What’s To Fear,Trump Or His “Base?”

It’s some years now since I read modern versions of what hell must be like. They replaced burning coals and fiery furnaces with compulsory viewing of day time television. After only seven days confined to sick bay, I can now confirm that terrifying picture of being locked forever in room and forced to watch the daytime tube.

In fairness to other countries, I should add my judgment is based on American television in general and CNN “the most trusted name in news” in particular. I hastily note “most trusted” is their judgment, not mine.

There was a time when I could have believed the claim; a time when I looked to CNN to take me to the far corners of the world to tell me in a balanced voice what was going on. But then came Trump, bellicose Donald the clown, whom CNN believed might prove some light entertainment during a presidential election campaign and then vanish in flash of redneck rhetoric on voting day.

The loudmouthed Trump crisscrossed the United States shouting a never-ending litany of corruption charges against everyone not wearing a Trump button. His early rivals were long-time Republicans and the Party struggled to decide which member it would bless as its presidential standard bearer. They laughed at Trump’s wildness, shuddered over his coarse language and hints of racism – until they were overwhelmed by the rookie slogan slinger.

When the votes were counted in the presidential election Trump trailed in the popular vote by close to three million, but won the all-important Electoral College vote and the presidency. And the Republican establishment, which had tried to keep at arm’s length during the campaign, suddenly became Trump lovers and defenders.

The rest of the USA went into shock and CNN girded its loins to do battle to save democracy, with Wolf Blitzer’s Situation Room front and centre. It was staffed with well-groomed male and female reporters or commentators whose sole duty appeared to be to praise the work of other journalists, especially those revealing another Trump unreality outburst.

It has not gone unnoticed that CNN rarely breaks hard news stories. Instead it brings viewers the latest revelations of miscues, false boasts or just plain blather as reported in The Washington Post, the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal or any other news outlet living up to old standards of journalism.

CNN assembled teams and then set out to prove what Trump had reportedly said was “offensive” or “insulting” to all Americans; would be “rejected” by all Americans; and would leave the collective nation bowing its head in shame. And, it would cause the Republican Party untold grief as its established Congressmen and Senators tried to explain away the latest Trump diatribe against third world nations.

As I watched “the most trusted name in news” try to assemble a “sky is falling” scenario, one calm voice drew attention. Jeffrey Toobin – writer for The New Yorker, lawyer, political analyst – was part of Blitzer’s panel but was being interviewed via remote connections. He quietly reminded Wolf that not all Americans will be appalled by Trumps latest scurrilous remarks on poorer world countries. He suggested they remember Trump’s base voters listened to similar or worse comments throughout the presidential campaign, supported him then and still support him now.

Blitzer seemed a little startled by Toobin’s reminder that there are millions of Americans who love Trump’s wild promises, his riches, his life style, his racist comments, his half-assed praise for the KKK, his thinly veiled contempt for non-whites. Toobin said he doesn’t think Trump’s latest derogatory remarks about less than rich nations “will cause him a lot of grief.”

Blitzer wondered out loud “are we blowing this out of proportion?” but only briefly. Being too fascinated to change channels, I continue to watch as Blitzer departs and Erin Burnett enters. Burnett is a beautiful virago with a great voice often ruined by staccato delivery, known to have a sharp mind and tongue and to not take challenge lightly.

She promises to bring me up to date on reaction to the Donald’s latest trumpeting. She doesn’t. Different panel of talking heads, different voices. Same theme, same phrases. Same ever wider publicity for the man who thrives on it and his 35-40 per cent “base” of voters who think the latest critical twist of their slogan from “Make America Great Again” to “make America white again” is a good idea.

And that is more scary than President Trump at his careless, unthinking worst.

Birthday Bust But Friendship Triumph

Well, I didn’t exactly finish the run for my 94th birthday finish line with a blazing burst of speed.I broke the tape stumbling forward with a headache from hell, a nose gushing to shame Niagara, rapid fire sneezing and a cough to rattle the walls of the Berwick Royal Oak Retirement Community.

Well trained by a paramedic son in what to do when contagious head colds strike overnight, I retired from the track, locked the stable door and settled in isolation to battle the unwelcome birthday burden with old world remedies – plus a few recommended by modern non-medics. It took six days and a diet of prescription drugs, endless bowls of chicken soup, cups of Bovril and a steady supply of hot meals to my door to bring the unwelcome bugs under control.

It was not a battle fought alone – although in typical male self-pity, on day one I was whimpering this would be the first personal sickness scrap I had ever fought alone. Over the past 9.4 decades there had always been a mother, wife, lover or close friend to supply the edible and mental nourishment required by the stricken.

