| The Soles of our Society Oh, Canada, this vast and awesome land. Contained in your boundaries are some people, who, for a multitude of reasons, have come to live in the midst of poverty. There are displaced people all over the world today and in this amazing age of en-masse migrations, Canada has adopted a sizable share of the marginalized, adding to its own sizable population of the disadvantaged. I have spun an analogy which looks at out society as a human body, illustrating the parts that make the parcel. Our leaders are the brains of our society, the thinkers, the decision makers, the body politic who lead, guide and direct our lives. The backbone is made up of the financial wizards, the economists, the bankers, the gross national product crowd and we have a strong and secure backbone in our society. The vital organs of the national body, the lungs, the liver, the heart and so on, are the educators, the doctors, the artists breathing the progress, cleansing the ills and creating the beat. I describe the arms and legs as the instruments of the nation, the manufacturers, the industrialists, our privileged skilled and semi-skilled. And then there are the souls of our society's poor, the sole's of our society's feet. There is an adage which says you can tell a lot about a person by looking at their shoes and our society, as strong and as beautiful as it is has sad and shabby, ill-fitting shoes to cover its tired and aching feet. We all know the plague of having sore feet, and how, if blisters develop they have to be treated, for blisters left to grow can become like gangrenous festers of illness and in this day and age, this condition in our community is beyond shame. The soles of our society, hungry and food less, dirty and soap less, exhausted and bed less, no home in a society which no longer has room for mistakes. The fall from grace is a short one from the sidewalk of life to the gutter of despair and crawling back up and out of the sewer is plagued with its own pitfalls. Judging our nations poor carte blanche is a blindness which human-kind cannot afford. All but a utopian society is going to have the marginalized, the disenfranchised, the poorest of us. There is always going to be someone on the bottom. Today, as you and I walk along our path, let's try to think with mercy as we pass by the soles of our society try to see them through eyes of kindness and remember, there, but for the grace of God, go I. By, Cherie-Lynn Rode Hard and Put Up Wet It's an old saying ‘rode hard and put up wet', an old saying about horses and women. If a man has been working hard and gotten too tired, over exerted, covered in sweat from hard labor and thrown in the cold in sopping wet clothes and stressed out, he can go in the house take a nice warm shower and clean himself up and dry himself off and dress himself warm and sit down safely in front of a warm fire and put his feet up and have someone serve him. With horses and women, (and thus children and dogs and cats and etc…) it is the luck of the draw, whether or not one gets a bad master or a good master. It's a sad day for a horse when she gets the kind of master that would saddle her up when she is already half-dead beat, drive her out in a dead run, without a slow walk, to a slow run, to warm up, runs her until she's about to drop, then beats her all the way back to the barn; panting, freezing with sweat, exhausted, thrown in the stall, backwards; left, with the saddle still on too tight, left, wet and freezing, and what food is given, is eaten while being whipped on, or kicked, or kicked at, or punched, jabbed, boxed at, threatened with hammers, and hit with hammers, while giving the same to the dog and all the while calling you ‘a stupid cow', another one of those sayings. The horse that's been rode hard and put up wet, left to get chilled, brain burnt from malnutrition, confused to dizzy from being slapped and commanded to run and then being yanked back so hard and so fast that her neck will never be the same and the dog begins to limp. And so it is with abused women…. By Cherie-Lynn FUN IN THE SUN IN THE HALIBURTONS Richard Matthew Simpson My first wilderness exploit was a canoe trip in the Haliburtons in late May of 1976. The weather, during the day, was gorgeous, but old hands will know the reason for the italics: in Canada, late May is really late winter, and this becomes painfully obvious at night, and needless to add, in the water. On my first dawn, the air seemed uncommonly chilly —much cooler than it had been when I'd turned in the day before. The thermometer amazed me by announcing that it was 31ºF (a touch below zero Celsius). I hadn't slept well at all, for fear of bears (never saw or heard one on that jaunt), and now I was being greeted by air of a temperature I had hitherto associated with the onset of heavy snow. But the sun across Gull Lake (south of