Special Updates

Remembering “The smell of Napalm in the morning”

As we step gently into the final days of January, our eyes are alert for the first genuine signs of spring. Hopes are high for better weather and a steady stream of good news from the COVID-19 battlefront as we wait with apprehension for signs of relaxed tensions in Ukraine.

With vain hope, we approach February, a month with a Valentine’s Day that reminds us of friendlier times dedicated to love, and yet we are swamped by hateful rhetoric on the streets and in high places.

We talk, regretfully, about “yesterday” when the world was a gentler place, and maybe get a little upset when some old guy who should be relaxed in rocking chair comfort insists on reminding us that it was on Valentine’s Day, 1942, that a team of scientists in the USA announced success in the design of a new bomb. Not nuclear – that was still a work in progress. 

This was just – you know – an ordinary little bomb classified as acceptable according to warfare standards.

In his book The Bomber Mafia, Malcolm Gladwell tells us the white coat scientists had come up with plans for small incendiary bombs as long as a short stick of dynamite that could be wrapped “with a layer of white phosphorous and placed it the middle of a canister of gelled napalm.”

When the dynamite exploded, the napalm gel would be ignited and scattered in flaming gobs to start other fires. 

Gladwell describes the workings of this new acceptable weapon of war – named the M-69: “When ignited, the gel filling becomes a clinging, fiery mass … it burns at approximately 1,000 degrees Fahrenheit for eight to 10 minutes.”

It was designed specifically for attacks on Japan, where wooden structures dominated the landscape in all major cities. The use of these weapons reached a fiery climax in a series of firebomb attacks on Tokyo starting on March 9, 1945. With the August war-ending destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki by single nuclear bombs, the fire raids courtesy of M-69s quickly vanished from newspaper headlines. But not from memory. 

In his book, Gladwell tells us that more than 300 B-29 Superfortress aircraft “loaded with as much napalm as they could carry” began taking off from airfields in Guam, Tinian and Saigon late in the afternoon of March 9, 1945. The lead aircraft were in formation over Tokyo just after midnight. The “pathfinders” were laying flares to mark the target area, and then at 5,000 feet – the lowest B-29s ever flew on a mission – came “hundreds of planes, massive, winged beasts … flying so low that the entire city pulsed” from the booming of the engines. 

It is estimated that 100,000 people, mostly civilians, died in the six-hour raid. The Bomber Mafia quotes the post-war United States Strategic Bombing Survey conclusion that: “Probably more persons lost their lives by fire at Tokyo in a six-hour period than at any time in the history of man.”

Gladwell, whose “Mafia” reference in his book title could hint at pre-influenced thinking, says the attack lasted only three hours during which 1,665 tons of napalm were dropped in tight proximity to create a planned fire-storm, “a conflagration of such intensity that it would create and sustain its own wind system.” It is estimated that 16 square miles became ashes.

A few weeks later, 450 B29s hit Yokohama with 2,570 tons of napalm, reducing half the city to ash and “killing several thousand.”

If you have ever watched Apocalypse Now, you will remember actor Robert Duvall’s chilling lines: “I love the smell of napalm in the morning. You know, one time we had a hill bombed for 12 hours. When it was all over, I walked up. We didn’t find one of ’em, not one stinkin’ body. The smell, you know that gasoline smell, the whole hill. Smelled like victory.”

Would it help, do you think, if the parties involved in the debate on the fate of Ukraine sat for joint viewing of news clips from Tokyo, Berlin, Stalingrad, London, Dresden, Yokohama or any one of dozens of Vietnam towns and villages and their countless dead courtesy of napalm?

Probably not. After all, the United Nations passed a protocol in 1981 creating a treaty banning the use of “incendiary weapons.” The UN claims 115 nations have now signed the treaty with the USA not getting to the table until 2009 when then-President Barack Obama made the signing one of his priorities the day after his inauguration.

And I wonder, how many countries would open their military weapons stores to prove they’re clean; and how many would enjoy a return to “the smell of napalm in the morning.”

Fearfully Waiting – Again!

