The difference between clinging to the past and preserving heritage

Disclaimer: This post is not written as an indictment against the many, many wonderful men on this planet.

Growing up we called them pale males, the vanguard of brut ignorance which ruled our daily lives by bullying, intimidating and, mostly, throwing very public tantrums.

For a brief, very brief, moment in time we seemed to shed these dinosaurs and be on track to prove that our species was better than its inheritance suggested.

But, like all horror movies, we missed the few lurking in the shadows and they have come back to haunt us with renewed energy.

I am older now, a wee bit wiser, and I know that things happen in cycles which are dominated by bad behavior interspersed with wispy spirals of rationality.

I know that we will survive this too, but so much poorer - not only materially but also intellectually.

Heritage is a reminder of what we can be both for the good and the bad. These reminders are embedded in books, documents, artifacts and traditions. When we lose these we lose the memory of how to rejoice in each other, and how to protect ourselves from each other. We lose our civility.

Pale males are hot-wired to cling to the past, but disrespect heritage.

Heritage is a reflection of what they never can be.

The past means something very different to them.

The past is always about what they've lost, or what they perceive is about to be lost to their way of life. And they are easily affronted - quick to use force.

In the end they lose the past anyway.

The tragedy is that in the process of losing what was never real they destroy everything else.

This is the difference between them and us.

This is the difference between clinging to the past and preserving heritage - preserving the future.

Toronto's loss may be greater Ontario's gain

Difficult to understand the municipal politics in Toronto right now, but it seems that the answer to the city's budget crisis is to shut down everyone not wielding a hockey stick.

My rather mercenary mind sees this as a benefit to communities such as Niagara-on-the-lake, Stratford, Huntsville, Collingwood or Burlington whose cultural tourism would benefit greatly from the proximity of Toronto's refugee artists, actors, photographers, musicians and all attendant professionals including the culinary specialists attuned to feeding creative types and their audiences.

For example. I envision BIFF not TIFF - the Burlington International Film Festival.

Think of the financial benefits to Burlington and its neighboring towns with facilities which could become world class creative platforms?

If I were in municipal politics in a well-placed Ontario town I would be out there wooing the Toronto disenfranchised. I would be calling upon all my area financiers and other stakeholders to put into place a cultural economic strategy that would place my town on the world map.

This just seems like a one-time opportunity to rebuild communities wrecked by the decline of the motor and other industries.

I say, "Why not step out of the box?"

We need regulations against touching

My perennial pet peeve - consumers who grub about in fruit and vegetable containers and displays with dirty, germ infested hands.

By the time someone buys the produce s/he has to cut away the disease laden fingernail holes and the rotten spots caused by thumb and finger pressure. That is money in the trash can or compost bin, and that is not what I signed on for.

But if only it stopped there.

My first visit to Starsky in Mississauga just after the store opened was also my last. As I wandered through the bulk area I saw a man open the lid to a tub of fresh, grated pickle mix and dip in his fingers. After munching through the treat he proceeded to stick those fingers right back into the mix and start all over again. A nearby shop assistant did nothing to stop him. I dropped my basked where I stood and left the store.

Down the road from me is a small independent bulk dealer whom I also visited - once.

As I browsed the bins the owner/manager stooped and picked up a collection of peanuts which had fallen onto the floor. Instead of throwing away the peanuts the owner/manager opened the lid to the container and popped them right back in.

I made a conscious decision after these two incidents to buy nothing edible from bulk containers. If it is not wrapped and sealed it does not go into my cart.

We have regulations for growing, producing and selling food products but we have no regulations in place to protect ourselves against each other.

As much as I hate layers of bureaucracy I really think it is time that vendors were given the authority to put up signs saying, "If you touch you buy."

Equally, we need to rethink bulk food bins. In a perfect world where people care about hygiene and respect each other these bins are ideal. However ...

In the northern hemisphere we are entering the cold and flu season and it may be a good idea to take stock of where you buy and what you buy. For me it is mostly buy local, buy small producer and buy directly from the food source.

Earthly retribution

The Rock Garden, RBG, 2011.
Copyright Heather Vallance

Yesterday’s storm bounced off the Escarpment and reached me at a speed I can only compare with that of a cheetah in full stride. I barely had time to hit the off button on the computer and retreat from my chair beside the window. Only weeks before, I had sat in that same chair during a dry windstorm which downed trees and stripped homes all the way to Fort Erie.

Yesterday’s news told of more wildfires and snow in Hawaii. Violent, unpredictable weather increases with each year, but we never fully accept why.

The Earth is angry, and who can blame her?

I often wonder if Earth showed up as a neighbor - a woman of a certain age named Gaia who entertained her biker friends to Sunday BBQs - if she would be as disrespected as she is as a concept.

Probably. In our world, women of a certain age are as disrespected as the Earth herself.

This is why Gaia has biker friends.

As her neighbor we would learn quickly. Throw garbage onto her front lawn and we’d get a visit, perhaps get roughed up a bit on Sunday as a distraction while the meat was cooking.

Drop an oil well in Gaia’s TV room or cut away a bit of her rockery for a better view of the city, and wham! The bikers would bring out the artillery, because they will do anything to protect the woman who feeds them, listens to their little ego stories, patches up their wounds. That’s what friendship is, and that is why you often see such mismatched people enjoying each other’s company.

If Gaia was a woman with biker friends we would understand the chain of consequences associated with bullying her because we feel superior.

In truth, Gaia is an insignificantly sized blue ball at the forgotten end of a galaxy arm which jostles for space among untold millions of other orbiting masses - putting a whole new meaning on the term cyber bullying.

And the Earth does have biker friends ...

LaSalle Park Burlington

Swans at LaSalle Marina.
Copyright Heather Vallance 2011.

LaSalle Park is about family. On a warm day the lawns are cluttered with tumbling children, wedding parties and dogs which make me think of Jacquie Lawson cards.

I dream of quietude, and for those like me there is a path which winds between the trees and down to the lake. There is a camaraderie among those who choose this path, who share the silent passing of strangers or the conversation of like minds.

A recent windstorm toppled several venerable guardians of the lake, creating new vantage points for the chipmunks who extract a levy in seeds from walkers. Not all trespassers pay the levy, leaving the chipmunks in a state of utter disbelief as they anxiously scurry to new positions on the trunks just in case they were unobserved.

The path curves down to the lake and follows the shoreline. This is the home of yet more chipmunks - and squirrels. The usually robust squirrels seem to be suffering from mange this year. Things breed in the excess damp, and we’ve had damp.

The shore is a combination of mottled green marsh and beach where waves lap against the shale on which ducks and gulls rest. The sound of the water is like enforced meditation. Walkers stop, not because they plan to, but because they have to.

The marina comes into view with its rows of boats and collection of people, but the path holds one final surprise. It does not stop at the marina. The path continues across the road, down an old pier line and into the bay. There is history here, and otters.

To go full circle and back to the car, walkers have to climb the hill to LaSalle Park, toward the wedding parties and splash pool, but even this journey holds one final secret - a memorial to an explorer who stood where once Lake Iroquois lapped, on land that was only a promise of the future.