Canada Day dawned bright and cool, perfect for a morning's work in the garden. But first, a stroll to observe some of the beautiful, odd things therein.
This is a meadow rue that we purchased at a Native Ontario plant sale. It has taken off like crazy; I had no idea that it would sprout up to be as tall as (or taller than) me. It's wacky.
Another plant we love, even though it's not native, is our Japanese quince. Dark coral flowers grow up and down along its branches in the spring. And then, fruit appears!
This is fourth summer for the quince, and the first for fruit.
The big task of the day, though, was a rather sad one. In seven years, we've tried twice to grow a viburnum; we love their big white blossoms. The first was a beautiful, delicate (too delicate?) European viburnum, which lasted two years before having every single leaf eaten by beetles. We replaced it with what had been advertised as a much hardier hybrid. It was also much less beautiful. But it was a viburnum, and it too would have had big white blossoms if the beetles hadn't shown up and eaten just about all its leaves every one of the last five years. The tenacious buggers defied Kelly's ministrations with hoses and various noxious (but not toxic!) concoctions. We consulted our landscape architect friend, who confirmed an ongoing infestation.
It was time to say goodbye. The little tree was dispatched by about 6 sharp chops with the loppers, and 15 minutes heavy digging.
And in its place we planted something a little more indigenous: a sumac. It looks tiny now but it can grow up to 6 feet high and 8 feet wide.
And when it grows up, it will look beautiful with the quince and the lilac.
The rest of the morning we spent clipping, pruning, moving things around, and generally enjoying our little garden. We harvested some Russian kale for our supper.
We've got some carrots, chard, and garlic in there too. We harvested the garlic scapes last week. They've made cameo appearances in several salads and a very good frittata.
But of course we wouldn't want to be accused of laying about on a summer day, so Kelly painted the trim on the garage -- just another one of many steps in our garage rehab project. Then she tacked up some bright new material for drapes, and planted and re-installed the window boxes.
Those barrels in front have Kentucky Wonder and some kind of purple Italian pole beans, and sugar snap peas, which look like they're getting ready to pop.
Working in the dirt was a splendid way to spend the national holiday. Due to the city workers' strike in Toronto, the usual beachfront fireworks display was canceled -- a disappointment for many folks, but not us.
We just sat outside and watched a magical cloud show instead.
In May, I took a delegation of 16 Canadian church leaders, Southern and Indigenous partners, and KAIROS staff to Northern Alberta to visit the Athabasca Tar Sands. This was a very important step in work that we began couple of years ago, and that I first wrote about here last October.
The delegation's goal was to learn more about the impacts of these projects on the economy, the Boreal ecosystem, and the human communities that live in the region, in order to make a contribution to the public debate in Canada on the future of tar sands development. One of those communities is the indigenous community of Fort Chipewyan, built on the shore of Lake Athabasca at the mouth of the vast Athabasca delta, downstream from the tar sands mining projects near Fort McMurray. The people of Fort Chip are very concerned about the impacts of the projects on the river, the land, the animals, and their health. They want the projects to slow down until there can be complete and comprehensive environmental assessments, and they want to have a meaningful role in the debate about how, or even if, more development proceeds.
Early one Saturday morning we hopped into two small planes (a twelve-seater and a six-seater) for the hour long flight to Fort Chip. Here are four of our intrepid group at about 3500 feet. L-R: Fabricio Guaman, Mike Karikpo, Bishop Susan Johnson, and Rev. Bruce Adema.
We took a detour to fly over a number of oil sands projects, including the two oldest mines, Suncor and Syncrude, plus the newer Shell-Albian Sands mine and Suncor's in situ Firebag project, so named because it is adjacent to the Firebag River. You can see pictures of the Suncor and Syncrude mines and get a sense of their ecological impacts here. In situ extraction, which accounts for 80% of the recoverable oil in the region, looks far more like conventional oil extraction, but is not without controversy. It uses massive amounts of relatively clean natural gas to produce steam that is injected into the ground under high pressure, forcing the thick bitumen to the surface. There are questions about the amount of water being used (though it is highly salinated, not potable, water) and there are concerns about the integrity of the shale system and the aquifers under the pressure of all this steam. It's also been shown in other areas of Alberta that the so-called "minimal" surface displacement caused by conventional oil or in situ tar sands extraction disrupts natural wildlife paths. These fine folks saw all this as we flew north, and they smelled the sulphur, coke, and petroleum that comes from the synthetic crude process as well.
Fort Chipewyan was a very different experience -- in many ways, no less brutal, but also a deeply moving experience of tremendous generosity on the part of the community. I don't think we were quite prepared for it.
