Feedback

I am looking for the me that believes in the dissenting opinion, the me that loves feedback, the me that wants to improve, the me that can handle criticism.  That me is hiding somewhere, like my keys in the hidden recesses of my purse, under the wallet, the hair brush, the kleenex, the hand sanitizer, and the scarf.  I am wondering what compartment my me has drifted into.   Just as, when I rummage through my purse for my keys, I wonder why I didn’t put them in their signature niche,  now that I have lost my me, I am asking myself why I didn’t keep it tethered to its usual spot.

The me that’s used to having her work picked apart to make it better bolted when I opened the document my editor sent for revision.   That me left a bemused, forlorn stranger staring at a screen painted in the signature blue, red, and green boxes, lines, and fonts of Track Changes.     Overwhelmed, that stranger scanned the document to gauge the scope of the revision.  Her eyes widened and glazed over.  Her heartbeat accelerated, and her jaw dropped.  So much to do.  In so little time. No idea where to start.  No desire to start, either.  Enter the back burner.  I closed the document, and decided I could both feel sorry for myself and mull over a strategy while I  vacuumed.

I had to bribe myself back to the computer.  Come on, work for an hour, and put in a load of laundry; after another hour, read for half an hour on the deck.  Somehow, I had to make the task appear more manageable.  Usually, when there's work to be done and no creative idea to be found, I tackle the mundane, routine aspects of the task first.  After all, they have to be done anyway, and a blank mind doesn’t impede progress in that context.  The tough questions simmer; the chores get done.

I began, then, to clear away some detritus so I could see.  I accepted all the changes dealing with format and minor deletions.  That created more white space, and enlarged the comment boxes so they were easier to read.  On the first go-round, I could see that my editor has a keen eye, and a penchant for asking insightful questions.  She also uses neutral, professional language.  I just had to “put my courage to the sticking place,” in the words of Lady MacBeth, and get on with the job, one step at a time, like untangling a fine gold chain.  As I cajoled myself through the process,  I felt less threatened.  My equilibrium peeked around the corner, and crept back.  My strong me had returned like the prodigal son, and I could recognize myself again. 

If feedback on a simple editing job could unnerve me to that extent,  however, what  might I do in the face of comments with the potential to alter the course of my life?   Would I have the courage to see opportunity in honest feedback?   I thought of an article Rob Vanstone of the Leader Post had written about Riders special teams coordinator Bob Dyce a few weeks before.  Last year, Dyce was the Riders’ offensive co-ordinator.  During the off-season, however, as the team wanted to bring in George Cortez to work with the offence, head coach Corey Chamblin discussed with him a move to special teams.  Dyce put aside any negative feelings, and agreed to the move.   Attitude is the key, he says.  “You’ve got two choices. You can sit down and be upset and mad and sulk, or you can look at a new opportunity and grasp it and run with it, and that’s what I chose to do.’’  (Regina Leader Post, July 19)  Special teams have never been so special. Talk about a perspective to emulate.

In another football example, Brad Sinopli of the Calgary Stampeders also faced a momentous decision in his career.  Quarterback at the University of Ottawa, he joined the Stampeders in 2012 as a third-string quarterback.  He was released at training camp, and then rejoined the team three weeks later.  In that role, he dressed for nine games.  At that moment, head coach John Hufnagel presented him with a new scenario, too.  Sinopli could retrain as a receiver, or be released from the team.  We’re talking about the 2010 Hec Crighton Trophy winner as the most outstanding player in Canadian Interuniversity Sport (CIS) football. Sinopli had to decide what was more important to him—pursuing his dream of being a quarterback, or playing professional football, no matter the role. 

In the end, Sinopli decided that playing receiver was a new opportunity, and he might as well take advantage of it.  “For me, that’s in the past now,” he said,  in an interview with Vicki Hall of the Calgary Herald (July 13). “This is where I am now playing receiver. I mean, I can sit back and look and dwell on, ‘well, I’m not a quarterback’ and all that stuff. But that’s not the case. I’m playing receiver.”  Sinopli chose to see the recommendation to play receiver not as a criticism of his quarterbacking talent, but as an insight into his ability from someone who interpreted his skill set in a novel way.  In the July 12 game against Montreal, Sinopli made a highlight reel catch the nation is still talking about.

