Update for my online and facebook friends

I have been tweaking my blog – with the intention of posting my blogs as videos from now on. Anyhow, a lot of people commented on my blog lately, thinking they were new posts. While I really appreciate and want feedback – the video revisions are still in the works. Once I have the bugs all ironed out, I'll be starting a completely new blog/vlog. I suspect that'll happen before the end of August. Until then, thanks for your comments, input and feedback. ~ Lauchlin

Railways

Travelling from Toronto to Moncton return on VIA Rail was an experience I had been excited to undertake for quite some time. Booking tickets online was really easy and earned me extra points on my VIA Prēference plan. Picking up my tickets to Montréal and Moncton at an electronic kiosk at Union Station in Toronto was really, really, really easy and convienient – and also garnered me more bonus points.

First class from Toronto to Montreal was disappointing for the ambience of my car, a lack of electronic entertainment, and non-stop insipid conversations by fellow travellers. Toronto’s first class passengers can start their trip well, in an exclusive lounge on the departures level – free beverages, leather furniture, internet hook-ups, newspapers, and more. Downfalls were far outweighed by excellent seat-side food and beverage service. I tend to like packaged food on commercial transport, and VIA’s staff returned often with complementary drinks, treats and snacks. At the start of this rather long trip, one VIA staffer noticed how much space a lady beside me was hogging, and offered me a larger space alone with more room to stretch out.

I would rate this VIA1 ride a 10 out of 10, if VIA improved carriage décor and reduced travel time. Until then, I would suggest this ride to anyone who wants to have a meal, relax, and get away from their office for a while. If you’re in a rush – there are plenty of cost effective flights Toronto to Montréal. It seemed ridiculous to me that some business people tried to conduct regular business with colleagues; when it’s difficult to write, and one could use their time better getting to know one’s coworker on a personal level.

Changing trains at Montréal took a minute, as I was uncertain as to where to check-in – but soon I saw a little kiosk for travellers with sleeper car reservations. You choose between a first, second, or third supper-seating at that kiosk, and are invited to enter the first class lounge to wait for your train. TIP Choose the last dinner in order to have time to clean up and to feel unrushed to finish and get out of the dining car. There was a little problem with VIA station staff while boarding at Bonaventure Station, but Montréal station’s lounge experience made it easier to bear.

When I first entered my double sleeper car with private bath and shower – I saw that there would be insufficient space for a second passenger. I wished I’d paid the 15 per cent extra to ensure a private room. Fortunately, reservations were low enough, so it was unnecessary to double-up. My room was well laid out, but tiny for leg room – very tiny. My room was also missing its plastic door-key – and they’d forgotten to stock it with bath towels and shampoo. I only realized this on the trip back. Fortunately, I’d brought my own towels. Still, I have this nagging feeling that VIA Rail believes I have stolen their towels.

Having had an excellent hot shower, shave and change of clothes; I then sauntered to the lounge car. It seemed difficult starting a conversation with any other passengers, so I enjoyed a cold beer and read more newspapers while waiting for dinner. Once called to dinner – I found the ambience of the dining car sufficient. Waiting staff were prompt, and efficient. Fixed menu and prices were adequate – about $18 – but the wine I tried – horrible. VIA’s menus for each month are available online, so, I already knew what to expect.

After dinner, I decided a movie being shown in the lounge car was unworthy of my time; so, I walked back to my car to prepare for an early sleep. Dressed in my Cary Grant pyjamas, I read by a muted bedside light, and fell asleep easily.

Sleeper cars on VIA are prestocked with bottled water, handsoaps, closet and cabinet space with hangers and holders, two sets of ear plugs, pillows, sheets, face and hand towels, and some reading material – as I noted, my room was missing bathtowels and shampoo. Taking a shower was easy, with plenty of hot water and good pressure. Water ponds on the all-in-one shower/toilet floor for almost an hour, making walking tricky afterwards though. Washrooms make a constant hissing sound, which is probably a negative pressure in toilets and drains to keep odours from entering cars — a sound which might bother some sleepers. TIP - have the porter show you how to operate washbasin taps as it is not so easy.