My fears, for that is what they were – fears this was going to be a lonely fight – were quickly dispelled. On December 27 my mailbox was filled to overflowing with greetings from old friends and colleagues, many now scattered around the world and busy with their own lives but not too busy to remember me. It was quite a lift to the spirit.

Even greater were the phone calls from other residents in this “retirement community” who had noticed me missing from meals or my regular table in the Café where coffee and a read of morning newspapers has become a familiar routine. They wanted to know if I had everything required, and one most gracious lady politely listed half a dozen items missing from my modest medical kit. “I’ll leave them in bag on your room door,” she said, “with copies of the morning newspapers.” I asked for a bill. “No bill,” she said, “it’s just something we do for each other.”

Male “neighbours” were equally kind and focused on my needs. First words over the phone were “Hear you’re under the weather; how’s your supply of single malt?” Practical like-mind friends with ancient remedies to kill or cure.

And then, the never to be forgotten phone calls from treasured friends fighting their own health battles, but caring enough to make a daily call “just to see if you are okay.” Family and friends touching base to reassure me as I stumble into 2018 and my 95th year that:

“When you walk through a storm,
Hold your head up high
And don’t be afraid of the dark.

“At the end of a storm
There’s a golden sky
And the sweet silver song of a lark
“Walk on through the wind
Walk on through the rain
Though your dreams be tossed and blown

“Walk on, walk on
With hope in your heart
And you’ll never walk alone, you’ll never walk alone.”

Saying THANK YOU MY FRIENDS is quite inadequate even in shouted capitals.

Opportunity Knocked But…..

It was mid-winter 1935 that I turned my back on the opportunity to become a great actor.I was just a few weeks away from being 12 when selected above all others to play John Peerybingle in The Cricket on the Hearth, the great Christmas story written by Charles Dickens – and for years far more popular and highly acclaimed than his Christmas Carol and the salvation of Ebenezer Scrooge.

Dickens, always prolific, wrote five Christmas stories: The Carol in 1843, The Chimes in ’44, The Cricket in ’45, The Battle of Life in ’46 and The Haunted Man in ’47. The Cricket was the best-selling of all five with early sales double those of the first two. Only the one appears to be remembered these days, and that courtesy of the brilliance of British film makers and actor Alastair Sim’s incredible Scrooge.

I was personally selected for my role by English teacher John Francis Bacon – better known to the student body as “Flitch” – a man of obvious perception and, as his Christian names suggest, from a literature loving family. He was not, as some irreverent friends suggest when noting my advanced years, the original John Francis Bacon of the 1500s.

It was years before I learned why Mr. Bacon selected me from a throng of other dirty faced would-be Thespians. The script called for someone who could portray “a carrier, a lumbering, slow, honest man.” Courtesy of my grandfather’s training, I could harness a horse to a cart and could handle a pony and trap, so I qualified as a “carrier”. And, my mother always said of me, usually with a sigh: “He’s a good lad, but clumsy” which I suppose is a mother’s way of saying I “lumbered.” As for “slow”, well, chores certainly had a braking effect on me although I was pretty fast when it came to games and pleasure. And I was honest – except for apples swiped from the Vicar’s orchard, which we called “scrumping” because we knew stealing was dishonest; and the occasional cigarette lifted from my Uncle George’s open pack for smoking in the dark of a Saturday afternoon movie. I can’t remember how I justified snitching an uncle’s “fags” but I’m sure my 11-year-old reasoning was sound.

Anyway, there I was; John Peerybingle type-cast perfectly and hoping that Marjorie Barnett would get the nod as Mary Peerybingle. She was a few months younger but that’s what the script called for – a “much younger woman” – for John’s wife. She, for reasons known only to Dickens, is referred to as “Dot” throughout the story and was suspected at one time of being over amorous with the lodger Edward Plummer.

I was rooting for Marjorie because she was extremely good looking – and her parents ran a pie and pastry shop on Abbey Street. What better dreams could an 11-year old have just before Christmas?

The plot of The Cricket was typical of Dickens. John and his young wife Mary (Dot) are supposed to be of modest means but have a live-in nursemaid for their baby. The nursemaid (a “great clumsy girl” is called for) has the gorgeous name of Tilly Slowboy. The nine-member cast is rounded out with an old toymaker, Caleb Plummer, who is bullied and treated with contempt by his employer (known only as Tackleton); Bertha Plummer, Caleb’s blind daughter; a friend of the family May Fielding and her irritating mother; and the lodger who at play’s end turns out to be Caleb’s son, long presumed lost or dead in South America.