Can you remember the Cold War years when we wondered if the United States would use the A-bomb to end a war they were losing in Korea or Vietnam? Most of us who lived through the 1939-45 Second World War thought the world cured of nations’ need to kill each other’s young to further a political cause. We were dismayed that, with the ink hardly dry on one war’s armistice, we were fully engaged again.

After the Second World War, the battleground was North Korea, where communism was the adopted form of government. The United Nations didn’t like North Korea’s choice and agreed to rally troops to help South Korea discipline its neighbour and chart a path to peace. Canada, especially our navy, joined the battle. So did Australia, New Zealand, England, Ireland, Scotland and France, and several smaller nations.

Things went well as the Allies, under the UN flag, swept across the north-south border. China, which was relatively new to communism, decided its way of life was being threatened, and suddenly the UN forces were facing a formidable Chinese army.

The UN was stopped. The dominant U.S. generals were dismayed and suggested they could bring China into line quickly if they used just one, maybe two, of the nuclear bombs used on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The White House rejected the proposal, and the lead American general was ordered home. Today, Korea remains a divided country.

We jump ahead. Now Russia is the military architect of a new Cold War.

Until 1991, Ukraine was part of the Soviet Union, a superpower equal to the U.S. When the Soviet Union collapsed in 1991, Ukraine dismayed its Russian overlord by opting for independence. President Vladimir Putin has tried persuasion to change the thinking of the Ukrainian government but has failed. Ukraine remains independent and is trying to become a member of NATO – a move that would deny Putin a buffer state distancing himself from the NATO alliance in Europe and beyond.

Eight years ago, Ukrainian citizens awakened to find Russian tanks in their streets. Since then, there has been sporadic fighting, and Ukraine claims it has lost 14,000 soldiers as a result. In Kyiv, a memorial service is held for the dead every day. Four names from the casualty list are read, a rifle fire volley is fired, and the bell of St. Michael’s Cathedral tolls.

It is reported that Russia has an estimated 100,000 troops poised on the border. Last Wednesday, Global News reported that 200 members of the Canadian Special Operation Forces Command were on the ground, in part to offer assistance to Canadians who may need to evacuate the country.

U.S. President Joe Biden has suggested the Russian troop build-up indicates an invasion is probable and has threatened drastic trade embargos if the invasion order is given.

Putin has asked for a show of good faith from Biden – an assurance that Ukraine will not be allowed to join NATO. Biden has declined to give that assurance. NATO officials confirm that if Ukraine were a member, other nations would be duty-bound to support its defence.

And so, we wait and wonder who will blink first. Will China, the game-changer on other warlike occasions, become a participant in this political maelstrom? Who will keep this Cold War brinkmanship from spiralling out of control?

So, You Want to Be a Writer?

Well, was that a blink of light at the end of our two-year tunnel of discontent – or a snowdrop proudly poking its head above our South Island snowline only to find winter in Canada’s Camelot can still provide a knockout punch for flowers that bloom presumptuously.

I apologize for my weak attempt to be humorous about our continuing vicissitudes, mainly with COVID-19 and its various shape-shifting threats. But, I was genuinely delighted a couple of days ago to read that “in the spirit of supporting a healthy democracy with a thriving journalistic community Janet Austin, Lieutenant Governor of British Columbia, with support of the Government House Foundation and in partnership with the Jack Webster Foundation, is pleased to announce the launch of the Lieutenant Governor’s BC Journalism Fellowship.” 

I think the “thriving journalistic community” is a bit of a stretch that can only be justified if the proliferation of online publications is the measuring stick. The numbers may give the appearance of thriving, but the quality of the content all too often falls far below the standards most daily newspapers use to strive for routinely.

To be clear – I am hoping my presumed “snowdrop” survives any surprise frosts.

To be fair to whoever penned the Lieutenant Governors’ press release, they did note that the annual $25,000 fellowships would be available for at least three years to “encourage and enable journalists to go above and beyond their typical level of coverage so that some of the under-reported, but crucial, challenges of today receive the deep, complex storytelling deserved by the citizens of BC.”