Both Dyce and Sinopli had the courage to step back, and to focus on opportunity rather than criticism.   The result has been personal and professional development for each inividual, and a winning record for the team.    These two athletes inspire me.  They remind me of the strength and equanimity necessary to listen to someone’s comments about a process and/or a product in which you are very invested, detach yourself, and search for the elements that will improve your performance.  If I don’t want to lose my me the next time a revised copy from an editor shows up in my inbox,  I can apply strategies that crystallized from this experience:   smile, clear some space so I can see what needs to be done, and scrutinize the comments for pearls of opportunity from which to grow.

Celebration

Wednesday, July 10

“I’ll clean up, if you have things you want to finish up out here,” I say to Elmer, who is mopping up the last bites of the steak I barbecued for supper.  “I wouldn’t mind a hand bringing things back into the house, though.” 

“Sure, I’d appreciate that,” he comments, relief etched on his face, like I’ve thrown him a lifeline.

Elmer’s intensity around the yard exceeds even his usual passion.  What gives? True, Dominique, her boyfriend, Andy, and Julian are coming home for the weekend, but so what?  The yard looks fine the way it is.  Yes, the shed would look better with a new coat of paint, but no matter if that’s not done today.  Or even this summer.  We can mark my birthday anway.

Somehow, though, it does seem to matter.  By 9:00 p.m., he is still out there.  What is going on?  Absorbed in the meal plan for the weekend, and the attendant shopping list, I dismiss the thought.  Lots to do—it’s already Wednesday.

Thursday, July 11

Best to get moving.  I text Dominique to check on arrival time.  Saturday morning, it seems.  “ Glad to know,” I message back. “Helps with organizing the days.”

A few minutes, later, my phone buzzes. “Hi, speaking of organizing, don’t plan any meals from supper on Saturday on, we have it taken care of.”  Wow.  Amazing.  But odd.  Could it be that . . .

Another buzz.  “As I think you’ve already guessed, we’re planning on having some family and a few neighbors over Sunday for supper to celebrate. ”  I am incredulous.  That explains the yard frenzy.  Okay.  Good thing the bedrooms are ready at least.  It would be a good idea to go through the bathrooms, vacuum, dust off a few cobwebs, too.

“The kids might enjoy cinnamon rolls,” Elmer suggests later, as I run over the meal plan with him, to placate me and keep me busy, I suspect.   ”But don’t make anything else.  Oh, and Daniel is coming on Friday.”  Daniel is coming from Calgary?  I am overjoyed.  Haven’t seen him since February.  The pieces are starting to fit together.  Elmer has planned a celebration.  Given that he lives by the philosphy that More is more,  I am afraid to contemplate the scale of the proceedings.   “No more questions,” he admonishes.  I consider myself told. 

What to do except go with the flow?  Seems like I will be informed on a need-to-know basis.  Letting go will be hard for me, though.  Whenever we have a backyard party, I am  the one organizing the food and the guest list.  Still, I want to behave well to honor all the preparations my family seems to have in place.  And so it begins, I see, the graceful release of control, and the responsibility to make things easy for my family.

Saturday, July 13

The children have arrived; my meagre food contribution awaits in the freezer; the house is as clean as it ever gets.   I have nothing to do.  Unprecedented.  People are coming over tomorrow, and I am visiting, like the party’s already started.  I guess it has.

After supper at the Waverley Hotel, we head to Rainbow Hall where Elmer’s band, Country Sunshine, is playing at a dance.  My sister and her husband are to join us.  When I see my nephew and his aunt there as well, the scope of the gathering the family has planned overwhelms me.

Sunday, July 14

Indeed, Sunday morning, the view of the back yard confirms my premonitions.  The yard has sprouted two extra patio tables, and chairs bloom under the trees like replicated beanstalks.  Behind the planter in the middle of the yard, Elmer has hidden an emergency stash of chairs.  The neighbors’ yards must be empty!  At the back of the yard, in front of the fence, he has erected a gazebo that protects speakers, a mike stand, and some instruments.  Julian is testing a microphone.  We will have live music, too.  I can’t imagine how long my dear ones have been planning this celebration.