My room also had a thermostat which could be set between 18°C to about 26°C.

VIA trains travelling to Canada’s Maritimes are called the OCEAN or EASTERLY. There are ten to twelve sleeping rooms per car. Here’s an important TIP – book room number 5 or 6. Stresses in trains cause more noises in rooms at either end of cars.

My sleep was fabulous. I woke up during a long stop in Campbellton, New Brunswick. I was overwhelmed with memories as Campbellton was where I lived for two summers after leaving my parents’. A pretty good and early breakfast in the dining car was lovely as we coasted along the Bay of Chaleur. Wait staff were very good on this leg of my trip. A similar stop in Miramichi brought back many more memories as I had also worked there on several engineering projects as well.

Moncton station and a transfer to a bus. Well, I’m really pissed that New Brunswick’s regional bus service called Acadiən [note the inverted 'e'], and VIA have refused to coordinate their schedules. A bus leaves Moncton for Fredericton – my destination – moments before the train pulls in. Still, this gave me almost five hours to walk around Moncton after getting my bus ticket and storing my duffle bag in a locker – for an unrefundable two dollars! I had also lived at various times in Moncton, and was somewhat disappointed with its direction for its Main Street development. My walk to and inside of Dieppe’s Champlain Mall – where I had also worked on a few construction projects – had the added benefit of inspiring a new film script — which I’m rather excited to finish writing! [more on that in a later posting]

My bus ride to Fredericton allowed me to observe results of a massive highway project I had worked so hard on – and to see a few wild animals in the woods beside it – black bears, moose, deer, and racoons.

Travel points are added by VIA to an account every Wednesday, but it took an extra week for mine, as I had travelled just before a Wednesday. People working VIA’s toll-free lines were really nice, and helped me book my return trip. There is no train to New Brunswick on Tuesdays by-the-way.

My bus ride back to Moncton was smooth. Moncton’s station – shown in the picture – was desolete when I checked-in and offered no chance of an electronic kiosk check-in. A very long walk to my carriage annoyed me slightly. Unfortunately, I was booked in a room, over an axle, which seemed to have damaged bearings. An irregular noise from that axle and an unusual sway pattern ruined my trip back. [I actually have a recording of the sound.] Dining car wait staff were noisy — whistling, talking so loudly they drowned out table chatter — and had a lack of prepared meals, which left me offering to change my order to accommodate others who were unable to eat fish. I risked trying a different wine than the previous ride, and was sweetly surprised by how good it was. Sleeping was near impossible due to those axle noises, despite ear plugs; so I slept only about three hours or less. Magazines on scriptwriting made time pass easily.

I want to note that although there is a handset for calling onboard porters – these attendents remained nearly invisible during my trips, yet I still handed each one a $5 tip while disembarking. I was left with a distinct feeling that they are simply putting in time, and dislike both their jobs and clients. [One named Janet on the way down was very friendly, but Vernon on the trip back was less so.] Onboard all of these trains, I was offered and accepted the chance to fill out service quality surveys. It is doubtful VIA acts on these comments though. VIA could save paper and time if clients could enter their ideas electronically from a keyboard — filling out little spaces with a dull pencil on a rocking train is difficult.

When changing trains at Montréal, it was difficult to get a porter to check and carry-on my dufflebag – which costs $3 by the way – so I paid $3 to store my bag at the station. This gave me a couple of hours to run around downtown Montréal, visit my alma mater, Concordia University, and to make a few calls to friends in Montréal. Again, VIA’s Panorama Lounge for first class passengers was a lovely touch, offering me a needed coffee, and a chance to pick up the day’s papers.