Ah, and one other character, never seen but playing the title role – the Cricket. The Cricket chirps advice from the hearth and at one tearful point (there are many) assures John that Dot isn’t having it off with lodger Edward, who is really in love with May Fielding whom the evil Tackleton is determined to marry.

As in the Carol, Dickens uses dreams and disembodied voices to enhance his plot. I could hardly wait to see how John Francis let me handle Peerybingle “as he soberly and thoughtfully puffed at his old pipe, and as the Dutch clock ticked, and as the red fire gleamed, and as the Cricket chirped; that Genius of his Hearth and home (for such the Cricket was) came out, in fairy shape, into the room, and shaped many forms of Home about him….”

As in all Dicken’s stories, whatever the tragedy in the body of the tale, truth and justice eventually prevail. In The Cricket, Tackleton is turned from darkness to light by the Christmas spirit and graciously allows May to marry Edward; there’s a strong hint that Caleb’s blind daughter gets her sight back; and John and Dot, all suspicions allayed, rejoice in each other’s arms.

I was looking forward to that – but it never happened. At third rehearsal I was cut. Couldn’t remember my lines. John Francis said he was sorry and told me why I’d been hand-picked for the role. “I had hoped,” he said “you would be as good in the role as your brother Tom who was so wonderful as Peerybingle three years ago.” Upstaged by my big and talented brother.

And that’s how stage and screen lost a star extinguished before his first strut on Manor Park School stage. But there it was. Opportunity knocked and I didn’t – couldn’t – open the door. But as another Christmas season slides into the past and another New Year pops up on the calendar, I can still gaze into a glowing fire and listen for a Cricket on the Hearth to tell me what might have been – and maybe what happened to Marjorie Barnett whom I coveted almost, but not quite as much as, her parents’ jam tarts and mince pies.

(And thank you to the many friends and readers who remembered my 94th birthday and wished me well. May you all have a Peerybingle future.)

An Old Fowl Makes Great Chicken Stew

There were a few white Christmases when I was growing up in England’s industrial Midlands, but not many. For the most part Christmas weather was chimney-smoke dreary, wet, and cold.

But that was just the weather, not the spirit of the times.

By today’s standards we didn’t have much to be happy about, but happy we were. Even with a father out of work in the great depression of the 1920s, and a mother trying to raise four children while taking in other people’s laundry, or scrubbing other people’s kitchen floors to keep bread – and some joyous days, butter – on the table.

They were hard times for my parents, but I don’t remember them being hard, for we children. We were sometimes hungry, but never desperately so. There always seemed to be a slice of bread and “dripping” or, in rare moments of luxury, butter and jam. And on Christmas Day a wonderful feast of chicken stew with dumplings the fowl being supplied my grandfather who had a small holding three miles in the country. Astute cooks will know the difference between a chicken for roasting and a fowl past egg bearing age for stewing.Hungry children ask for seconds.

I have been trying to figure out what made Christmas on the edge of poverty so happy for our small family of five, before deaths and time scattered us to dust or faraway places. I have no desire to return to the sometimes-lean days of childhood, but I wouldn’t mind seeing restored some still well remembered things.

Like the Salvation Army Band playing Christmas carols on grimy, rain-wet, streets with crowds huddled under gas-lit street lamps to listen and sometimes join in. Only readers old enough to remember childhood before new-fangled electric radios piped Christmas music into every home will understand. Those were the days when the first carols were heard only a few days before Christmas; when a boy soprano could send O Holy Night echoing through the shadows of an old church’s vaulted ceiling like an angel singing; when most of us could sing along with the great choruses of Handel’s Messiah. And some of us still can.

Radio, and later television, relieved us of the thirst for street corner brass band Christmas music, or the walk to church on Christmas Eve for a feast of carols. Sure, we can still find carol services in local churches and cathedrals but they have, alas, had their beauty – and their inspiration – diluted by the tidal wave of Christmas musak pumped out by radio, television and the ubiquitous piped music of the mall. Christmas carols swamp us from early November, and long before Christmas week we become overwhelmed, senses deadened, to any message from old hymns composed to lift the human spirit. They have become homogenized background sounds, ignored and unheeded, by stressed shoppers trying to buy the Christmas spirit.

It would be wonderful to see a voluntary ban on Christmas music until, at the earliest, December 15. Merchants could keep their marketing strategies and push for ever-higher Christmas sales, but have the good grace to leave what remains of the spiritual side of Christmas to the churches. It would bring me joy to see more downtown, week-before-Christmas, Salvation Army Band street concerts.

One other thing merchants could contribute to recapture lost Christmas values would be restoration of the old “lay away” plan – the pay before you take delivery scheme – that saw even the poorest of families able to buy Christmas gifts and wake up on Boxing Day debt free.