Sounds a bit like one of my old editors’ oft-repeated edicts “get it first and get it fast, but FIRST get it right.” And, one that still lingers with me: “If in doubt – leave it out,” a piece of advice to which so many of today’s editors give little or no thought when they let reporters slide editorial comment into what should be just the facts.

The fellowship will be available to “a journalist, or team of journalists, in various stages of their careers (emerging, returning or experienced).” Would-be applicants can get details at: https://jackwebster.com/lieutenant-governors-bc-journalism-fellowship/.

Before applying, applicants would do well to familiarize themselves with L-G Austin’s thoughts on the need for quality journalism: “One of the greatest challenges faced in our society is the fragility of democracy in the 21st century. Across our communities, we see increased polarization as we encounter trials on a magnitude never experienced (while) all the news outlets we rely on to maintain an informed citizenry are eroding and under-resourced.”

My advice to any young journalist applying: Remember, you will never write anything you couldn’t have written better, and make sure you have a good, tough editor.

Stand Firm with Public Health Protectors

It is 30 years now since Charles Panati’s Extraordinary Endings of Practically Everything and Everybody found its way to bookstores and libraries. It should be mandatory reading in Grades 11 and 12 and a passing grade requirement in first-year university exams.

There is an urgency to my recommendation. It springs from the open rejection and defiance by so many young people to public health authorities attempting to curb the spread of COVID-19 with its ever-challenging virus variations.

So far, there is no magic bullet to eliminate the new intruder threatening our health and happiness, but we do have vaccines that challenge the invader and slow or halt its progress. However, we also have a vociferous and militant anti-vax movement shouting, protesting and, in some cases, threatening frontline workers who are putting their health and their lives at risk every day and through the long hours of each night.

Two hundred years ago, people had cause to question experimenting doctors who probably killed as many as they cured. One hundred years ago, even in so-called advanced nations, our overall record wasn’t all that great. I was born into a five-children family, but only two of us made it beyond our teens. A 10-month-old sister and five-year-old brother were lost to meningitis, and an 18-year-old brother was lost to peritonitis because there was no cure to offer.

When I was born in 1923, smallpox was still a feared disease, although English country Dr. Edward Jenner had found a vaccine in 1796 to stop it in its track. For years, the people of England feared the needle more than they feared smallpox. Vaccination didn’t become globally accepted until George Washington was informed that half the men in his 10,000-strong Continental Army were infected. He asked Congress for funds to inoculate the still-healthy soldiers. It took a few more decades to placate the fearful, but, in 1977, what was billed as the last case of smallpox on earth was declared found and cured.

Of more recent memory is the once-frightening battle with poliomyelitis which had been around since ancient Egyptian times with outbreaks of a relatively minor nature until 1916. In his book, Panati writes: “That summer, polio killed six thousand American young children and paralyzed 27,000 others.” The dreaded disease spread worldwide, and you don’t have to be really old to remember front-page pictures in local newspapers of banks of “artificial lungs” keeping people alive by breathing for them. If you were a young parent, you lived in fear for your children and yourself until Dr. Jonas Salk (1955) and Dr. Albert Bruce Sabin (1961) brought the world the cure.

Health workers had other successes – some two steps forward, one step back – like the battle to conquer tuberculosis. They called it “the White Death,” and it was so contagious and invariably fatal that Panati quotes Quaker physician Thomas Young, labelling it as the first disease “to deter practitioners from attempting a cure.”

In the 1950s, there was hope that as the antibiotic streptomycin had sharply reduced the death rate, eradication now seemed possible. But, Panati writes sadly: “Once nearly eradicated in the Western world, TB is tragically on the rise again.”

Never one to mince words, he warns that the primary causes of TB are crowded living spaces created by homelessness, poor diet and drug addiction. He suggests that if those problems are not solved, “the world might be re-visited in pandemic proportions by the White Death, a plague that in the area of modern medicine should never happen.”

One final thought on pandemics and why those opposing protective vaccination need to be completely honest in their self-analysis.