Minden, Ontario) was brilliant and warm, even more so when reflected from the tranquil surface of the water. It felt wonderful. I could see it was going to be another perfect day, but 31 F at sunrise? In May? I remained startled by that figure for some time. Naturally, after breakfast, I had to try out my new (used) camera and get some sunrise shots with a wide-angle lens. The lake had little or no mist above it. But this significant fact was completely lost on me, and it was a long time before its meaning finally took hold. (I did not, in fact, make the relevant connection until this moment.) Later in the day, after traversing Gull, Moore's and Black lakes, a distance of about five miles from my campsite, the air was once again springlike in the open, and downright summery in the woods (the hardwoods were still totally bare of leaves—another heavy hint that I missed entirely.) But I found an ideal campsite among a stand of jack pines on Casimir Island in Black Lake (a magical name for my first island camp—it haunts me still), and spent the evening savoring the loveliness of it all, slowly being lulled to sleep by the incessant reiterations of a whippoorwill. (My irritation at its ceaseless calling left me the moment I finally recognized the call and knew its species.) The next morning was not like the first; the air was warmer, there was not a breath of wind, and my sunrise shots from Casimir Island put the previous ones to shame. Eventually, I loaded the canoe and paddled to the far end of the lake, where I sat in the sun at the mouth of Little Bob Creek, studying the map. Black Lake had several cottages on it then (a few more now, the map shows), but only a mile away a smaller lake called Digby (name since changed by MNR for reasons unknown) showed a few small islands and only two cottages (soon found to be empty shacks). A true back-woods destination! I strapped on my pack and set off to see if there was a portage trail. The map showed none, but I found the map to be laughably wrong—for the first of many times, I'm afraid. (This is a chronic problem with trails and portages. The aerial photographs, from which topographic maps are derived, are taken in mid-summer, when the trails are most difficult to see from above. And I think the federal cartographers really don't place a very high value on such insignificant details anyway; correct me if I'm mistaken.) If it hadn't been for some of the rock outcroppings, I could have driven a limousine from Black to Digby Lake. The portage had doubtless been established centuries ago by Natives, then widened by settlers in order to drag their fish-ing boats across; several of these were chained to trees at the end of the trail (so much for the backwoods atmosphere). After a two-trip portage, totaling three miles, surrounded by barren but close-grown trees under the mid-day sun, I felt sweaty for the first time since I'd started out. I hadn't bathed in two days, so I decided to take my first wilderness skinny-dip in Digby Lake. In late May. In the Haliburton Highlands. In Canada. Shedding my shorts and tee-shirt, I blithely sauntered down a sloping rock face—into the coldest fucking water I have ever felt in my life. Before it was even up to my knees, the thought struck me that I might get submerged and literally be unable to climb out. It was the most painfully numbing sensation I have ever experienced. I climbed back up the rock, just so my feet could come alive again. I was in a state of disbelief. The sun was hot; the air was still and redolent of emerging life; it was Spring, for God's sake! Hasn't anybody informed the water? What the hell's the matter with this lake? A tiny little blob of blue, under a semi-tropical sun, and it feels like it just flowed down the face of a glacier! Well, I was determined to finish my dip, and I wasn't going to let a little cold water stop me. Me? Canoeman? Master of the Untrodden Wild? No way! I walked back down the rock to the very edge of the water. I forced myself to believe that it was not as cold as it felt, like Mark Twain assuring his readers that Wagner's music is not as bad as it sounds. Then another thought flashed: if your nerves are numbed by cold, it could be cold enough to kill you, and you'd never realize it. I had only recently heard of hypothermia at the time. I wasn't even quite sure what it was. But I knew what it would mean to have your body heat sucked out of you so fast that you could do nothing to save yourself. And the lake was absolutely deserted. But the idea of going on a canoe trip and never going in the water was ridiculous—like driving across the Sahara and never getting out of the car because the sand is too hot. What kind of a wimp am I? I put the toes of the running shoes in the water. This is it, I thought. Just walk down that (slippery) rock and dip your head under to rinse off the sweat, then out. OUT! Leap