When I was the youngest lad in the family I had to accompany my mother and sister to the street market every Saturday morning, dreading at every step that I would meet a derisive schoolmate. The most important stop was at “The Co-operative”, a department store where Co-op members were encouraged to start in January to “lay away” for next Christmas. Every Saturday mother would buy a stamp for her most carefully protected possession “the Co-op stamp book.” The money for her stamps came from the floors she scrubbed; and the sheets she washed, ironed, and folded immaculately.

Come Christmas week she would have enough stamp money laid away to provide every member of her family with a present – including a new clay pipe and a stick of evil smelling black tobacco for my dad. My first bike – a Raleigh three speed – when I was 14 must have cost her acres of scrubbed floors, and a multitude of crisp white sheets. But when I got it in 1937 with a “Merry Christmas/Happy Birthday” message, it was already paid for.

It was important to her – and to the merchants who served her – that there should always be enough money to pay the Christmas bills – before Christmas. Debt, both banks and merchants taught us back then, was bad.

I have given up on banks with their greedy credit card inducements to create ever higher “charge it” burdens, but I think merchants, with genuine Christmas good will, could lead us back to “lay away” debt free days. It would be a great Christmas gift to offer their customers. And if they gift-wrapped it with a promise of “no pablum caroling before December 15”, I would wish them all a PROSPEROUS AND VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS – and thanks for at least trying to create a debt free society.

(First published in 2004. Public – and government – personal debt continues to expand. My hopes remain firm, but alas, still only as a dream.)

The Stars At Night Are Big And Bright

It was cold as they crossed the fields. Hoar frost was sparkling on the grass in the small circles of light created by the several oil lamps carried by a group of men well muffled against a winter-night.
They didn’t have far to walk. Maybe 20 minutes from their lodgings in a once historic vicarage across the fields to Bockleton Manor. Readers who call England their “old country” and hail from Worcestershire or Herefordshire may recognize the name. It has been on record in one form or another since the Domesday Book was published in 1086.
The group of men now huddling through the cold and dark of a 1942 pre-Christmas night have little knowledge of the history. All they know is that the manor, now looming massive in the fragile light of moonrise, is a temporary “home” for children in care of the Birmingham Royal Institution for the Blind (BRIB). The children had been evacuated from bomb threatened Birmingham in the early months of WW2 with boys re-located in Kinlet Hall, Shropshire; the girls in Bockleton Manor or Court.
The motley group now knocking on the ancient front door is mixed bag of conscientious objectors, some religious, some political, agnostics and few atheists. Their bunkhouse at the old vicarage is operated by Quakers and they are on hand this evening to offer pre-Christmas entertainment for children and BRIB staff – and the Lord of the Manor and his family if they were in residence and cared to attend. Ushered into the entrance hall then led to the great hall where they were to perform, the nondescript group of a dozen or so was viewed with curiosity and a touch of quizzical amusement. The thoughts were unspoken but obvious: What on earth is this rag-tag-bob-tail crew going to do to pleasingly entertain a large group of blind children, their discerning teachers and a handful of upper-crust gentry?
They had no way of knowing that in what looked like a clean but disheveled gang of ditch diggers, crop-harvesters and general farm labourers were a concert pianist, two classical violinists, a former conductor of the Welsh Junior Symphony Orchestra, four magnificent voices from Welsh Chapel choirs – one bass, one baritone, two tenors, two cast members from the long running British vaudeville show The Fol-de-Rols, and a few writers
The ‘‘Fols” started as a seaside beach show in Scarborough, Yorkshire in 1911, and grew to become one of the most famous and best loved year-round touring shows in Britain until the 1970’s when changing times and tastes rang down its final curtain. It was once written of the Fols that their shows always “had an air of class about them” – and that is what the two former Fols were determined to deliver to this audience of blind children and their mentors.
Together with the musicians they had scripted a close to two-hour show featuring favourite songs old and new, piano and violin solos, classical and popular duets, skits with emphasis on loud slaps, bangs and shouts and terrible puns which brought laughter and cheers from the children – and groans from the adults. There were touches of Christmas throughout the concert, it being that time of the year, but it wasn’t overwhelming.
When the final chorus was sung and the cast had taken its bow, one of the blind school teachers said the children would like to say “thank you” by performing a song they had learned by heart and could sing without accompaniment.
The Great Hall seemed to pause in time. The girls grouped around their teacher waiting for their cue as we wondered what an all-girl choir of blind children, bright faced and best dressed, might sing. “Hark The Herald Angels Sing” seemed an appropriate guess.
We waited. Teacher gave them a note and in joyous voice, the girls of the Birmingham Royal Institution for the Blind sent the ancient walls of the manor echoing with the unexpected but then popular song “The stars at night are big and bright, deep in the heart of Texas” with the triumphal three hand claps that followed each short verse.
Seventy-five years later I can still recall the magical sound of that sheer, unexpected burst of joy, the answer of 50 or so blind children to adversity.
On the walk home, the hoar frost had thickened on the grass, the sky was clear, the moon bright enough to light our way without lanterns. And the talk was on the girls, some very young, some in their teens, who had chosen for their “thank you” an upbeat, happy song about big bright stars they had never seen and never would see.
As if on cue our group stopped and looked beyond the moonlight to the stars, then walked the rest of the way home in thoughtful silence. I know all this because I was there, a minor but privileged player, in a joyful Christmas story with a moral to be treasured and remembered.
And I hope, for all of you who read this piece, the next few days will lead you to a Christmas as bright and lasting as the stars.