Mary Mallon – an American citizen who died in 1938 at age 69 – was a cook, and Panati tells us, unknown to herself, she was a “medically immunological marvel; a person who carries a deadly agent without ever becoming sick, but who can kill others with a kiss or a meringue pie.”

In 1900, Mary was a cook for a New York residence. Ten days after starting her job, several consumers of her cooking came down with typhoid. Mary quickly found a new position. Members of the new employer’s family developed fevers and diarrhea, and the family laundress died from typhoid. Mary moved again, this time to cook for a lawyer and his household. Seven of his eight family members came down with typhoid, and no one suspected the cook who willingly provided care for those she had made sick.

Panati reports that in 1906, Dr. George Soper was investigating a “cluster” of typhoid cases in New York. He noted one person appeared to show up at all outbreaks. No name was mentioned, but the person was described as an “unmarried, heavyset Irish cook, about 40 years old with thick graying hair, round steel-rimmed glasses and a sombre, sullen countenance.”

But nobody knew her whereabouts.

Undeterred, Soper traced Mary from a fading old case to a new active case at a Park Avenue penthouse where two servants had been hospitalized, and the family daughter had died. When he attempted to interview her, she cursed him. When he asked her to provide stool and urine samples, she threatened him with a meat cleaver. With unspecified assistance from the New York Health Commissioner “and the police,” she was arrested “though not without a fierce battle” and taken away kicking and screaming that she “never washed her hands when she cooked” and never had a need to.

Panati leaves his readers to fill in some descriptive blanks on hospital procedures for Mary. “Daily cultures made of her urine and stools – each forcibly taken with the help of several hospital matrons – revealed that her gall bladder was teeming with typhoid salmonella. She refused to give permission to have her gall bladder removed and also refused to give up cooking as a career.

And – shades of today’s health care protesters – she insisted she was a victim of a medical conspiracy and carried no disease. Dr. Soper’s report identified her as the most likely cause of a major typhoid outbreak, with 1,400 cases in 1903. Seven years later, on the promise that she would never again work as a cook, she was released from commitments made when first arrested and immediately changed her name to Mary Brown.

For the next five years, she managed to stay one jump ahead of Dr. Soper until 1915, when typhoid hit the staff at New York’s Sloan Hospital for Women. There were 25 cases and two deaths, and one of the cooks, “a portly Irish-American woman,” was missing.

This time when they tracked Mary down, she was quarantined for life on North Brother Island, where she often entertained visiting journalists in the furnished cottage provided by the State but was strictly forbidden to provide them with even a drink of water.

She died of pneumonia on November 11, 1938. At autopsy, Panati tells us: “Her gallbladder was found to be as actively shedding typhoid bacilli as ever.”

It leaves me wondering just whom she thought was conspiring against her and why? But find no answer from Mary or today’s conspiracy believers.   

A Cautionary Tale

Well, that’s it then. Just a few days ago, on Dec. 27th, I rolled quietly and gently through my 98th birthday and started work on my 99th year. In past years, I have penned my birthday musings a few days before the event. This year, too nervous to tempt fate, I thought it wiser to wait until the 98th was actually posted and the first careful steps of the 99th taken.

They have been truly momentous years, and I have written many times that my glass of life was always more half full than half empty. However, it is a metaphor for a good life that I have tripped and fallen three times in 2021; the first hilarious, the second and third warnings that legs that had always obeyed automatic commands were no longer prepared to respond as they had since my first steps in the 1920s.

Still standing, I have a duty to offer a little advice to others now old enough to fear falling.

My first fall came as I was walking past the open office counter where fellow guests of Berwick Royal Oak Retirement Centre register for various in-house activities. Two elderly ladies had just completed a successful attempt to get seats together for a theatre or bus tour event. Laughing and smiling, arm-in-arm, they turned from the counter and, in lockstep, neatly detached me from my walker with a robust tackle.

The apologies were voluminous. My embarrassment was acute as I sat in a circle of solicitous faces, unable to move my legs into a lever-able position. Staff quickly assumed command. A check for bone or muscle damage and then, to modest applause from onlookers, I was lifted to my feet and on my way.