Riding back to Toronto was not as nice as before. Meal service was poorly timed, food was badly prepared, staff rarely returned with drinks or similar – and some passengers were absolute bores. Somehow, some of them thought it wise to discuss confidential business information in public, leaving me a possibility to overhear – not my choice, I wanted to sleep – operational and government information that probably I should not have. Fortunately for those dolts, as a journalist, my personal ethics will not allow me to repeat what I overheard.

Overall, I rate the experience a 9 out of 10 – more because it met my expectations, gave me time alone to think, and was educational. There are still many wrinkles in VIA’s system, but the good things helped smooth them away. If you need to travel from Toronto or Montreal – based on cost, and time, I would suggest air travel. If you have someone lovely to travel with, and you want some time together, take the train.

Entrance

Okay – I’ve had time to breathe – albeit through a plugged nose. This post will loosely bring together my posts of last January second, Mon pays, ce n’est pas un pays; and that of last November seventh, Confronting nature.

Confronting nature gave a few definitions — country – state – nation. Mon pays was intended to begin a sense of ghettoization and exclusion.

Much contemporary theory of immigration reduces to choices of pluralism, integration or the ‘melting pot’ scenarios. Some argue that pluralism results from a strong sense of community and the preservation of culture, along with humankind’s need for continuity and the familiar. This is true to a great degree – but usually has ignored the fact that ‘little Italys’ and ‘China towns’ evolved more because of prejudice and necessity than cultural preservation. Xenophobic parochialism leads immigrants into forced communities for mostly economic survival as opposed to culture preservation.

Integration is a word used by people who in reality want immigrants assimilated, and refuse to compromise their norm – whether it proves an improvement or not. Assimilation can only rarely lead to a full expression of human nature and potential.

There are those who willingly travel towards assimilation – with optimism, foresight or from dread, and fatalism. This assimilation becomes a ‘melting pot’ and is historically only an idealism of the United States’ model for the first two centuries of its existence – or less. Definitely, recent emigrants entering the US for the most part have been seeking to be called ‘Americans.’ This model is held-up gleefully by ‘Americans’ as a perfect state, but is as repugnant to others as melted candlewax would be served as a soup. Only the starving might try to eat it.

A fourth model, less often considered is that of a mosaic. Where individual cultural elements are wedded into a creation of artistic wonder and beauty when contemplated from afar and up close. Not only is there choice of maintaining freely identity – but there exists an exchange of identities, without a grotesque blurring of original intent. For example, you can trade your heirloom recipe for steps to some tribal dance. There will always be some fusion – but a fusion which guards the original recipe with fervour. The fusion binds the brighter coloured tiles. The real difference is that the momentum is not towards a unifying theory of purpose – but an individual growth that is parallel with time and human nature. This mosaic is not a static image that the semantic of the word ‘mosaic’ conjures up. It is a three dimensional holographic image created of minute pixels, which glow and radiate and struggles to become a living being, very much modern as well as contemporary – in reality, timeless. And timelessness is freedom.

Eternity

If you have looked at my blog's keywords, you should have noticed that I am using three repeated themes – humanity, love, compassion – and that is what I believe to be true. It has been nearly a month since my last blog because I have been thinking a lot about this one – the other ones were mindless (it’s a zen thing). I have been trying to tie together my previous posts, two or three at a time, to help make my sentiments clearer to all. This post will be like that, except I am adding a little extra on mortality.

The three posts I am bringing together are the ones of June 26, 2006 ‘You’ve got a friend;’ December 11, 2006 Paving the road to perdition; and December 19, Maybe I can find a place I can call my home.

In the first, I wrote about Sophia Anna Labeau. Sophia was a friend I met through internet chat. We had an intellectual kinship that was magical, and tried to keep each other company while we looked for our place in this world. When Sophia was eight, her father killed her mother and then himself – and Sophia spent many difficult years between foster-homes. She finished school in New York and landed work with an important accounting firm in London, United Kingdom. We never met face to face. She died almost two years ago from complications after her appendix had ruptured – at 30.

Maybe this elegy I wrote for a commemoration held during the sprinkling of her ashes in Central Park will help you to understand some of my other posts better.

