But more than those- I miss my mom.

My mom has dementia. When I visit, she often does not know who I am. On some days, she doesn't remember who she is. She doesn't know her name. She asks whether she had ever been married and wonders if she had kids.

To help her with her memory loss, I have been working on a book about her life. As I scan photos and read old letters and news clippings and report cards, I wonder what to include and what to leave out. What really matters? What picture will strike a chord? What does she want to remember? What might she rather forget? And think about fact and fiction and memory and the area that lies in between-history.

One of a long line of independent women, second daughter of a Peace Country pioneer and an English banker, mom was an excellent student.  In her grade three report card from Monitor, Alberta, her teacher wrote "One of the best students I have ever seen." She graduated from high school in Edmonton at age 15 but her parents thought she was too young for university. She took a one year secretarial programme, then received a Bachelor of Commerce from the U of A, worked for the American Army during WW II, completed teaching stints in Grande Prairie and Athabasca, got her M Ed and then became girls counselor in Dawson Creek. She married my dad late in life and they raised four kids.

Family Camping Trip, 1967.

My mom was a dynamo when I was growing up. She kept herself busy not just with being a mom and the wife of the high school principal, but also with a myriad of community projects, mostly related to things we were involved with. Masterminding the costumes of the figure skating carnival, running the marshaling area at swim meets, organizing the hospital auxiliary's candystripers, hosting Dad's staff parties and grad breakfasts and countless church events.  She went back to work when I was 16, first teaching ESL, then sewing, law and math.

Dad and Mom

After her move to Tumbler Ridge, she was the school and community librarian. Retirement was embraced with the energy only a teacher could bring to the job, fundraising for a swimming pool, involvement in the arts, horticulture, a new museum, the annual craft fair and whatever else she could think of. She was awarded the Queen Elizabeth Golden Jubilee Medal. Today Tumbler Ridge boasts Hartford Gardens, Hartford Court senior's housing, and the Hartford Citizenship Award. The Vancouver Province called her a "sprightly octogenarian" -a description that appalled her-when she organized what was then the world's largest potluck dinner.  Shortly after that event, she developed in short order breast cancer, an autoimmune response leading to permanent nerve damage in her hands and feet, pneumonia, and finally had a stroke, accompanied by creeping memory loss. Throughout it all my dad was by her side. When he got sick, they moved to Victoria to be closer to a hospital. Then my dad died. Mom now lives with a caregiver in a house a few blocks from my brother.

These are the facts of my mom's life.  But history is more than facts. History can only ever be a version of the truth, reliant on the perspective of memory. In the absence of my mom's memories, I substitute my own. In that version of my mother's story, she was a brilliant, driven and creative woman. Her exhausting schemes were accomplished through her skills of organization and the ability to delegate- and compensate when delegation failed. We would fend for ourselves when one of her projects was underway, scrambling when we heard the dreaded call "all hands on deck!" She was and is not an affectionate woman. I can't remember being hugged. I know she loved me but she never once told me so. Neither was she sentimental, nor was she introspective. Despite her great talents, she lacked self confidence. She was shy yet frequently pushed my brother and me into situations that made us uncomfortable. My dad used to joke that after retirement people called him "George" while she was still "Mrs. Hartford." Fiercely possessive of her own family, she did not willingly share us with anyone. She never warmed to any of my dad's charming siblings. When one of her children brought home a potential spouse it was never easy.  My husband and I were married for two years before we were given a room with a double bed. Two months after our marriage Mom announced that she'd had a dream in which I had married Stalin.

I miss my mom.  I miss her amazing talents as well as her exasperating qualities. I miss the woman who would switch positions in an argument just to keep things interesting.  The lady who read everything in sight, including cereal boxes and the newspapers meant to light the campfire. The woman who organized spectacular parties for me as a child, but forgot my birthday when I was grown up; the lady who hosted dinners for 60, often leaving the cleanup to others; the lady who sewed me a gorgeous wedding gown, but did not finish it until the guests began to arrive; the lady who would have laid down her life for her grandchild but could never have loved her son-in-law no matter what. As I am driven by the currents of my own history and genetics, I see some of those traits in myself. I am powerless to stop them.