At three o’clock, the guests  begin to arrive.  The guest list goes way beyond family and neighbors.  Friends from disparate avenues of my life have driven several hours to be here.  Oh, my.  My niece has come, my birthday twin, with her son.  Other nephews and nieces have brought their families.  I am wondering how I will manage  to visit with everyone to honor the compliment they have paid me by coming so far.  Daniel frames the gathering so people will know what is happening.  Appetizers appear, and, later, a catered meal.  Now I understand why Elmer dissuaded me from preparing pulled pork.  I try to eek out a few moments just to watch, to admire the accomplishment I see in my children.   As they insert sixty tall candles on the birthday cake, and distribute three butane lighters, I realize they have filed away the lessons from the near conflagration some twenty years earlier, when I lit eighty candles on my father’s birthday cake.

My heavens, there’s a program.  My sister and her husband sing a song they have written.  The kids involve the guests in a trivia game.  They know me so well:  my passion for the Riders, my love of the novel Pride and Prejudice, my obsession with correct grammar, my tastes in film, my signature teaching strategies.  Kaylie and her father sing a few songs.  Then the band starts up with polkas, waltzes, and Latin-American tunes:  Elmer on accordion, Julian on trumpet, Daniel on bass guitar, nephew Corey on bongos, celebrated musician and lifetime friend, Len Gadica, on accordion.  Connie, Joanne, and Dianne, our very own “Supremes,”  add vocals.  People polka and jive on the deck and on the grass.  Janet volunteers to be the official photographer of Yvette’s 60th birthday party.  The fun continues late into the night.  No one up the street or across the back lane complains.

 

Monday, July 15

I am so grateful for this celebration, whose intrinsic value supersedes the individual.   My decade birthday was just the catalyst.  The gathering brought all these people together for a joyous occasion.  It created the conditions for relationships to be renewed or forged: between a great-aunt and great-uncle and the next generation; between friends of mine who had never before met; between our children and the neighbors who watched them grow up and whom they don’t see very often any more; between our children and friends of ours whom they had never met, but who know them from conversations and the New Year letters; between former neighbors who have moved away and those of us still on the block.  The celebration was a reminder to create occasions to mark the milestones in our lives.

Today, on my actual birthday, we celebrate another milestone, a funeral.  Elmer’s cousin passed away on July 8, and was buried this day, July 15, his birthday,  too.  He had always tracked the Beutel Family July 15 Birthday Club, which included him, my niece, myself, and another cousin’s husband.  How serendipitous that he would be buried on that day as well.  This is the second time I have attended a funeral on my birthday, both in the Beutel family.  Really, we don’t want a July 15 Funeral Club.

The juxtaposition of two remarkable celebrations, both surprises for the guests of honor, underlines for me the role of celebration in our lives.  At a significant moment, a heterogeneous group of people comes together to commemorate a memorable event in the life of someone to whom all present are somehow connected.  Whether the celebration highlights a particular highlight in life or brings closure to the entire journey, it allows for introspection, fun, reflection, relationship, and respect.  It happens thanks to the hard work and generosity of many people.   Most important, it brings out the best in people, and allows them to integrate into their own lives the rich fruits of the experience.

Sixty

Today is my sixtieth birthday.  6-0. 

None of my other decade birthdays bothered me in the least.  I sailed through each one looking forward to the joys and challenges of the years ahead.  There’s something about 60, though, that does give pause.

Maybe it’s because I have had a front-row seat at the aging drama.  My parents lived with us for eighteen years, ten part-time and eight full-time.  I know all too well what’s ahead .  I know that I will have to reinvent myself more times in the next part of my life, however long that may be, than in the six decades I have already lived, just when reimagining one’s life is the most difficult.  I know all about closing the family home, failing strength, losing dear friends and family, negotiating independence, down-sizing, hearing loss, dementia. 

But, thanks to my parents,  I also know about sustained curiosity, unflinching determination, indomitable will, astounding resilience, unconditional love, and a prevailing interest in life and people.  Voilà my focus.  As for the inherent challenges down the road, we’ll eat that elephant one bite at a time.