out, if you can, but for God's sake, do it! I did it. I claim the fastest bath (okay, rinse) in the Western World. Probably not in excess of seven seconds. Check your Guinness (the book). I was wet. I was rinsed. I was very close to trembling with cold. I stood in the sunny air like a man who has just been rescued from an Antarctic crevasse. I was still alive. I was sure of it. I turned in the sun like a pig on a spit. Bring those limbs back to life while we're still standing up! Dry that back! Thaw out those toes! I must have looked like a naked maniac from Times Square. I wanted to swallow the Sun. I wanted to bite little pieces off of it and suck on them. My scalp was burning. My skull was split right down to my gonads. If a wind had arisen at that moment, I think I would have screamed. I was colder than I had ever been before, colder than I had ever thought possible, far colder than I ever wanted to be again. Never, never again. There's a lesson for you. Nothing like learning at first hand, eh? If anyone had told me that a shallow lake could be filled with ice-water on a warm spring day, I simply would not have believed them. I'd have thought they were just trying to scare me out of the forest so they could have it all to themselves. People do things like that. I simply had to find out for myself. I found out. The Man That Ate Utopia The sun's rage is pacified for another day as his ultra-violet empire drowns in dusk, and twilight is crowned emperor of our imagination. Everyone has the power to resist the cretinous movement that water-logs itself in estrogen, everyone is capable of seeing harmony and of living on the shoreline of freedom. But someone always cracks the whip at Bhudda, someone always takes milk from a sucking infant, someone neuters the last white dove and ends hope of breeding peace, someone had to provide the viral presence that infects us from our flesh to our souls, someone always has to eat utopia. By Josh Corber Cheers, Change by Oswald Phills Through the ad cluttered window of the fried chicken joint Real watched the traffic climb and descend Cote St. Luc at the foot of the General Hospital. With his neat teeth, he tore at the crusty skin of the drumstick, chewed the meat, and washed it down with a can of cola. He only nibbled at the soggy fries which had not lived up to the perky smile with which they'd been served. Around him was the familiar strains of French and English that he knew from growing up in here. Montreal. As always, when in Montreal, he sank into a haze of nostalgia. It was as if his mind threw a coating of past times over every street he saw, every old haunt he passed through, and every face that peered in his direction. Sometimes he wondered how many of his memories were true and how many were dreamt up in the fifteen years that he'd lived in Toronto. At times he felt that if he really looked at Montreal without his dreamy gauze things would look much different. He ate his fast food slowly. He noticed that his was the only dark face in the restaurant, except for a skinny man who attended to the cash registers every so often. As he chewed his food, he wondered how it would feel to live in a place where everyone, or most everyone, was black. He had always been a minority growing up in Quebecois neighborhoods. These thoughts seemed to cue the Universe which sent a tall black man came through the entrance of the little restaurant. The big guy wore a tan colored wind breaker, a black turtle neck sweater, and faded blue jeans. His hair was close cropped. He scanned the place vaguely as he walked up the isle to the order counter behind which lay the origin of the spicy chicken odor that filled the air. What's up Raymon? Real smiled. The man stopped, frowned at Real, then let his body relax in laughter. Holy...aw man! Of all people... Real used a paper napkin to wipe his mouth and fingers. Me of all people? You of all people? Ramon extended his hand. How's it going bro? Its going. Real smiled. They shook hands. Lemme think back. Hang on. Raymond grinned at Real with a set of pleasantly gapped teeth. The last thing I heard about you was that you were out in B.C. doing something or the other. Yeah. That was two years ago at the reunion. Hey, I' didn't see you there. Somebody said that you were on the trail of the Susquach! Real laughed out loud. Hey, that was way back man. I ran for city council in Vancouver. Almost made it. Susquach ey? It was Raymond's turn to laugh out loud. Talk about a blast from the past! Hey, lemme get a bite to eat. I could join you for a moment. Damned! Sure. Real nodded. He then finished up the bit of meat he'd been eating then tucked his soggy fries in with the scraps and greasy balled up paper napkins. These routine movements it flickered in his mind that he and Raymond did not hang out together when they were in high school. Real had been the