What version of you remains after your memories go? Without your history, who are you? Is it your truest self that is left behind? Or is it some pale imitation of the you that used to be? Is that why we, as humans, strive to preserve our memories in photos, art, literature, film and storytelling? I know, in part, that is why I am creating this book.  My own memories, as well as my mom's, are contained on its pages.

My mom and my sister looking at the book. Christmas 2013.

Give Thanks

I wrote this piece long ago when my kids were very young. It was the first article published in the now-defunct Edmonton Journal column “Voices” and simultaneously, in the Ontario based “Rural Roots” magazine. A lot has happened since then. I no longer live near the family farm; my dad is gone; my mom has dementia and sometimes does not recognize me; one of my own daughters lives in England. Thanksgiving dinners are much smaller. It’s my cousin Kerry who now brings the sweet potatoes, I make the Harvard beets, and there are no homemade buns. And I will give thanks.

                    THANKSGIVING HERITAGE 

Granddad carves the turkey:1959.

Every Thanksgiving weekend my parents used to take us to buy potatoes.  We would drive down a winding gravel road to a market garden not far from my grandparents' farm. Mr Guest would start up his potato digging machine and we would follow along behind, filling our burlap sacks with cold, hard potatoes. The air was crisp and the sky intensely blue above the translucent yellow of the poplar leaves. When the station wagon was loaded and Dad was settling the bill, we would race down to the Wapiti River to skip stones, our hearts full of childish joy. The last rays of the sun filtered over the stubble in the wheat fields as we drove back up my grandparents' place, dreaming of the feast to come.

We don't make the trip to Wapiti Gardens anymore, but this Thanksgiving, family and friends will once again gather to share a traditional turkey dinner. Sarah will bring the sweet potato casserole, Doris will bring her freshly baked buns, Sheila will bring her Harvard beets. We'll exchange small talk and "stuff ourselves most shocking," as my great-aunt Isabel says, just as we have done since my ancestors first came to the Peace Country as pioneers in the early part of this century.

Thanksgiving is not entirely good memories for us, however. Several years ago the customary meal was almost cancelled. Our close-knit family had been struck by one tragedy after another that year. My grandfather had died in the spring, after a long and painful struggle with his heart. A few days after his death, my aunt died suddenly following surgery to repair a ruptured aneurysm. Then my brother, just seventeen, got into serious trouble with the law and was treated most unfairly by the justice system. In late September, my cousin Geordie was diagnosed with cancer and given only a few months to live. He was thirty-four and had two small children.

My grandmother, Marion Martin.

My aunts, who had hosted the harvest meal for many years, decided to not to have it. "We don't feel that we have much to be thankful for," they said. The rest of us agreed, until my grandmother set us straight. Like her Scottish forbearers, my grandmother was a woman of few words. She was not prone to emotional outbursts or harsh judgments, but when she spoke, we listened.  "We will have Thanksgiving this year," she said. "Every day is a gift."

I don't remember that Thanksgiving dinner, although we did have one. I do remember Geordie's funeral two weeks later, so many people in attendance they had to stand on the lawn. I remember neighbours and relatives working late into the night in order to harvest what was left of his crop. My heart was full on that day.

My grandmother died the January after Geordie. She was not rich in material things, and I received no cash settlement, no antique jewels, or real estate. Yet this year, as I look at the ever-changing configuration of faces around the supper table, I will be giving my thanks. Not for money or possessions, or the bountiful harvest, not for the pumpkin pie, or the Harvard beets, but for my family and for every day we have shared. That thankfulness is my inheritance from my grandmother, and I could wish for nothing finer.