My second and third calls were scarier. I was alone and had ignored the advice of Nic, my paramedic son, to always wear a wrist-strapped button that, when pressed in an emergency, alerted staff to my precise location in the Berwick facility. I had been on a long walk that late summer day. I got back to my apartment feeling a little tired and, with shaky legs, collapsed as I took two or three steps into my room. 

My wrist band emergency button was in my bedroom, unreachable from where I sat on my living room floor. On a small table behind me, my landline phone sat also beyond reach. My mobile phone was on a small table beside my TV-watching chair. Unreachable.

I was learning the hard way that my paramedic son was preaching serious survival gospel when he said: “Strap your button on and leave it on except when you wash or shower. And even then, make sure it will be within reach if you fall.”

So, as trained in old air raid drill lessons, I stayed calm and managed to struggle myself a little closer to my mobile, kick it with a favourable bounce toward me, grab it like a drowning man’s life ring, and call for paramedic aid. Before they left, one of the paras suggested I keep the mobile a little closer. “It could have bounced away from you and…..” I just grunted my thanks.

My third fall was a gentle collapse as I prepared for bed one evening. As I disrobed, one pant leg at a time, my left leg just folded. No pain, no warning, just total collapse. I bounced face-first off the bedroom wall. I twisted as I fell and finished up sitting with my back against the wall, a trickle of blood ambling down my face, knuckles scraped. This time, I proudly pressed the magic button – since fall two, I had never taken it off except in the shower.

My pride was fleeting. My mobile phone placed earlier on a bedside table and well beyond my reach, beeped. The front desk had obviously received my emergency alert and was calling to know if the button had been pressed by accident or did I actually need help.

Once again, I reached into my old air raid drill box and tapped out the Morse code SOS – three dots, three dashes and three dots. I have no idea if the sequence was being received as Morse, but within seconds, I heard a key unlock my room door, and a bright voice asked: “Where are you?”

The cavalry had arrived, and in double-quick time, I was checked for broken bones. Scratches and scrapes were cleaned up, and with what seemed like no effort at all, a young lady had me standing up. I never did figure out how she did it. It was quite remarkable, and “thank you” seemed inadequate.

It’s quite possible readers will think this 98th birthday offering is inadequate for a day that should be celebrated. But I felt, maybe I’m not alone – moving so close to what was once that distant 100th star – in processing the signals my ageing body and mind are sending me. It took me a long time to accept and get used to; first, a walking stick, then ski poles and then the embarrassment of a walker that is a damned nuisance but an essential, dependable aid.

I thought maybe there are readers out there who, as they move into their late 80s and later 90s, are equally reluctant to admit they need a little help. And so, my 98th birthday message: You are not alone; you are not the first to feel this way.

And “thank you” to readers kind enough to wish me well. May the year now beginning bring us all that we need for happiness.

My birthday wish for those who have read his far: Take care; don’t be shy. Use every available aid. Keep that safety call button on your wrist. Remember, your portable phone, your cell or the latest magic electronic marvel are only helpful if within reach when your need is greatest.

Dreary, Wet, and Cold…But a Lot of Love

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.

We didn’t have much to be happy about by today’s standards, but happy we were. That’s 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 on 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 butter and jam in rare moments of luxury.

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

Things like the Salvation Army band playing Christmas carols on grimy, rain-wet streets with crowds huddled under gas-lit streetlamps – 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 launch 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 grand 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 spiritual 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 music 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 in the old hymns composed to lift the human spirit. They have become homogenized background sounds, unheard and unheeded, by stressed shoppers trying to buy Christmas spirit.

It would, I think, be wonderful to see a voluntary ban on Christmas music until at the earliest December 15. Merchants can keep their marketing strategies and push for ever-higher Christmas sales. But let them have the good grace to leave what remains of the spiritual side of Christmas to the churches and downtown week-before-Christmas Salvation Army band street concerts if such bands still exist.

One other thing merchants could contribute to recapturing lost Christmas values is restoring 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, the sheets she washed, ironed, 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 ever higher “charge it” burdens, but I think merchants, with genuine Christmas goodwill, could lead us back to “layaway” 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 carolling before December 15,” well, I would wish them all the most genuine Loving Christmas! 