I understand as well that the gap between my chronological age and my own perceived age will continue to widen.  When I sip my soup from the bowl, or suction up the last bit of my iced-cap, I am twelve.  When I reach for the knit dress on the rack, I figure I’m forty.  As I continue to collect professional books and read articles on pedagogy, then plan how I can apply what I’ve learned to the classroom, I am fifty.  My mother never reached 92 in her head, and my father embraced the world past his 100th birthday.  That’s probably why they made it to those impressive milestones.  Age, after all, is a state of mind.

However, the clock does not lie.  I  was born in 1953, so I must be 60.  There are other reasons.

I must be sixty because:

· I no longer start planning lessons, grading papers, or reading for feedback at 9:30 p.m.

· I don’t spend weekends at school;

· most of the time, the dining room table doesn’t have leaves;

· there’s lots of room in the fridge;

· I can travel in the low season;

· I read for fun;

· I write for fun;

· I say good-bye a lot, and I go to a lot of funerals;

· I have to drive to see my children;

· I get to let go and let my children;

· My parents, who were 42 and 36 when I was born, have both passed away;

· My oldest child is 32 and a half years old;

· I try new recipes;

· I remember the Canadian flag debate;

· I attended mass in Latin;

· I remember the actual historical events depicted in films:  Apollo 13, Argot, Thirteen Days, JFK, Bobby, Iron Lady, Shake Hands With the Devil, to name a few.

Here come the 60’s. Bring them on!  Each decade of my life has been better than the preceding one, and I am excited to explore what this new decade will bring, as well as what it might exact.  I embrace the adventure.

Mistakes

 I often multi-task while I bake.  Yesterday morning, I twinned rustling up two dozen cinnamon rolls with the prosecution rebuttal in the George Zimmerman trial.  I’m more comfortable with cinnamon rolls lately, especially since switching to a recipe from Anna Olson.  The process is quick, reliable, and foolproof, when you are not multi-tasking.

As I work, my inner voice reminds me to double all the quantities.  No problem, I’m used to that.  Except that today, prosecutor Bernie de la Rianda’s closing arguments keep me glued to the TV.  I am assembling the ingredients during the commercials.  So, I measure up the sugar, the milk, and the yeast; I drop in the eggs, add the butter, and then the flour.  As the instructions suggest, I turn up my Bosch, fitted with the dough hook, on the lowest speed, to mix the ingredients.  The dough looks funny though.  I see wads of butter that I don’t remember from last time.  Oops!  I was supposed to melt the butter.  Oh, well.  Now, I start kneading.  I’m still not happy with the dough.  It looks dry, and it doesn’t glisten like usual.  Nevertheless, I swirl it around my oiled bowl, and set it to rise.  Even the prosecutor’s compelling arguments, however, don’t dissipate the malaise.  Something is not right.

I look over the list of ingredients again.  Salt.  I forgot the salt.  All cooking is a chemical reaction, some reactions more critical than others.  Bread is one of those finicky processes.  No salt.  No reaction.  Will the bread rise?  Well, maybe not—I also forgot to double the yeast!  Nothing to do now but start over.

I have struggled with error all my life.  I was raised to operate by the book. When my father made a mistake, especially during one of his carpentry projects, he berated himself for minutes on end.  If he cut a board too long, or worse, too short, the man who prided himself on his language indulged in a riff of colourful expletives.   The subtext for me was that capable people do not make mistakes. 

As a pianist, the spectre of error coloured my process and my performance.  In an effort to eliminate errors, I drilled on scales to develop finger facility.  I also practiced slowly.  These strategies helped.  However, no matter what I did, errors would creep in.  Sometimes, a finger would slip for no reason, especially on an unfamiliar instrument.  When I was playing in a group, listening to the drummer, the organist, the trumpet player, and the other singers, and singing a harmony part as well, I was particularly vulnerable.  The fear of error made me nervous, and being nervous increased the possibility of error.  It was a vicious circle.