Elegy for Sophia Anna Labeau

September 17, 1974 Queens, NY –

February 23, 2005, London, UK

An elegy is a selfish thing. Let me be selfish.

You don’t know me. I don’t know you.

I had a glimpse of Sophia’s life. You had more.

But how many memories equal love?

Let me be selfish. My elegy is one story.

Friday we laughed and laughed. Maria called, Shelley called.

I the communicator, did not listen. Saturday, Sunday, Monday passed.

Thank you Shelley. I don’t know you.

Thank you for writing. Oh, poor Sophia.

The next Sunday I reached for a Christian Bible.

I am an atheist. I read in John.

Greater love hath no man than this,

That a man lay down his life for his friends.

I sat deep in my chair. ‘Take me for Sophia’s sake.’

Something – who knows what? A refusal.

My gaze turned left. Sophia!

The most beautiful woman I have Never seen.

She spoke one sentence. Then went away.

‘We will have an eternity together.’

Thank you Shelley. I don’t know you.

Thank you for writing. Oh, poor Sophia.

I am too clumsy to find something as big as eternity.

Sophia will see the humor in that. Sophia has a great sense of humor.

Sophia said, ‘Lauchie, you’re adorable.’ Sophia said, ‘Lauchie, I love you.’

If you know Sophia – when you see her,

Tell her ‘Lauchie can’t find eternity.’ She’ll say, ‘Awwww.’

An elegy is a selfish thing. Let me be selfish.

I love you, Sophia. I love you for an eternity.

But how many memories equal love?

Padua – March, 2005

Sophia loved Central Park, New York; Bodiam Castle, England; violets and lilies; the color green; sewing and crochet; Tears for Fears - the hockey thing may have been a joke. She was always shy but she defended her friends. She volunteered at homeless shelters on the weekends. She made baby blankets for a local hospital.

humanity – compassion – love

Sanction

In the autumn of 1979, going to the top floor of the Chateau Frontenac in Quebec City, walking to the end of the corridor, opening the windows and letting the crisp air of the Saint Lawrence River wash over me – was illuminating. A sense of romanticism whelmed up in me, and my taste for bigger cities intensified.

That was the year of the run-up to the 1980 Sovereignty Referendum in the province of Quebec. Real pragmatic problems between ‘English’ Canada and the ‘French’ were familiar to me. Going to rallies, a Gille Vigneault concert, and talking to Quebecers along the Saguenay River basin started convincing me of the real need for them to achieve stronger autonomy. Even while I was in a drunken stupor, and some rather active young Sovereigntists ‘jokingly’ wrapped my head in toilet tissue and set it on fire – I was becoming more convinced they were on the right path.

As the vote went to the ‘no’ side during the referendum night, I knew the anguish of the ‘yes’ side.

When, in 1994, I moved to Ottawa, I soon realized that I needed to be in Quebec for the next referendum. So, I moved to Montreal, thinking it would be a good time and a good place to be studying journalism – and it was. I was sympathetic to the 'Oui' cause - but hoped to remain objective and neutral. As I looked into the issues and personalities, I understood that the power brokers of the Quebec sovereignty movement were motivated by dark racism and financial greed. My values, that the Quebec region could prosper better without the rest of Canada were proven wrong. Or more correctly, I knew it wouldn’t be a better place under sovereignty – because the philosophy of the power-brokers was divergent from the philosophy of the masses. I believe the masses understood this, and this is why the vote came in on the ‘Non’ side once more.

As I stayed on in Quebec to finish my studies, I could see daily examples of bigotry – not only anti-English, but anti anything not ‘French.’ I suffered greatly economically, and emotionally because of these discriminations.

Today, in 2007, we may well see a ground-swell of sentiments that force a new vote – possibly not in referendum form – that will again permit Quebec to negotiate near perfect autonomy or sovereignty. Not all the factors have been satisfied, but the rest of Canada seems to be doing very little to turn the tide.