(The thoughts expressed above were first published in 2004. They remain unchanged as I wish this Happy Christmas to all my readers as we spend just a few days exchanging and receiving the greatest of gifts— the love of family and close friends.)

“Simply Put… We Are Failing!”

It is close to six years now ,since the Government of British Columbia declared that toxic drug abuse had become a public health emergency. It had become the leading cause of unnatural deaths in BC.

A few days ago, Chief Coroner Lisa Lapointe reported on the government’s immediate reaction and the general public’s response to the alarming news that drug dealers are in control of relatively easy ways to purchase a ticket for a ride from an overdose to an agonizing death.

The apparent totality of that reaction was the sounding of a warning siren to “take care” when buying pills because unscrupulous dealers are boosting them with Fentanyl, Carfentanil and Benzodiazepine. And we, the easily lead, are asked to accept it is sufficient that our leaders and protectors recognized the dangers in our back alleys and dark places and so quickly alerted us to the risks of living dangerously.

It is true that five or six years ago, we were in a bit of a mess politically in BC. We had a crazy election result that saw Christy Clark’s Liberals win a general election but lose the right to govern when NDP leader John Horgan and Green Party leader Andrew Weaver agreed to a marriage of convenience.

Our always-precocious West Coast politics remained a little unstable until 2020 when Premier John Horgan called a snap election, won it handily with a solid majority and formed a government that appears to be holding its own in the face of the menace of COVID-19.

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said about the dirtier fight to rid our streets of the toxic – read: ‘poisoned-by-dealers’ – pills that promise brief respite from life’s problems and deliver a quick and frightening dead end.

In her monthly lament, Chief Coroner Lapointe said that the government’s reluctance to take the appropriate action will “be a stain on our province for decades to come.”

“This crisis is not going to turn itself around; this crisis needs some true intervention on a meaningful provincial scale,” she said.

“According to the BC Centre for Disease Control, drug toxicity comes second only to cancers in terms of total potential years of life lost in our province,” Lapointe said. “By comparison, COVID-19 is 12th.”

October 2021 saw a monthly record bring total street drug deaths so far this year to 1,782. Last year, we lost 1,765 in the same period.

The death rate is currently sitting at 41.2 deaths per 100,000 residents. More than 70 per cent of deaths are among those aged 30 to 59 – the median age is 43. Most who have died are men. Since the start of the official public health emergency in April 2016, more than 8,500 people have died.

Lapointe, who sees the result of toxic drug use and is responsible for investigating causes of death, has consistently recommended “safe supply.” Green Party leader Sonia Furstenau’s appeal for an emergency all-party legislative committee, presumably to study that and shape legislation that would “end this brutal loss of life,” continues to fall on deaf ears.

Furstenau, quoted in The Tyee online publication, says her all-party committee could “be bold” and “take politics out of the process.” That’s what the Legislature did in its immediate challenge to COVID-19 when, like Camelot, “for one bright shining moment,” it was united in common cause.

Unfortunately, it has not demonstrated a desire to unite in common cause to address toxic drug deaths. “Simply put,” says Lapointe, “we are failing.”

A Mystery to be Solved: Maybe? –

I’m not sure whether today’s thoughts on the latest developments in the debate about Canada’s horrendous residential schools scandal should be delivered with Christmas bells pealing joyous “goodwill to all” in the background; but hope springs eternal.

Minister of Crown-Indigenous Relations Marc Miller gave us hope back in October when he announced that he intended to release all records held in Ottawa dealing with Indigenous compensation claims. Increasingly, we are hearing that in 2015 the federal cabinet ratified a decision that, in effect, freed the Roman Catholic Church from compensating survivors of the residential schools’ debacle.

A few days after that announcement Prime Minister Justin Trudeau visited Kamloops to apologize for an earlier bad decision to skip the first-ever national Truth and Reconciliation Day celebration in that community in favour of post-election R&R at Tofino on the West Coast of Vancouver Island. “It was a mistake,” he confessed to a gathering of Indigenous chiefs and people. He said his newly-elected government had, at long last, turned over all the pertinent records of government-funded, church-run residential schools to the National Centre for Truth and Reconciliation (NCTR) in Winnipeg.