teacher's pet class president type, full of big words. Everyone called Raymond Dr. J because of how he played basketball. Tall and athlethic, he was popular with the popular girls. They were the only two black kids in their graduating class, but they lived as different creatures in different worlds. When Raymond returned he put down his small black plastic tray with its silver wrapped burger, milkshake, onion rings, and hapkins and sat across from Real. Well, well, well. Mr. President. Well, well, well, Dr J. Real replied. They laughed. So what brings you to eat chicken with the common folk after all these years? Raymond set to opening up the silver warapping of his burger. I always thought you'd be a more sushi and saki kind of guy. Real smiled. I had a free weekend. I thought I could use a booster shot of Montreal. Free weekend? Aren't you out West? Naw man! I'm in Hog Town! I came down here to check out some Montreal ladies! You know, check out the Jazz Fest, smell the roses, all that good stuff! You left all those fine Toronto babes just to come up here? Raymond bit into his burger. Real nodded. I'm recently single guy. I'm back to take a look at the women who made me the lover I am! Ha! Such a great lover your marriage broke up? Raymond comped off more of his burger. We were married for eight beautiful years! That's over now! But who knows, these things have their own way. Separated. Divorced. Whatever. We're still cool. Raymond nodded, finished chewing his bite, and swallowed. Sounds intense. What about you? Inquired Real. Eighteen years of marriage. Congratulations. Yeah, its funny how things turned out! I was going in one direction and things just turned around. How do you mean? Raymond tried to sip from his milkshake. Got an athlethics scholarship for Howard in the States. Then things changed. Bam! Car accident in the Laurentians! Balance and eyesight messed up for good. Neurological damage! I put on a ton of weight, as you can see, it never left me! I go to college to study theatre at John Abbot. You should have seen me hobble through Beckett! Bam! Fell in love! Bam! Got married. Five years in, bam, twins! Girls! Denise and Darlene. Next thing you know its like no more Dr. J - its just Daddy - Dr. D! Life swept through my life like a storm! Any kids yourself? Like you said, its funny how things work out, or in my case, how they didn't work out. No, I don't have any. But I don't know if I'm blessed or cursed. Probably wasn't for me. Ever miss not having played pro ball? No man. That's from another life, another path. Raymond raised his burger to his mouth. My life just told me loud and clear: You're a parent now! That's why I'm not at work right now. What do you mean? Real furrowed his eyebrows slightly. I'm at the general at the hospital with one of my girls, Denise. Raymond took a few more bites to finished off the burger and drew up his shake through the straw. What's wrong with her? Tapping his chest with his right hand, Raymond answered with a full mouth. Asthma. Asthma attack. Real sat up. I'm sorry to hear that? A shadow came over Raymond's face. I used to have that as a kid man. It's a serious thing. I grew out of it by my early teens, but man, when it gripped me. Man.. Now my girl has to go through that too. Isn't that something? I thought that, hey, I've been through that, my kids won't have to deal with that. That's a strange way of thinking, I know...The wife just goes through hell with it. She had an aunt who died from asthma a few years back! So she's always thinking, you know... what if... Who's your wife? Did she go to school with us? Real was curious. Remember Laura Woods? Raymond smiled. Yeah, I remember Laura. You're a lucky man. Raymond winked at Real. She's broken a few hearts. Voted the prettiest girl in the graduating class. Real's trunk shook with laughter. I didn't know her then. I only really got to know her in college. I remember her from student counsel. Vice President. She was on the honor roll while I was just messing around. I never would have put you two guys together. No kidding! But it was just one of those things! Bam! Change! Raymond looked at his watch. Christ, I got to get back. They have her on the ventilator. I'll pull an over nighter. Word of advice. Never get asthma! Real nodded his head. He extended his hand, which Raymond shook as he stood up. I hope everything turns our well. Say hi to Sandy for me. I'm sure she'll tell you a story of two about some of our battles! Reaching into his jacket Real produced a card. If you're ever in Toronto. Raymond took the card with a smile, put it in his side pocket, then gathered up his stuff on his tray. When do you head back to T.O.? Tomorrow morning. Well, I hope you enjoyed your visit. Everything's changed here but my memories. Yeah, but even they change don't they? -fin- |
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