Eastern Canada supported the West in the earliest days of Confederation. Educators, workers, technology, money; all moved from the more firmly established East – along with the European immigrants and Chinese arriving at both coasts. That is true Federalism – the strong helping the weak to build a larger and better community — the disadvantaged working for themselves and the advantaged. This unique cultural mosaic of sharing and exchanging that is diverse from the United States model of the 'melting pot.' Canadians and immigrants have a fierce sense of individuality, sustainability and a pride in their personal survival ability. Those going to the US are willing to surrender their past to become branded Americans.

I am writing from first-hand knowledge, and a long interest in the situation; that the artificial protectionism of the French language in Quebec under various laws passed there is little better than, if not complete, fascism. And I hate it. There are millions of reasons for the government not to interfere in both the marketplace and the evolution of a culture – in particular its language. Creating laws regarding language in commercial signage is contrary to the principles of free-markets and capitalism. It is also contrary to the survival of a living language. No one person arrived one day on Earth speaking 'perfect' French. It is a living language that drew – like English – from many sources. By defining what is French, under the malicious guise of saving it; they are in fact stifling it and killing it.

It is this thought that teared my eyes the last time I stood on the Plains of Abraham — not the bitter wind I love so much.

Approval

Each day I want to die. Trying to live each day thinking that I could die or be killed at any moment, similar to as what I imagined some samurai to believe, led me to an experience of kensho. That’s not what I mean when I write that ‘each day I want to die.’

My life is not a suffering of physical pain nor intellectual hell. Many days have been filled with happiness, energy, spirituality and progress. Yet, each day I want to die. There is no overwhelming depression — no hopes of beginning a new nor different life. No rebirth, no resurrection, no reincarnation.

I am uncertain as to why. Today, it is maybe due mostly to murkiness. Not a murkiness of resolving the past nor a murkiness accompanying any trepidation for the future. I do not know. There is a dichotomy of clarity to blindness that I am unable to resolve.

My room is smoke of resin incense and perfumes of spices.

With the outdoor temperature here today – cool, fresh – I recall driving between Fredericton and Ottawa. I had driven about 1000 km non-stop from Fredericton to Ottawa to find an apartment – and was then returning the same 1000 km; and was at an interchange of highways in Montréal. Maybe it was Christmas Eve 1994? Loreena McKennitt’s song Dicken’s Dublin (The Palace) was playing. My future was wide open, unknown, mysterious, unlimited – and I had no fear, only joy. There was such clarity in that unknown.

Resin and spices, incense and perfume.

My life has been full. I am satisfied. No doubt there is more to come, and I have no fear. Still, I want to die. No emptiness, no sense of solitude, abandonment, regrets.

Resins and spices.

Resin and spice.

Lucidity

Mr Estabrooks strode in the wake of his reputation – built of myth and personality. He was my Woodworking teacher during three years of middle-school. I wanted Home Economics, but males were refused cooking, home management, sewing; things that would have served me well after leaving home. Because ‘shop’ classes were mandatory – we knew Mr Estabrooks’ tutelage.

We learned from predecessors, he was Chromedome. A white and tight bit of hair over his lip reflected that which circumscribed his cranium. I felt he’d had some military experience based on his moustache style. He was old school. I realize now that he was from the ‘master and apprentice’ system. He told us to never quote him, because 99 per cent of the time, we’d get it wrong. Watches could catch up on shop machinery he also said. He had no need of one. He was a walking metronome – his music being buzzing saws and drills and sanders and joiners and planers and lathes – a mechanical orchestra. He was Maestro.

I, apprentice, loved wood-shop prior to entering it. I peeked through its windows the summer before school. Smell intoxicating – wood dust, pitch, paint, varnish. Textures and sounds of wood as sensual as nothing else. Sunlight made brighter as it cascaded over pine, oak, maple, and mahogany. Mysterious looking templates, giant compasses for drawing on wood – but – no books.