This is what democracy looks like

If you read my June post, you'll know that Alberta Health Services planned to shut down the Slave Lake air ambulance and centralize services to other communities, adding critical minutes to flight times and leaving Slave Lake and area residents with limited ground ambulance services in case of inclement weather.  Our people rallied, sent letters, emails, phoned, and signed a petition.  Our local government repeatedly requested meetings with our MLA and the minister, to no avail.  Then out of the blue our mayor was informed that the decision had been reversed. Were our voices heard?  Or were there inner workings that we are not aware of that led to this decision?

Back in December, there was a big announcement that a number of petroleum producers were donating money to a Slave Lake legacy project that would include a daycare and theatre/arts space.  A couple of weeks ago our local Tri-Council voted on the architect's proposal that included a lovely daycare and an improved Elks hall but none of the features one would expect in a theatre or arts space. Again, lobbying.  This time by local dance, music, theatre, and arts groups as well as concerned community members. Letters were written. Funding avenues were explored. Dollars were pledged.  Needs were expressed. A presentation to town council, then to Tri-Council. Success!

It almost gives you reason to hope. Almost.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

Fruit-seller, Delhi.

We stare at each other through the window, the fruit-seller and I.  I stand with espresso in hand: he guards his cart of exotic fruit.  As we stand there for a silent moment on this, my last day in Delhi, I think to myself: other than a plate of floor to ceiling glass, what separates me from him?

 

Geography led my ancestors to flee their overpopulated nation and colonize a new homeland, while his country was taken over. Geography enriched my nation with natural resources, and left his with less. Geography makes my land sparsely populated while his is one of the most crowded in the world. Geography led us to a reality in which my morning coffee, consumed in air-conditioned comfort, costs more than the fruit seller will earn in an entire day beneath sweltering Indian skies.

Shanghai, 1984

I met my husband in Shanghai just as China was opening itself up to the west. Every summer, often accompanied by our children, we travel.  Beyond the sites, cultures and people, we've shared many experiences that have shaped our worldview.  We've debated what to do when beggars ask for food for their children; been robbed by corrupt police; gritted our teeth over unnecessary bureaucratic complexities; witnessed the long term effects of genocide, civil war, natural disaster, economic collapse, and terrorism. We've seen how people live their lives under communism, unregulated capitalism, in dictatorships, police states, theocracies and corrupt “democracies”.  But India? India was mind-blowing. 

Mumbai Pavement Dwellers.

Culturally and linguistically more diverse than the entire continent of Africa, India is faced with enormous challenges. Although the food is fabulous, although men like the fruit-seller stock wonderful varieties of produce, although India ranks second in the world for agricultural output, 55% of India’s children suffer from malnutrition. Home to one third of the world’s poor, India defines extreme poverty (experienced by 138 million of its citizens) as living on 44 Canadian cents a day in a nation where just one cheap meal costs 31 cents. In an economy with impressive growth rates, disparity is all around.  Slums beside elegant apartment complexes; pavement dwellers living on sidewalks just meters away from prestigious hotels. The economic boom has bypassed most Indians. Income disparity has doubled over the past 20 years and it’s estimated that by the year 2015 one quarter of India’s people will still be living in extreme poverty. Everywhere we go we see men, men and more men.  Where are the women?  Although female infanticide and gender-selective abortion are illegal, there are presently 37 million more men than women in India. In the 0-6 age group, there are 7 million fewer girls than boys. One woman is killed over a dowry dispute every hour.

On this, my last day in Delhi, I ponder these things. Alongside India’s beauty there is an ugliness that is in your face every minute of every day and while it may not be my place to judge, I can question. I can question how people in a democracy allow such disparity. I can wonder how mothers choose to abort their daughters.  I can marvel at how both men and women tolerate such inequality. And I can wonder, as I watch the fruit-seller watch me through that place glass window, does he think about my life as much as I think about his?