Then, by chance, I heard pianist Emanuel Ax express the same fears.  In an interview with Charlie Michener of the New York Observer in 2012,  Ax confessed,   “Today’s pianists have a terrible fear of wrong notes—myself included. A lot of it has to do with the recording business, which has created this mentality that everything has to be note-perfect. It makes me long for the days of Horowitz and Rubinstein, when pianists could perform with real freedom—and never mind a mistake or two!”   Michener also asked pianist Earl Wild about mistakes when, at age 90, Wild performed at Carnegie Hall.   “ ‘Are you afraid of wrong notes?’ ” [Wild] laughed. ‘No,’ he said, ‘because there’s nothing you can do about them.’ ”

Mistakes happen.  How best to handle them, then? As Justine Heinrichs says in A Passion to Teach,  “It is the response to mistakes and not the mistakes themselves that matter.”  I had to think about that.  Am I going to let the menace of error paralyze me, or am I going to reconcile myself to their presence, learn from them, and move on?  There doesn’t seem to be much of a choice.  So, whether I leave keys at home, mix up times, make custard with salt instead of sugar and borscht without beets, say things I regret, and regret things I don’t say, I am learning to forgive myself.  I do my best to prevent mistakes, but they will creep in despite my best efforts.    

But what about when mistakes have dire consequences?  If I am to be reconciled to my own mistakes, then I have to accept that others who impact my life are bound to make some, too, despite their best efforts.  It may be my doctor, or the pilot of an aircraft in which I am a passenger, the driver of an oncoming vehicle, a city worker, anyone.  A mistake could cost my own life, or the life of a loved one.  

The cinnamon buns are easily fixed.  Within ten minutes of the do-over, I have a glistening, smooth dough that is already rising in the bowl on the stove.   When I roll out the dough, later, I enjoy the soft, pudgy layer beneath my fingers.  I slather on the melted butter, sprinkle the sugar and cinnamon mixture, then turn the edges over to begin rolling.  As I place the individual pinwheels in the goo for baking, I anticipate the delight they will bring at breakfast tomorrow. 

Not so with train derailments or aircraft crashes.  The cause of my mistake was distraction, combined with some arrogance that I didn’t have to concentrate so hard, since I had made these buns before.   I file that away where my inner voice can access it for next time.  With that reminder to concentrate and double check what I do, I won’t be responsible for neglect.  At the same time, when I do mess up, I have to forgive myself, and hope the damage won’t impact anyone else.  Why do I feel like Nik Wallenda walking across the Grand Canyon on a cable?

To read Charlie Michener’s complete column, see

Pianists Abroad and At Home: Alone with the Black Beast

Riders

A lull has settled over our son and daughter-in-law’s home in Calgary on November 7, 2009.   Everyone is resting.  After Daniel’s signature spicy skillet and a few hours of Saturday shopping, it’s time for some fortifying shut-eye before a much anticipated late supper at The Garlic Clove.

I won’t be sleeping, though.  I pick up my novel, and read a few pages.  Not the author’s fault I can’t concentrate.  All I can think of is the game.  Not just any game.  The Saskatchewan Roughriders are playing the Calgary Stampeders for first place in the Western Division of the CFL.  They should be in the second quarter by now.

To this point, I am quite proud of myself.  I’ve managed to carry on a rather lucid conversation.  I haven’t mentioned the game at all, given that I am the lone football fan in the household.  My husband never watches sports, and my son has continued the family tradition, a trait which his wife cherishes.  In a reversal of roles, I am the football fanatic in the family.  In fact, I had no intention of even mentioning the game.  After all, I can watch football any time, but I don’t often have the opportunity to visit with my adult children who live in adjacent provinces.  I had steeled myself before the trip; I am prepared to forego the telecast, and read all about the game in the morning.  I had "conditioned my mind," as my father would say.

Now, however, it’s quiet in the house.  I am the only one downstairs.   Would it be so bad if I stole a few surreptitious glimpses of the game while they are resting?   I move from the sofa to the TV stand, looking about for any sign of life.  Still quiet.  Why do I feel so guilty, as if I am checking my email or texting during a conversation.  Now, this could get complicated.  I see three remotes, a DVD player, and a few other black boxes I can’t identify.  I match up the remote brand to the TV, and find the volume button.  That way, as soon as I press Power, I can lower the volume so I don’t get caught.  I hear the click and whoosh of the TV powering up.  Bingo.  Now, I scroll through the listings to find TSN.  Eureka—I have the game.  The challenge now will be to cheer or wail on mute.

