The other night, I sent a couple of dozen of my journalism students out into the night. They had to go to one of the municipalities where the public was voting for mayors, councillors and/or aldermen. Their job was to get the perspective of the loser and the reaction of the winner in their chosen ward for the record. The reaction I got from one or two members of my class of practising reporters amazed me.
“Why is it so important to do this?” one student asked.
A few years ago, a good friend of ours in town began working on some special projects. They were pieces of handyman work. Things such as ramps alongside staircases, wider doorways inside houses and railings and handles for people with temporary or permanent disabilities. He got the work because Kate Thompson-Hawks (from Durham Access-to-Care) knew that he understood the needs of her clients.
“We knew you’d be fair,” she said, “and you’d do a good job.”
You’ve probably never heard of Luis Iribarren. Or Claudio Lagos. And you’ll likely never run across Dario Rojo in your lifetime. But, in fact, you do know them, all of them. They are three of the 33 men trapped in the Chilean mine since Aug. 5. For the record, you probably remember the very first words that Iribarren spoke to the world on Aug. 22.
“We are well,” he said through a communication line, “and we are hoping that you will rescue us.”
This was perhaps his only opportunity to address the electorate in a debate for the 2010 municipal election. His competitors for councillor in the ward were in the public hall in person. But municipal candidate Joe Amarelo could not be present. A family emergency had forced him to miss the event. He did, nevertheless, have an impact on the meeting. A statement he’d written was read.
“I see unresolved issues in our town, including vandalism,” Amarelo’s statement read. “It’s important to … create a dialogue. Why not have a Youth Day?”
I walked into my History of Broadcasting class last Friday morning. I told those present – about 50 Broadcasting and Film students at Centennial College in Toronto – that I was tossing out the lesson plan that day. I suggested I had a more contemporary issue on my mind. But I didn’t want to colour their responses. I simply asked for their take on the alleged gang rape of that student near Vancouver earlier in the week.
“It’s revolting,” one male student said.
Even in liberated communities, there are some areas still considered off-limits to certain people. Children aren’t often seen in pubs. Most women don’t hang out in repair garages. And men don’t generally frequent manicure and pedicure salons. The same could be said of men in sewing shops and the like. In fact, last Saturday afternoon when I decided to pay a courtesy visit to the Quilters Cupboard in Uxbridge, Ont., I got a predicable response when I entered.
“Hey ladies,” a voice announced from inside the store, “a man has just entered the shop.” Most got a chuckle out of the remark. Me included.
Generally, I’ve never had any phobias associated with the last holiday weekend of the summer. Oh, years of commuting to Toronto have made me dread that first Tuesday back on the Don Valley Parkway when it turns into a parking lot again. But nothing ever really bothered me about returning to the fall schedule the day after Labour Day, except (at school) that first-day-back exercise ritual most teachers imposed on us. You know the one – writing or telling the class:
“How I Spent My Summer Holiday.”
We met her along a suburban crescent of retirement-like houses in Vineland, Ontario. The homes were built in 1990 on local farmland, but looked brand new. Anyway, for semi-retired Patricia Pierce, the setting was perfect – almost opposite her old elementary school and close to the farm where her parents had raised her and thousands of Niagara Peninsula fruit trees.
“I would never have thought in a million years I’d be here in this retirement village,” she said. “But somehow it seems very appropriate.”
I had hardly oriented myself to the place. Wood smoke from the recent B.C. fires had left Nanton, Alberta – a small prairie town south of Calgary – in a palpable haze. Nevertheless, aviation enthusiast Karl Kjarsgaard, who lives and volunteers there, had something he wanted to show me. Inside the newly renamed Bomber Command Museum of Canada, he led me to a storage area above the workshop. He opened a cardboard box and pulled out a metal bar about 18 inches long.
“This aluminum ingot has Canadian blood in it,” he said. “There’s 1,400 pounds of melted down aluminum in this box… and some of it is about to become famous.”
I remember the day some business friends and I needed a room in which to meet. A financial advisor friend offered his offices. As I sat down in his boardroom, I spotted a large picture frame on the wall. It contained several images of the former post office in my town. It was typical of that turn-of-the-century, Edwardian construction – tall central tower, large windows, red bricks. When I asked what had happened to it, someone said they’d torn it down.
“Any chance they’d ever rebuild something like that?” I asked naively.
“No will. No way,” fellow board members told me.