Strait-laced Morality Or No Laces At All?

It was a few years ago that I first wrote about revered poet Lord Byron and wondered how he would make out reputation-wise in today’s world of confusion when moral and amoral standards are debated.
Byron was 36 when he died in Greece on April 19, 1824 – a day still fondly remembered by lovers of beautiful writing who gather to recite his tender “She walks in beauty like the night”, murmur the hinted bawdiness of “So we’ll go no more a roving” and shed a tear for “Fare thee well”. They react with dismay when reminded Byron was far from a loyal lover or friend and cared little for those whose lives were ruined by his amoral arrogance.
It is written that he contracted a fever and died while being treated by what was then the standard procedure of bloodletting. When the news reached England, the reaction was traumatic. A national hero in the UK – and revered in Greece where he had gone to join that nation in its war with the Ottoman Empire – his body was embalmed and returned to England. Some sources say his heart was removed before that final journey. The people of Greece wanted some part of their hero to remain with them.
In England his body lay in state for two days and news reports of the day record “huge crowds” lining the streets to pay their respects before he was to be interred in Westminster Abbey. But the Abbey balked at the request for an honoured resting place from supporters of a man they felt of “questionable morality” and denied the request. It was written that he had lived a life full of “aristocratic excesses, huge debts, (and) numerous love affairs with more than one gender.”
Undeterred, Byron’s friends – and they were many – launched a successful fund-raising drive to commission a statue. That work by Danish sculptor Bertel Thorvaldsen was completed in 1834. However, it remained in storage for 10 years while the country debated where to place it. The British Museum declined to display it. So did St. Paul’s Cathedral, the National Gallery – and holding fast to its original refusal, Westminster Abbey.
Trinity College, Cambridge, finally found a quiet corner for the statue.
In 1907, a lively debate calling for some sort of recognition for Byron was supported by the New York Times. In a column signed “Galbraith” the NYT suggested England should be proud to honour Byron, not ashamed of him just because he had lived a flamboyant immoral life. The writer admitted “neither Byron’s writing nor his mode of life are such as to appeal to the straitlaced, this seems to be no excuse for refusing the great poet proper recognition.”
In 1969, 145 years after his death, a modest memorial was placed in Westminster Abbey’s Poets’ Corner. It is a replica of one the King of Greece donated to mark Byron’s grave at the Church of St. Mary Magdalene, Hucknall, Nottinghamshire.
It all leaves me wondering still how the play would end if re-enacted today. Would our easily frenzied media be in high “straitlaced” dudgeon concentrating only on Byron’s extravagant but contemptuously tawdry life style? Would the Twittering classes be breaking viral records regurgitating the latest Byronic sexual romps – both hetero and homo?
It leaves me wondering too, if in the 48-years since Byron was accorded his “modest” marker in Westminster Abbey, “amoral” has overwhelmed “immoral” and if the world is paying a high price for the switch from “straitlaced” morality to “no laces required at all?”

What Took Them So Long?

Contrary to popular belief, automobiles powered by electricity
are not new. They were silently rolling around workshop yards in Scotland, Holland, Hungary and the USA close to 70 years before the first gasoline powered car rattled down the streets of my hometown Victoria, British Columbia.

Tradition has it that first “horseless carriage” to thrill Victoria residents was part of a travelling circus making a city stop in 1899. In her fascinating book Above Stairs: Social Life in Upper-Class Victoria 1843-1918, Valerie Green tells us after the circus departed “the first automobile of note to be acknowledged as such was owned by Dr. Edward Charles Hart, one-time Victoria coroner. His was a 3.5 horsepower Oldsmobile that arrived in Victoria on May 23, 1902, to be driven down Johnson Street the following day by its proud owner. It set Dr. Hart back $900 and was capable of achieving speeds of 15 miles an hour.”

