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.
On a hypothetical day, responding to downtown apathy, the township votes against redeveloping the main street. Or, guessing about a population shift, the public school board makes plans to dismantle one of the town’s elementary schools. And then, wildly projecting buyer trends, several of the big-box stores in town decide to forgo sales for gardeners, truck enthusiasts or on Boxing Day.
In these make-believe scenarios, the municipality, the board and retailers are quite happy to ignore information readily and often freely provided by Statistics Canada in its regular written census. They would agree with the current Industry Minister’s perception that Canadians can do without the long-form census.
“The state has no right to demand intrusive information,” Tony Clement told reporters, and further that “up to 24 per cent of Canadians believe [they] should not be forced to answer it.”
On Nov. 16, 1860, George Davies made history. The lighthouse keeper climbed the newly constructed, 15-metre-high, conical tower of Fisgard Lighthouse at the entrance to Esquimalt naval harbour on Vancouver Island. His appointment not only helped the British claim sovereignty of the Pacific Coast, it also made a statement about public investment in literacy. In addition to his salary for the nightly lamp lighting atop Fisgard, keeper Davies received a $150 stipend to purchase magazines and books.
“It is of the utmost importance to the interests of the Lighthouse Service,” the Governor of Vancouver Island stated at the time, “that the minds and intellects of the lighthouse keepers should not be allowed to stagnate in their isolated and … desolate stations.”
Shar Mitchell and I greeted each other like old friends. We are. But we haven’t seen each other in years. We exchanged smiles and a hug. We got caught up on spouses and kids. We reminisced about the 1970s when she – then Shar Lenz – felt disillusioned with nursing and expressed an interest in the media. I offered some leads and she landed a job in television. She never looked back. From TV producer to feature writer to actor to concert tour assistant for the ’70s band Seals and Crofts, Shar’s professional life has brimmed with travel and experience. But with pleasantries over, she asked for my help with her next challenge.
“For 10 years I’ve been carrying this story like a yoke,” she said to me this week.
It was a reverent moment. Our host entered. We had all enjoyed our first meal in the dining hall together, while on the wall over our shoulders a painting depicted Christ and the apostles at The Last Supper. Our host – a middle-aged monk – apologized that not all seven Franciscans normally resident there could be present; two of them – men in their late 80s – had recently been moved to hospital for elder care, he said. Nevertheless a younger 70-ish Brother Dominic bid us welcome.
“We are brothers of prayer,” he said. “But we welcome you here to St. Michael’s, your home away from home.”