Twenty minutes into my viewing, Daniel comes downstairs.  A little abashed,  I fill him in on the critical nature of the game, to rationalize my  actions.  He settles on the sofa beside me to watch, and we chat as ball possession changes hand.  Things look good for the Riders, so far.  A few minutes later, his wife joins us.  She is shocked.  Daniel never watches sports. 

"Dan, are you watching sports?"

"It’s not sports." I interject.  "It’s the Riders."

I don’t watch sports, either.  But I am a Rider addict.  I love football.  This makes no sense because:

· I don’t watch any other sports;

· I despise violence;

· I even stopped watching hockey because of the fighting;

· I can’t imagine the immediate and latent damage of the hits on those bodies;

· I don’t even watch NFL football.  The game is too easy—four downs and a narrower field, come on.

· I think professional athletes receive obscene salaries.  CFL players are a curious exception to this rule—they play for the love of the game, not for the millions.

In the hierarchy of Rider fans, I rank somewhere near the bottom, a rung above the fair-weather fans who abandon ship when the going gets tough.  After all,

· I don’t often make it to a game (I can’t use the three-hour return road trip as an excuse—Rider fans drive three times as far for games without batting an eye);

· I have never donned a watermelon helmet;

· I don’t paint my face or dye my hair green for games;

· I have never met any of the players;

· I rarely tweet or comment on the Rider Facebook page.

However, I am known to :

· schedule cooking or computer work to coincide with football games so I can watch and work at the same time;

· cheer madly;

· track player and coach interviews;

· watch the highlights (sometimes several times);

· read and view all the TSN articles, blogs,  and clips;

· monitor the statistics sheets;

· scour the Leader Post blogs and articles;

· transfer from TV to radio to listen to the post-mortem of the game, The Point After. on CJGX;

· follow the 7 other teams as well.

So, what’s so fascinating about football?  For me, it is often a metaphor for life.  Cases in point:

· There is strength in numbers.  A small province like Saskatchewan, with a population of just over a million people, can support a thriving professional football franchise because the entire province bleeds green (see nine-hour road trips, above).  The spirit of Rider Nation makes it happen. 

· Former Rider coach Ken Miller’s mantra:  Be where you’re supposed to be when you’re supposed to be there, and do what you’re supposed to do when you’re there.  Really useful in the classroom, too.

· Axiom: The best quality in a quarterback is a short memory.  When something goes wrong, forget about it, and don’t let  it contaminate the next play.

· Heart, effort, and discipline trump talent.

· Play the entire 60 minutes.  Stay focused, play hard the whole way.   The great  job you did in the first half can be erased in three minutes or less.

· Hubris lives.  If you succomb to arrogance, it will come back to bite you.

· Use your notoriety to be an exemplary role model, and give back to your community.  Thank you, Riders, for your generosity.

My football addiction has paid unexpected dividends, as well.

· It’s a great conversation starter, especially because somehow people are surprised to learn I know a lot about football. 

· I have used the Riders and their current status in more than one classroom lesson and teacher workshop introduction.

· Decades ago, I recognized a parent coming in for his son’s kindergarten parent-teacher conference as a former Rider.   When I  asked him if he had played in the playoff game when Ed McQuarters returned a fumble for a touchdown in the dying minutes,  he stared at me for a few seconds, and then slowly nodded.  The interview went well.

We did make it to The Garlic Clove for a wonderful dinner, those four years ago, on the heels of a Rider victory.  As the Riders sit 2-0 today, after a very impressive win over Calgary on Saturday, I have every intention of feeding my CFL and Rider addiction.  I live in Rider Nation, after all.

Canada

Let’s pretend that it’s Canada Day.  I was proactive, and weeks earlier, I began to draft the text which would become this post.  In part, that is true.  Believe it or not, on May 25, I scrawled 'Blog Post for Canada Day' atop a fresh notebook page, along with a few ideas that might be relevant.  I have even added to it since then.   My intention was to return to it closer to the day.   Well, it’s closer to the day, isn’t it?