While the natives and immigrants to the British Colony on Vancouver Island were marveling at the noisy but wonderful new gasoline driven carriage, old world scientists were reaching beyond internal combustion. Between 1832 and 1839 Scotsman Robert Anderson, Holland’s Sibrandus Stratingh, Hungarian inventor Anyos Jedlik and one Christopher Becker claimed to have electric vehicles up and running.

It is generally held that Anderson of Scotland was the first to invent what is described as “the first crude electric carriage powered by non-rechargeable primary cells.” Some insist the leadership claim is still under debate. The life of Anderson’s first car – described as “a crude beast” was as brief as its non-renewable battery, but it launched the search which continues to this day for ever better long-life or easy to recharge batteries that can store power for longer periods.

It may be surprising to some that the electric cars now being re-introduced to our highways and byways as the new and best way to go drive-about are merely re-claiming a position they once held in the late 19th century and early 20th. Englishman Thomas Parker, electrical engineer, is credited as being the man who built the first practical electric car powered by his then revolutionary high-capacity rechargeable batteries.

That was in 1884. Four years later German inventor Andreas Flocken introduced the Flocken Elektrowagen and by the turn of the century, electric powered cars were the vehicle of choice. It is estimated that by the time 1900 rolled around 30,000 electric powered vehicles were offering a level of comfort and ease of operation far beyond gasoline driven vehicles.

In that same year, 192 cars were produced in the fledgling USA auto building industry. Twenty-eight per cent were powered by electricity. Of all the cars on the roads of New York, Boston and Chicago one third were electric. Close to 20 per cent of New York taxis were electric – and then came 1908 and Henry Ford’s Model T; gasoline powered, noisy, and polluting, but within financial reach of most working families.

Four years later Charles Kettering (cct) invented the electrical starter to eliminate the heavy hand cranking required to start an internal combustion engine. The push-button starter and mushrooming proliferation of gasoline and service stations made internal combustion king of the road with non-polluting electric cars pushed into hibernation.

Close to 100 years later, a stirring of environmental conscience and ever rising gas prices resurrected the desire for clean electric power. Major auto manufacturers are now switching entirely or partially back to electric or hybrid power, all claiming leadership in the race for cleaner air.

When we remember that the first hybrid car running on gasoline and electricity was built by Porsche in 1899, it seems justifiable to ask the entire auto industry – what took you so long?

The Price of Free Speech

There’s no such thing as completely “free” speech.

Not in the big wide world where carefully written laws wisely protect others from defamatory statements.Punishment can be dire for those who carelessly violate established rules.

Even in our democratic parliaments where elected politicians are protected by what they call “privilege” there are “rules of order” which forbid the use of certain words and phrases. Members may be protected from criminal charges for anything said in Parliamentary debate – but they can be evicted from the debating chamber if they use words deemed “unparliamentary” by the Speaker.

BC Legislature Speaker Darryl Plecas and Liberal Party House Leader Michael de Jong, QC, had a bit of a tiff over such words earlier this month.

Speaker Plecas had interrupted question period with a request that Liberals stop using phony titles when addressing questions to cabinet members. De Jong complained that as no unparliamentary language had been used in the mock title game Liberal questioners were not in violation of House rules.

Speaker Plecas ruled the fake titles were mocking or derogatory, disrespectful “and reflect poorly on this institution.” He also reminded de Jong to be careful with future challenges to his rulings.House rules are set by the members,enforced by the Speaker

A minor push and shove in the grand scheme of things, but surprising when we recall the BC Legislature has pages of words and phrases banned from the debating chamber. A quick glance down the list would have convinced de Jong he was on shaky ground defending fake titles as passing the parliamentary usage test.

A few, very few, banned words and phrases: “Art of the clown … cheap politics … chintzy … deliberate film-flam … flippant … fraudulent … less than honest … phony charades … snow job.” And that’s just a minor sampling of the words and phrases BC politicians from past eras have used, been ordered to withdraw and been evicted from the chamber if they refused to comply.

The BC list may be longer, but its banned words and phrases are mild when compared with New Zealand’s House of Representatives list. Maybe the Kiwis are better educated. They are certainly more colourful,robust, and pack a sharper punch before they are sanctioned.

In BC, an MLA will be rebuked and ordered to withdraw if he refers to a fellow member as “a fumbling old man.” In New Zealand, the Speaker has had occasion to discipline a member who accused another of having the “idle vaporing of a mind diseased.” In our Belleville Street palace of laughs, calling another member “thickheaded” would bring instant rebuke and an order to apologize. In New Zealand, a similar unacceptable accusation was recorded as “his brains could revolve inside a peanut shell for a thousand years without touching the sides.”