When you're a Northerner

Slave Lake on fire,  May 15 2011 Courtesy L Ramsey

When you live in a rural northern community, you’re vulnerable.  You’re vulnerable to fires and floods and insects.  You’re vulnerable to the unpredictable weather, the vagaries of the economy, the transient nature of your friendships as people come and go. Sometimes you’re trapped by highway closures.  And you put up with these things, because that’s what it means to live in the north. You put up with unreliable internet, limited public transportation, bad roads and the increased likelihood of highway accidents, few restaurants, limited cultural opportunities. You watch your kids go away to school because that’s where the universities are. And you put up with these things, because you’re a northerner.  You’re strong. You don’t complain. When there’s nothing to do, you make your own fun.  When there aren’t good restaurants, you learn how to cook. When you need something, you ask for help-even from total strangers.  You use your ingenuity to overcome the roadblocks that nature and geography has thrown in your way.  And even though you work as hard or maybe harder than your urban southern neighbours and you don’t get the same benefits from your tax dollar as they do, you put up with your challenges because you’re a northerner. That’s what you do.

Courtesy Nik Neville

But after a while it starts to wear on you.  You discover that your hospital no longer has an anesthesiologist or a surgeon, and you get a bit worried. When you learn that young women who are expecting their first child have to go to Edmonton to give birth, and their families have to take days off work and stay in hotel so they can be with them, that doesn’t seem right.  And then your government decides the medevac centre needs to be moved further from the city hospital, adding crucial time to emergency transport, that kind of gets under your skin. And when you find out your town is losing its air ambulance “to serve you better” and they’re moving your own air ambulance to a the city where no one uses an air ambulance because they actually live where the hospitals are and now the time to hospital is at least another hour, well- that just kind of makes you mad.

 

So you do what your social studies teacher told you.  You contact people.  You call your MLA but she doesn’t return your message.  You contact the Minister of Health and you don’t hear back.  You talk to opposition MLAs- still nothing. You find out your local government hasn’t been consulted and they are calling for a face to face meeting, and nothing is done. You talk to Alberta Health Services and they stick to their talking points that “this is better for all Albertans”.  So you start a petition and within a week, 1200 people have signed it.  Many of these people have their own stories about how their lives were saved by air ambulance.  They’re mad.  They contact their politicians.  But no one answers their pleas.

So what do you do?  You rely on your northern ingenuity. You rally.  You stick together.  You fight for what you deserve. Because you’re northerners.  And that’s what you do.

now is not the time

Now is not the time

Now is not the time

Now is not the time to commit sociology

Now is not the time to talk about gun control 

Now is not the time to buy super bowl XLVII tickets

Now is not the time for reckless opportunistic experiments

Now is not the time to give money to Egypt's Muslim Brotherhood

Now is not the time to ship Canadian beef south to the United States

Now is not the time to discuss the 'political aftermath’ especially when your theories are ludicrous

Now is not the time

Now is not the time

Now is not the time for clichés

Now is not the time for subtlety

Now is not the time to give up on me

Now is not the time for dick measuring

Now is not the time to wonder why you do it

Now is not the time to go down memory lane

Now is not the time to talk yourself out of your goals and dreams

Now is not the time for fear.  That will come later.

now is not the time…now is not the time…now is not the time…

Now is not the time

The Private Lives of Teachers

Aerial photo of Slave Lake on fire, May 15 2011.

The last couple of months have been kind of weird for me.

Since the Slave Lake fires of 2011, my husband and I and our local newspaper editor and a local forestry educator have been writing a book.

The Sky was on Fire: Slave Lake's Story of Disaster, Exodus and New Beginnings was self published in December.  We've sold close to 3000 copies so far and the book has been either number one or number two on the Edmonton non-fiction best seller list for each of the four weeks it has been for sale in that city at Audrey's Books and the Royal Alberta Museum.

Writing the book was an amazing amount of work- every evening, hours out of each weekend, vacation days.  All of it volunteer labour. Selling has been easier, but time-consuming- late afternoons, evenings and weekends delivering, packing and shipping orders, making bank deposits, and promoting sales.