I won the lottery almost sixty years ago.  I was born in Canada. 

To live in Canada means 

· to have confidence in safety;

· to have access to universal health care regardless of financial status;

· to be part of a culture of caring and generosity whose images are always before us:  in the Albertans who opened their homes to 75 000 neighbors displaced in the flooding,  leaving only 1 500 Calgarians needing shelters (although the city had provided for 2 500 places);  in the millions of dollars Saskatchewan people raise each year for Kinsmen Telemiracle, $5 546 712 in 2013, to support fellow citizens who need special needs equipment or medical treatment;

· to have access to a public education system of the highest quality;

· to be able to speak my language(s) and practice my religion without fear of reprisal;

· to have potable water;

· to breathe reasonably fresh air;

· to live and work alongside people who arrive from other countries, and who contribute a strong work ethic and a desire to succeed;

· to rejoice that people arriving in this country can preserve their own identity while integrating themselves into the mores of their new land;

· to know that a parliamentary system of government means we can change our leaders without massive demonstrations leading to an army coup;

·  to be part of a grand experiment, largely successful, where people of diverse backgrounds and religions can live together in peace and prosper (as John Ralston Saul says in the work cited below, We have learned to accept that people are capable of sorting out how to be more than one thing at once, knowing that their children will be yet another mixture or blend.  People are capable of staying the same and changing at the same time (p. 145));

· to seek mediation and negotiation to settle conflict, rather than violence;

·  to be vulnerable to our freedoms being used by some to plot destruction in the name of radical causes;

· to live with some black marks:   the mistreatment of the First Nations people; the internment of Ukrainian Canadians  during World War I, and Japanese Canadians during World War II;  a disappointing record in the protection of the natural environment.

Until a few years ago, I really didn’t understand how it is that Canada became a nation of negotiators, or what besides survival in a forbidding natural environment could inculcate in people such a profound sense of community.  Then, I read John Ralston Saul’s A Fair Country:  Telling Truths About Canada.  

Saul maintains that 'we are a métis civilization.'  Indeed, this description would characterize our future as much as our past, I think, as ethnicities mix, cultures combine, and we become more and more a hybrid society.  However, Saul traces the origins of our defining characteristics—inclusion and mediation—to our aboriginal roots.  His is a gripping account of the interactions between the First Nations and the Europeans in the sixteenth centuries, and of the repercussions of those interactions throughout the evolution of Canada to the present day.  To summarize what I have learned would be an injustice to the careful scaffolding of complex ideas and the powerful narrative of Saul’s book.  It’s best if you read it for yourselves.  The book will change you, as it did me.  Once you begin,  you will be captivated, incapable of putting it down until you finish, like your favorite mystery novel.

Allow me to whet your appetites, however, with a few nuggets:

o       The newcomers did not discover the interior of Canada.  They were shown it, thanks to alliances, treaties and commercial agreements.  And most of it was shown to them by canoe.  Writer John Jennings has demonstrated that Canada is the only country invested in by the Europeans in which the local means of transport and much of the way of life was maintained.  Everywhere else the Europeans introduced their own boats, carriages or horses. . . . Why?  Because the First Nations had developed the appropriate means of transport for our road system, that is, our rivers and lakes. (p. 38)

o       the metaphor of the common bowl:  The idea of both [the Great Peace of Montreal (1701) and Sir William Johnston’s gathering of two thousand chiefs at Niagara in 1764] was to establish a continuous equilibrium, shared interests and shared welfare.  The phrase in the Great Peace was that they would all ‘Eat from a Common Bowl.’  Which is to say that relationships were about looking after one another.  This is the shared foundation for equalization payments and single-tier health care and public education. (p. 69)

o       The oscillation between ‘Peace, Welfare and Good Government,’ and 'Peace, Order, and Good Government’ in our official documents:  Through all of our history, through all of our legal and constitutional documents, all of the precedent-setting declarations, the phrase Peace, Order and Good Government has been used only twice.  The rest of the time, from official documents to proto-constitutions to political instructions, the phrase was fundamentally different—Peace, Welfare and Good Government.'  (p. 114, and following, for the story of why Peace, Order and Good Government prevailed.)

o       Canada was the first colony in any empire to extract full democracy from the central power without having to go to war.  I think of this as an early illustration of the manipulative skills and patient toughness needed to accomplish what we would come to think of as the middle way. (p. 152)

My interaction with these ideas and the entire story in which Saul engages the reader in A Fair Country has infused Canada Day not only with a deep sense of connection to our rich history, but also with a recognition of my own unique identity as a Canadian.