It drew a Speaker’s rebuke and was ruled “unbecoming, insulting, or otherwise unparliamentary.” I can’t disagree with the ruling, but confess I prefer the colourful Kiwi quote to a shout of “thickheaded.”

It’s more than 100 years ago that the great wordsmith Sir Winston Churchill showed politicians how to get around vigilant parliamentary language police. That was in 1906 when, as Under Secretary of the Colonial Office, he was asked if the government was condoning the slavery of Chinese labourers in South Africa’s Transvaal province.

He replied the word “slavery in its full sense could not be applied without a risk of terminological inexactitude.” It became an acceptable way of implying someone was lying without actually saying so.

I guess we haven’t really made much progress since Winston. Our BC politicians still shout carelessly worded insults across the floor with little thought to the use of words – or their own language rules. We hear occasional promises of reformed debate but never see it. As a New Zealand MP once said, we approach the problem of elevating debate language with “the energy of a tired snail returning home from a funeral.”

And, yes, it’s on the Kiwi unparliamentary list. It is also true.

When The Play Becomes Reality

They sat quietly, voices muted in softly spoken conversation as they waited in the theatre lobby for the last line of the old hymn “Abide with me…” to come to a wavering close. Inside the small theatre an impromptu “choir” of maybe 120 voices, all over the age of 60, most in their 80’s and more than a few past 90, triumphantly chorused “I triumph still…” and took their seats. It was the final act in the traditional Remembrance Day service celebrated by the residents of Berwick Royal Oak retirement residence – and the cue for the 75 waiting students from the Canadian College of the Performing Arts to take the stage.

Orderly, with well rehearsed discipline, they formed a line to begin their walk down the theatre aisle to centre stage. The elderly audience watched in silence as the young actors took positions as directed by Heather Burns, Artistic and Education Director at CCPA since last summer. She was waiting with customary “nerves” for the first public performance of her Remembrance Day Tribute to open.Inspiration for her script had come from current musicals,personal correspondence and official documents from two World Wars her students’s families had made available.

In clear female voice early words from Laurence Binyon’s For The Fallen
ring out to open the performance: “Solemn the drums thrill … They went with song to the battle; they were young, straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.” And, then the best remembered lines: “They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old. Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn …”

The Tribute of Remembrance as told in rhyme and song, in personal letters and official reports was underway and it became quickly obvious this would not be a story of great battles won. It would be closer to a John Masefield’s “Consecration” piece, a story: “Not of the princes and prelates with periwigged charioteers riding triumphantly laurelled to lap the fat of the years – rather the scorned – the rejected – the men hemmed in with the spears”

So, it is personal stories these well-prepared students tell of rich and poor and middle class warriors and those who waited at home for the cruelest of telegrams: “We regret to inform you…” your husband or son, or both, are (hopefully just) “missing in action” or, with dreadful finality “have been killed in action.”

I recognized none of the names recited but as I listened memory buds were touched and brought to life and after a while I was no longer a member of the audience, but part of the play.

As the actors tell the story of a widow receiving news of her only son’s death, my mind flashes back to 1976 when I wrote in a newspaper column from St. Desir, Normandy: “The birds are singing whatever French birds sing. A soft wind from the coast touches the low trees and shrubs. There are rows and rows of red roses in full bloom. A simple white cross, one of 598 in this small war cemetery, reads: “Sapper J. Cook, 5127714 Royal Engineers, Aug. 16, 1944. Age 22.” Beneath those cold statistics there is a promise that ‘mam and dad and his wife’ would always “remember.”

Let it be noted “mam” is English Midlands, not a spelling error. Jack was my cousin, a year older and a best friend of childhood.

It was a friendship that went deeper than most. In those far off days, I had become a bit of an outcast in my extended family. While most of my numerous cousins had buckled on their armour and gone to war, I had chosen the path of pacifism. At the tender know-it-all age of 18, I was positively sure war was not the path to peace.

Jack Cook, sapper, Royal Engineers, was the only member of my extended family to write to me in May 1944 to defend my right to make a choice. Not to agree with me. Just to say I should not be intimidated by family disapproval. It was a “this above all to thine own self be true” letter written when he already knew a June D-day was getting close. Less than a month later he was killed near Caen. And, it all came flooding back – especially when I realized 32 years later as I read his grave marker that I had never known Jack was married.

I remember feeling betrayed because I had never been informed or invited to the wedding. But I knew the answer – and now all I could do in response for his loyal support when my world had become a lonely place was put a few fresh flowers on his grave.