Before the day ended the NCTR was quick to announce it had yet to see any documents.

A few days later Minister Miller confirmed all was well. His boss may have been a little premature, but he confirmed that all the files requested were now on their way. These included documents the Catholic Church and the government had shielded from public scrutiny despite regular pleas from Indigenous chiefs.

Miller didn’t say how many pieces of paper would be in the package, but promised delivery within 30 days. The NCTR has estimated Ottawa holds some 12,000 files in storage. CTV news recently reported that among these documents there should be a series of “school narratives – reports compiled by Ottawa outlining individual histories, administration statistics on the number of children forced to attend and key events such as abuse.”

Miller said earlier governments refused to make public some stored reports because of third-party legal obligations. However, he said decisively: “Knowing what we know today, it doesn’t seem right …” (to be hiding anything when reconciliation is the long overdue goal.) Minister Miller is correct. It hasn’t seemed right for years; and never will seem right until we make it so.

So, maybe we had better hold the joyous pealing of the bells until a review of the 12,000 files reveals who made the 2015 decision to abandon an appeal of a court decision that freed the Catholic Church from fully compensating survivors of the residential schools nightmare.

Minister Miller has been quoted as saying he knows of no evidence indicating it was a cabinet decision. Former Justice Minister Jody Wilson-Raybould says she “never signed” any decision to drop the appeal. But, somebody had the clout to derail the compensation train.

All we can do now is wait and, as Tennyson once wrote, “faintly trust the larger hope” that our leaders of church and state have the wisdom and the courage to get the compensation train back on track and moving ahead smoothly … with church and state picking up their full share of the arbitrated cost.

Careless Talk Still Costs Lives

Maintaining public confidence that all will be well has been one of the toughest jobs facing municipal officials – elected and employed – since the first wild sparks set British Columbia on fire last summer to great waves of atmospheric rivers that have swept across the province, savaging everything in their path.

In the main, all levels of government – federal, provincial, and municipal – have earned plaudits for their efforts to fight fire, flood and the great marathon of COVID-19 with its ongoing mutations.

But there is amongst us a strong community of people who wish to be different. They feel that humans who believe some laws governing communal living are required are sheep blindly following seductive pipers. They believe the majority of medical doctors who are trying to keep people healthy, mending them in surgery and putting them back together if badly injured by accident or fate, are linked in a conspiracy.

These people believe they are the freedom fighters, unafraid to face and challenge those who are trying to lead the world astray.

A few evenings ago, the mayor of one small town said one of the greatest difficulties facing him and his staff have been the “posting of misinformation” on the Internet. He urged his TV audience to check only the official municipal web page that is updated regularly with advisories on open and closed roads, landslide threats, flood zones, and roads that should be avoided.

At a time of public stress, it is astounding, but not surprising, that misinformation would be a weapon of choice. The “freedom” to post misinformation must be the most abused freedom in the world, and there is no sign that this abuse is waning.

It isn’t abuse confined to BC or Canada. In the UK, where the populace lived with restrictions of social freedoms and survived great hardships during the Second World War, the current population is not proving as amenable to the idea that minor sacrifice today can lead to victory tomorrow.

A few days ago, The Guardian newspaper prefaced the following comment by noting that 70,000 died in the London Blitz and 145,000 lives have been claimed so far by COVID-19:

“For all their constant bleating about the government trying to control them, it’s a shame the poppy-shaggers and online warriors have absolutely zero understanding of how deeply embedded in people’s lives government was in the last world war, in the interests of the wider public good. How would these people have coped with rationing for years and years on end? Being told by the state how many ounces of basic ingredients you were allowed per week feels a bit more of a pisser than being told to wear a mask while you load up your trolley with pounds and pounds of the stuff in Asda (a British supermarket).”