Nostalgia

The drive to the treed oasis of St. Victor, nestled in the hills south of Assiniboia, could be just another visit.  Bromegrass and foxtail encroach on the  narrow, oiled road.  The mustard yellow canola complements the bright blue summer sky, and acres of wheat stretch to the horizon.  Angus cattle still dot the pastures.   From the hilltop turn that leads into valley, I notice the grid road to the petroglyphs park and the land my father farmed cutting through the hills in the distance.    The St. Victor: Le beau village sign just past the clay hills still welcomes us as we round the curve into town.  Surely my parents will be sitting around the kitchen table awaiting our arrival, the coffee on, the beer cold, the wine cabinet well-stocked, treats ready for the kids.

This time is different, though.  Our destination today is the cemetery where my parents rest.    Waiting for my sister and her husband to arrive, Elmer and I first inch down main street.  The Post Office/Library has been moved.   I notice an attractive addition on one home.  The stone fence around the former insurance building is still there.  Our old house at the intersection of main street and the only avenue looks much the same as it did when I was a child, except for the French doors that have replaced the kitchen window.  I try to reintegrate myself in this context.  I can barely recognize the young girl who

learned to ride her two-wheeler beside the house on the only side street in town,

played the organ in the church just up ahead,

tobogganed down the hill at the intersection at the base of the hill,

climbed the trees and played Prisoners’ Base in the swimming pool yard,

performed plays on the house steps,

took the school bus every morning in front of the grocery store,

learned to swim at Jubilee Beach,

smelled the lilacs hanging over the fence from the rectory yard,

threw up on the sidewalk on the way to her first piano recital,

addressed the neighbors in French on the street.

Yet that girl has become the woman who unlatches the cemetery gate.   It’s peaceful here.  I see only a woman in a broad-brimmed hat and Bermuda shorts tending her massive garden.  The high grass scratches my legs as I acknowledge the graves of my uncle and aunt and continue to my parents’ spot, adjacent to that of my stilborn older brother.     Au service d’autrui, we had inscribed on their tombstone, centered under Papa’s carved wheatsheaf and Maman’s engraved roses.  In the service of others, they always were, first of their families, each other and their children, then of their community.  Papa supported his parents on the farm, grew wheat that fed the world, transformed the sweat of his brow into books and music for us and appliances that would make Maman’s life easier.  It is a much richer alchemy than that of base metal into gold.  I remember photographs of the  graduation dresses and wedding gowns Maman created for her sisters, of the wedding dress she sewed for me, and the masterpiece our daughter wore for her confirmation (right, front and back views).  Transfixed at their resting place, I think of the community hall a hop-skip from here that arose out of my father’s vision, determination, and ability to inspire people through his own hard work.  I see the posters, wedding decorations, and costumes my mother crafted from recycled materials before it was fashionable.

 My sister, her husband, and my niece park beside us.  We have made the six hour round trip to honor Maman and Papa,  our first visit in two years, since the summer we buried my father, his sister, and his brother.   Dianne places red roses on their grave and our brother’s, a small remembrance of our time here this day.  We pause in silent gratitude.  Then, we wander on, to pay our respects to our uncle and our cousin, and to the people who kept this town alive in its zenith, our parents’ contemporaries.  We recall a young victim of Hodgkin’s Disease now in the company of his parents.   We talk about a neighbor’s battle with breast cancer.  The town of our childhood is here, now. 

I realize that I needed this reminder of where I come from, of the good people I knew growing up.  I needed the reminder of my parents’ core values.  Things are important only inasmuch as they help people to grow.  Invest in people.   

We stretch out our departure, loathe to leave, but without any reason to prolong our stay.  My sister and her family head to the petroglyphs.  We postpone that visit for another day.  We have an important stop on the way home, another connection with family.  My father would be pleased.