I didn’t hear the final minutes of Ms.Burns Remembrance Tribute. I was back in my room,tears unchecked, unashamed, even happy that a group of talented young actors and their script writer had the ability to revive 73-year-old memories I should never have forgotten.

I may not have recognized any of the names the actors mentioned, but I knew them all through cousin Jack,the young wife I never met and his “mam and dad” my Aunt Lucy and Uncle Fletcher.

And I’m thankfully reminded by the young actors of CCPA I still owe them all.

Remembering Civilian Death Toll

When we remember the fallen we sometimes forget events like November 14, 1940, an ear-nipping cold and crisply clear evening and a perfect setting for the rise of an orange-tinted, full Hunter’s Moon. It was 7 p.m. and I was just off a 12-hour shift at Alfred Herbert’s machine tool factory waiting for a bus to take me nine miles home.

At 7:10 p.m. air raid sirens began their ululating wail to warn “hostile aircraft” were in the vicinity. And, just a few minutes later incendiary bombs – small cylinders containing either gasoline or phosphorous – came clattering over roof tops to challenge the moon for the right to light the streets. Like most 16-year-olds I knew the incendiary drill. Crash a bag of sand to block the bright mini-fire or lacking sand bags use a garbage can lid. Or anything else to deprive heavy duty bombers from following a clear-lit path to whatever was their target for the night. Incendiaries were not large, but they burned bright.

At around 7:30 the first high explosives began to fall. It would be 11 more hours before the last tumbled from the skies. Thankfully, we didn’t know that, we just thought the German Luftwaffe was starting a little earlier than usual so would be finished and back home in Europe after a four-hour nuisance raid leaving us to catch a few hours’ sleep.

My bus arrived about the same time, I scrambled on and with a bus load of other workers headed for home. As we reached the outskirts of the city the driver shouted we should look out the back window and see what we had just left. It was only eight o’clock and a great fire was already burning, pulsating like a heartbeat each time another high explosive bomb struck home. The entire centre of the city looked to be on fire and in the middle of the flames was the centuries old St. Michaels Coventry Cathedral. But, we didn’t know that until morning came.

Actually, it wasn’t until the afternoon of the 15th that I got to see the results of the raid – code named Operation Mondscheinsonate (named afte Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata). All night I had watched Coventry burn from nine miles away, forbidden to return by old soldier parents until the bombing stopped. It would be 6:30 a.m. before the all clear sounded and half a dozen of us, all 15 or 16 years old, climbed on our bikes and rode back into the still burning city to help where we could.

The city had been without power or water since the first wave of 500 bombers began unloading 500 tonnes of high explosives and 36,000 incendiaries killing 568 and seriously injuring more than 1,000 more. The dead were buried five days after the raid in a mass grave in London Road Cemetery. A small, white curved wall records their names.

With our factory without power and water we ran errands, delivered messages and tried to look brave when a bundle of rags that was once human beings was pulled from wreckage. It was late afternoon getting dusk, low cloud, no visible moon when I saw the shattered Cathedral, walls still standing around a pile of rubble and fire blackened roof timbers. Someone had bound two charred beams together in a cross and placed it where the altar had once stood. On the shattered wall behind someone had chalked “Father forgive.” The original cross is now stored safe from the elements, but a replica still stands where it was originally placed. The chalked message faded with the years but now remains unchanged on a more permanent bronze plaque.

Coventry would suffer 18 more air raids, but none as massive as Moonlight Sonata, although two came close. On the night of April 8/9 in 1941 some 289 civilians were killed, 470 seriously injured. The following night, 170 died, 150 badly wounded.

Within months those numbers became minor in the killing game as Allied air forces responded with mass destructions of property and civilians in Dresden, Cologne, Stuttgart, Hamburg, Berlin and other German cities. The estimated civilian dead totalled 600,000 including 76,000 children.

In 1945, single bomber raids on Hiroshima and Nagasaki and two nuclear bombs eclipsed them all in terror, death and destruction.

In 1958, Canon Joseph Pool wrote The Coventry Litany of Reconciliation. It is still prayed at noon each weekday in the new Cathedral which remains firmly linked to the shell of the old. And every Friday at noon the brief ceremony moves to ancient St. Michaels to pray in front of the charred cross for an end to “the hatred which divides nation from nation, race from race, class from class” and from “the covetous desires of people and nations to possess what is not their own’’ and “the greed which exploits the work of human hands and lays waste the earth” and “our envy of the welfare and happiness of others” and “our indifference to the plight of the imprisoned, the homeless and the refugee.”

“Father forgive,” is the response to each reminder of human failings. But, it is not made on behalf of others, but for ourselves. It’s not a bad litany for Remembrance Day – the day we remember our dead but sometimes forget who they were.