After meeting with leadership from the four communities that are represented in Fort Chip --Mikisew Cree, Athabasca Chipewyan, Dene, and Metis-- we went on a tour of the town with Oliver Glanfield, who moved to Fort Chip more than 40 years ago while working with the Forestry Department. Oliver is now kind of the town historian, and his wife, Marjorie, is the Anglican priest.
He took us to a replica of one of the orginal Hudson's Bay Company buildings, which now serves as the community museum, and to the Anglican Church. Then we went to the Roman Catholic church. This is one of the oldest churches in Alberta, and for many many years the interior walls were covered in plain plywood sheets. But the Elders knew that there was something underneath those panels, and they were uncovered to reveal renderings of scriptural texts and the stations of the cross done in fish oil paint that had been tinted with natural dyes. One of the pictures below is in the Dene language; the other in Cree:
The ceiling was absolutely magnificent, painted with blueberry-fish oil paint:
That evening, we had a community dinner and discussion with people who told us the difficult stories of their lives. They feel caught in a system where an industry that helps pay their bills (some in the community work for the tar sands industry, the First Nations have companies that provide services, and there is some financial compensation for use of traditional territories) also seems to be harming them. The fish that is coming out of the water looks and tastes different than it used to, and so does the moose that they hunt as a main source of protein. There has been a well-documented but not well-understood cluster of rare cancer that many in the community believe to be related to the health of the river. One woman who had recently moved back to Fort Chipewyan after years away noted that she and her sister in Edmonton are the only surviving members of her family. Their four sisters, who stayed their entire lives in Fort Chip, had all died.
These stories were hard to hear, but they were honestly and generously shared. We experienced that generosity all weekend, in conversations, in a deeply moving ecumenical service on Sunday, in a farewell lunch of bison chili and roast moose. One of the most powerful examples of it was this performance by a group of young Jingle Dancers, girls between 6 and 13 years of age. The Jingle Dance, which is originally Anishnabe in origin, is a healing dance which, once taken on by a girl, is a great responsibility. The girls pick what symbols they want on their dresses, and make them with mothers. Right now, these dancers have 75 jingles on their dresses, but they will eventually have 365.
In the evening, we went for a walk around a few of the lakes in the region.
A coyote had run across the beach a few minutes before us.
Loons called.
We witnessed a sunset at 10:30 pm.
And were profoundly grateful for what we learned, and who we met. Bishop Susan Johnson and me with Cynthia Simpson, Jingle Dance instructor, tour guide extraordinaire, and all-around amazing woman.
They gave us gifts when we arrived; mine was a small beaded moosehide wallet made by Cynthia's mother. Traditionally cured over fire, it has a smokiness that is released as you rub the soft hide between your fingers. I must do that two or three times a day as I reach for my subway pass or debit card. And every time, I am right back in Fort Chip with those amazingly generous people who are asking for nothing more than the right to be heard.
Here are some pictures of our garden, taken over the past couple of weeks. Our garden is behind lots of the gardens in this city, but having grown up in Newfoundland, where it snows on May 24 weekend, it is a miracle that we have all this stuff growing, no matter when it decides to shoot up.
Birds are included for those who need the bird fix. Last weekend we saw hummingbirds! Goldfinches have been pretty steady, as have those purple finches that are actually red.
We had a big party for my birthday last year, and Kelly made loot bags. One of the items was a little flipbook of Harry bouncing around the bed chasing reflected sunshine, one of his favourite activities. The book was a big hit, and not just with its target audience of those 4' and under.
As time marches forward, technology follows, and herewith we present the Harry Kitten flipbook 2.0, the 2009 edition. Here he is in his preferred location, the front hall, as I prepare to leave for work.
I seem to have a reputation as a list-maker. I accept that. Until yesterday, however, when I was contemplating taking over the blog while Sara is in Alberta, it never really hit me how many lists I actually have. Although I think I've always made lists, intensive list-making seems to have started during my library school years. Something to do with bibliographies and the Dewey Decimal system, perhaps. I love the smell of Dewey in the morning.