It's hard to say why we worked so hard on this book.  Seeing your whole community on fire, realizing that your own house and all your worldly goods could be gone, and wondering how many of your friends and neighbours must surely have perished is life altering. Hearing the stories of escape, near-death experiences, and unthinking acts of selflessness performed by average people is something that changes your worldview.   The book was our way of paying tribute to those who lost so much and carried on with their lives.  It is a testament to the unsung heroes to whom the book is dedicated. But beyond being a piece of Alberta history, we think the book tells a universal story of resilience and community-our way of saying, "Look at what happened to us! Look at the strength of the human spirit!"

It does not surprise me that the book is a best seller.  People tell us it's well written and beautifully produced. Thanks to a grant from Alberta Culture, it's affordable.  The strange thing is the almost complete lack of interest from the media.  Apart from one interview with CTV, a network that seems invested in our Slave Lake story, and a short piece in metronews, no one in the media seems to care. Is the Slave Lake story too old to be news? Is it too local?  Is the fact we self published the book part of the problem?  These are questions this social studies teacher cannot answer.

Students, teachers, and support staff feature prominently in our book of stories, although they are not named by their occupation. Teachers helped fight the fire, school employees "stole" the school buses that evacuated seniors from town, a custodian assisted with checking basements for bodies. Dozens of teachers and teaching assistants lost their homes, and yet in the face of their own losses, worked to restore a sense of normalcy for their students in the days and weeks following the fire. "Lost and Found in the Fire" - the first thing I wrote about the event- was published in the A.T.A. News in late May of 2011. The English Language Arts teachers of Alberta did a fundraiser for our book. And the A.T.A. News most graciously agreed to help promote the book in their next issue. Proceeds from the book will go towards a scholarship for students pursuing an education in the arts.

The Sky was on Fire can be purchased online at www.stagenorth.org

Voiceless

I had a meeting this morning via videoconferencing.  First, I couldn't log in because there was a new way to access the VC that had not been explained.  Then I could not get through to tech support. When I did get into the session, no one could hear me. And then my screen froze and went black.

I'm used to talking.  A lot.  And ranting.  So to sit in a meeting and not be able to talk was more than frustrating.  In fact it verged on enraging.  It's like how you feel when your party loses an election. Year after year after year.  And after awhile you just stop caring.


I used to feel that my voice was listened to in my workplace and by my professional association.  Now, not so much.  So this year I took a vow of silence.  I don't speak at staff meetings.  I don't send bulk emails containing my views on things.  I don't write to the ATA.  It feels weird. I'm a Social Studies teacher, and I tell my students they should speak out.  But now, I don't. And even though my vow of silence is self imposed, it's no less enraging.

I wonder if my students feel like that.  Out there in cyberspace, at their kitchen tables, and in their distance ed learning labs, in the back rooms of their places of employment- do they feel alone?  Do they feel like anyone listens to them?  Or have they just stopped caring?

Cancer, Capitalism and the Classroom

Here it is Movember, I think I have convinced two guys to grow a monkeytail and next week my sister is shaving her head as a cancer fundraiser.

But I keep thinking of the session I attended at a teachers convention a couple of years ago.  Wendy Mesley about chasing the answer to cancer.  The gist of her message was that our research dollars go into cures for cancer, when what we really should be doing is looking at prevention.

 How much of our fundraised cancer dollars go into looking at what causes cancer?  Because, seriously, wouldn't any human rather not get cancer, rather than find a cure? As the old "Demotivators" poster says, "If you're not part of the solution, there's money to be made prolonging the problem."  Am I cynical about big pharma and --I admit it-- capitalism in general?

Today I came across this video on, of all place, aljazeera (where I was looking for an XML code to put in my D2L News Widget (which I still haven't figured out, btw)

And I wonder, what am I allowed to say on this subject?  Teachers are supposed to be impartial and present fair and balanced views. But if it's true that the chemicals we use in farming and industry cause cancer, should I remain quiet?