In British Columbia, the dissenters forget they have parents and grandparents who, in their young families, lost children to diseases that can be held at bay and cured by today’s advanced medical science. In my family, we lost a sister before I was born, a brother at the age of five when I was 10, and four years later, a brother aged 18. Two survivors out of five wasn’t a bad average for a family like ours close to 100 years ago.

Hard to believe that a denier of the benefits of modern medicine would refuse to wear a mask or accept a proven vaccine in the face of overwhelming evidence that refusal is a near guarantee that someone will die as a result.

Yawn -Just Another Wake-up Call

If you would like to read a collection of stories about broken dykes and massive floods in BC, I recommend a gentle click on https://www.chilliwack.com/main/attachments/Files/1503/Fury%20-%20Flood%20Disaster%20Book%201948.pdf for outstanding reporting and dramatic photography of the Fraser Valley under attack by water.

When you open The Fury of the Flood, you will notice that the date on the cover is 1948, some 73 years ago, with most of the communities named either swamped or destroyed by this month’s brutal example of history repeating itself.

I was an unwilling witness to the 1948 catastrophe. I was stranded in a rural railway station with a trainload of fellow immigrants waiting for Canadian Pacific Railway to decide whether to transfer passengers to buses for the balance of our trans-Canada journey or continue on the rail track just slightly above flood water.

The sign on the station platform read: Hope. After close to two weeks of ocean and rail travel from Lancashire, “hope” was about all a young husband, a courageous wife and an 18-month-old son had left when told we may have reached the end of our rail journey. We were still a long way from our destination that we knew only as an Island somewhere beyond Vancouver.

On our stalled train, we were told that just ahead of us was the Fraser Valley with many lakes, streams and a raging river, all overflowing their banks and/or dykes. CPR engineers were checking the track to see if it was safe to use.

We waited and “hoped” and, as the young husband-father, I happily received the announcement that we would be proceeding down the Valley and into Vancouver soon. I can’t remember how long it took that day from Hope to Vancouver or if we were the last train through before the rail track became unsafe. I can remember looking across a vast expanse of water as we rolled very slowly west. I recall wondering if my ambition to find a better way of life for my young family had become a selfish search for adventure – and what would happen if the train stalled now.

In 2021, “an atmospheric river” has savaged British Colombia with even greater ferocity than the “storm surge” of 1948, and I think how fortunate we were 73 years ago. And I wonder why it is taking us so long to resolve a problem that’s been around since the first Fraser Valley dyke was built.

During our most recent flood, Global News reporter Jas Johal interviewed Michael Reeve, a refugee citizen of Merritt, the small community overwhelmed by the flood, unprepared for the speed and terror of the rising water. It was suggested that the flood was a “wake-up call.” Reeve’s reply: “We say it’s a wake-up call. How many times in the past have we said a big event is a wake-up call? And the next year, we forget about that wake-up call and announce another.”

A good answer and true.

The first recorded wake-up call in BC was in 1894 during the spring freshet – the mountain snowmelt. Through the centuries, there have been many accounts of floods; oral history passed along by native clans of the Fraser Valley. White developers have never had much time for oral history.

In 1935, we had a gauge record of flooding over the 20-foot level for 33 days and higher than 24 feet for 17 days. A simple search of the key words “flooding on the Fraser” informs us it is “a natural process during the spring freshet when the river carries vital nutrients to lower river eco-systems” and that “coastal floods are also natural processes and typically occur in winter during storm surge events.”

One last quote gleaned from the mass of readily accessible online wake-up calls: “The BC Lower Mainland was shaped by flooding over thousands of years from the Fraser Canyon and the Fraser Delta. Because floodplains have become extensively damaged over the past 200 years, the region now faces considerable risk from the Fraser River freshet and coastal flooding. A SINGLE MAJOR RIVER OR COASTAL FLOOD IN THE COMING DECADES COULD RESULT IN $20 TO $30 BILLION IN LOSSES.” (The emphasis is mine)

Will it take forever for those in land development and government planning roles to realize that flood plains are, well, plains that flood?

Consider the possibility that nature is getting a little impatient with our inability to read the wake-up calls it so clearly sends.