Lists in books: Every book I’ve read since September 1991 Every guest we’ve had since October 1994 and what we fed them Every birthday and Christmas gift given and received since October 1991 Bank account transactions
Re-usable lists in Word documents: Christmas card list with addresses Christmas gift list, arranged by location of recipients Packing lists for trips: one for Kelly travelling alone, one for Sara travelling alone, one for travelling together, and one for road trips Monthly budget
Revisable lists in Word documents: Telephone numbers Birthdays Things to do in the garden by month Movies to rent when they come out on DVD Music ideas for various mixed CDs Books I want to read
Permanent lists on scraps of paper: Radio stations that play classical music Good music heard on the radio Good snacks Long-term “to do” list TV shows we tape Neighbours on our street (so we can remember their names) Christmas dinner menu for two Things to which Claire is allergic What's in the freezer
Current lists (on scraps of paper): Stuff to do in May when we rent a car Movies we want to rent – list to be transferred to Word movie list Plants we need to buy for the garden this spring Menu ideas for company coming in June Groceries (on chalk board – transferred to scrap paper when grocery shopping is imminent)
Weekly list: Cleaning
List in my head: Desert island CDs
Upcoming list: Favourite 10 classical composers
Historical lists: Restaurants and attractions in London, with websites, phone numbers, and addresses, arranged by location Everything we accomplished in March when we took a week off to refinish our floors Packing lists from when we moved to Ontario 22 years ago. We mailed everything in boxes (when there was still a cheap rate); each box had a code name and a list of contents
Lists I wisely never started because I knew that there would be no question about whether I was obsessive: Chocolate bars widely available, with tasting notes The number of every TTC subway car, bus or streetcar I got on
This list doesn’t include lists at work, of which there are quite a few. It also doesn't include pre-made lists (e.g. books written by Terry Pratchett, NPR stations, environmentally-friendly pesticides, etc.)
I bet I’ve forgotten some lists. If I think of them, I'll make a list.
I remember, the day after we bought our house with its little square of backyard, looking down on its general vicinity from our Airbus's gradual ascent out of Toronto. My brother, my cousin, and I were heading home to Newfoundland for our grandfather's funeral (he was 103!) and I was gazing down fondly on the idea of a 30 x 100 lot and imagining what Kelly and I would do on that little patch of green.
We'd plant flowers, like my grandmother did, and vegetables, like Kelly's. We'd stick up a birdfeeder and see what flew by.
What a lot has, for a little urban patch of green. A patch that luckily happens to be on the migratory path of quite a few species and, with its nearby ravines, is probably a good resting place after the flight across Lake Ontario. We've aided and abetted by growing berry-bearing shrubs and native woodland plants, and putting in a bird bath with moving water.
Of course we have house sparrows, but we've also got chipping, white-throated, and white-crowned sparrows. Purple, house and American gold finches make you forget about the starlings. Often, grackles. Once, rusty blackbirds. Northern flickers, hairy and downy woodpeckers, and a pair of pileated woodpeckers. Chickadees a go-go, hermit thrushes, and veeries. Once, a stunned ovenbird. Once a redtailed hawk and twice, a Cooper's. Fat little whitebreasted nuthatches, chipper winter wrens, and pugnacious brown creepers. American robins, red-winged blackbirds, blue jays, Northern cardinals. Several generations of mourning doves. American crows, ring-billed gulls, brown-headed cowbirds. Swarms of dark eyed juncoes in their little tuxedoes. Canada goose. And then today's gorgeous number 34: Baltimore Oriole.
I caught it in the corner my eye while looking out the bedroom window and talking to Kelly.
She probably won't want to admit it, but she was excited too. "Can you get a picture?" We hung up, I grabbed the binoculars and the long lens, and I crept outside, all the while fighting off a determined Daisy, who has a similar interest in birdwatching.
And there he was, enjoying some tasty treat in the silver maple. At one point, he looked right back down at me. I thought he might fly away but perhaps he's used to humans with strange optical attachments. He just looked the other way, and continued eating.
I counted the bird, and my blessings, and left him to it.
Seven years ago, when the job I was in came to an end and the future seemed uncertain, my friend and colleague Susie gave me a copy of Marge Piercy's poem, "To Be of Use." It gave me hope and broke my heart at the same time:
The people I love the best jump into work head first without dallying in the shallows and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight. They seem to become natives of that element, the black sleek heads of seals bouncing like half submerged balls.
I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart, who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience, who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward, who do what has to be done, again and again.
I want to be with people who submerge in the task, who go into the fields to harvest and work in a row and pass the bags along, who stand in the line and haul in their places, who are not parlor generals and field deserters but move in a common rhythm when the food must come in or the fire be put out.
The work of the world is common as mud. Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust. But the thing worth doing well done has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident. Greek amphoras for wine or oil, Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums but you know they were made to be used. The pitcher cries for water to carry and a person for work that is real.
You can't quite see us all properly in this staff portrait because we were too busy goofing around, but these are people I work, or used to work, with. Almost all of them would meet Marge Piercy's criteria. Several of them are now gone as a result of our recent downsizing.
Hanadi, who took me to the Middle East, sat on an ancient stone wall and hugged me while I cried at the injustice of a new one built of concrete ... and then swam off confidently, pulling me along in her wake so that I would experience and understand the hard and persistent work of resistance.
Dale, who worked in the mud and the muck of the Alberta tar sands with me, who brought vision and passion to our work when the rest of us were tired.
Rusa, who lives in the fields, hoeing and harvesting with other justice-seekers; who has no time for parlor generals and is far more powerful than they are, anyway.
I'm not sure what our work will look like, or feel like, without them.