His lesson plans were precise. Lessons professed over and over for twenty-eight years, for six to ten classes a year – plus night school for adults. This rigid style was distant from those artsy-fartsy experimental teaching techniques of the 60s and 70s most of my classmates had known til now. Rumours circulated that his rigid way was due to regret. Regret of killing a girl in a car accident of some sort – doubtful. Boys became one type in his class – fearful. It was not respect – they feared this god of wood.

Most handsaws have kerf. This is a spreading out of a blade’s teeth to either side of a saw’s faces in an alternating fashion to reduce the possibility of its blade binding in the groove. This leaves a slightly wider cut than the thickness of the blade. For very fine cuts, some handsaws had little if any kerf. These are known as flush-cut saws. We toiled at workbenches of four students each – with about eight workbenches in our class. One day, Chromedome passed us, holding up a handsaw so we could see its kerf. ‘Did you all see its kerf?’ he demanded. ‘Raise your hand if you saw it.’ All hands went up.

‘Circular saw blades have kerf, too’ he instructed. He picked one out of about 40 centimetre diameter. He passed my bench first – held that shiny steel blade close to my face – said nothing – continued around the shop. ‘Did you all see the kerf in this blade?’ Everyone raised a hand, except for one pupil. I thought sunlight had obscured my view, but wanted to be sure to recognize kerf later. He smacked in disgust, and slowly passed that blade very close to all of our faces again – returned to the front of the shop. ‘Everyone see it this time?’ All hands went up – except mine. Trepidation seized my classmates. We dreaded asking him to repeat something.

He barked that he had never-ever had to show that blade more than two times. He passed – held – showed – asked. Had we all seen this blade’s kerf? I hadn’t. I felt slightly retarded.

Deliberately, he explained that no student had ever not seen kerf in that circular saw blade. Yet, he gazed into my eyes in a satisfied and understanding manner. He went on. He found it odd everyone had testified to seeing kerf, because that particular blade had none. It was a flush-cut model. I never had to work very hard in wood-shop again, but I did.

Homeland

The direction for this blog entry, should be about three things I intertwine – immigration, internet, semantics of ‘country, nation, state’ – into a Gordian knot. I start with; country, state, nation. In a geopolitical context, my definitions include – Populace, Territory, Government or Law, Autonomy.

Country

My use of ‘country’ includes all four. A country has an ever-present populace (An island occupied for only three days can not be a country.). A population – a number – might vary, but there’s always someone. There is a defined piece of terra firma – territory. There is a system of government or law – also accepting anarchy. Autonomy might not seem perfect, but is substantial. We can estimate about 190 to 200 countries. This fluctuates with time, and perception. China’s government considers Taiwan to be part of its territory – much of the world considers Taiwan an autonomous country. Similar anomolies exist.

State

A ‘state’ has populace, territory, government or law; but is lacking in substantial or any autonomy. It is easy to consider The United States of America, where each State must surrender a lot of its autonomy to Washington. More difficult is convincing a Scot that Scotland is a ‘state’ within the United Kingdom. Most Scots I’ve communicated with, would call Scotland a ‘country.’

Nation

‘Nation’ though, has autonomy – maybe restricted autonomy – but is unlimited by territory. This concept is inherent in nature, and inherent for the majority. Historically European and otherwise ‘warlord’ traditions of marking-out unnatural confines based on resources, greed, or similar – was extended by colonizing during the previous half-millennium; yet was never fully integrated in a sustainable manner globally. North American Indians typically reject ‘white men’s’ need to draw borders. Islam is more than organized religion, their bible dictates everyday aspects of living – and is a universal law, not one confined by geography. Populated areas exist without name or government. Forcing Hindus and Sihks into accepting artificial geographical confines of Pakistan, India and Kasmir / Jammu in 1948 proved a grevious affront to nature.

With all of this, I am trying to affirm two rather important realizations I have had. One, the internet is a nation. It brings together people of common interests, beliefs, cultures. There exists an increased potential of communicating with a larger group of like-minded individuals – with a corollary of an increased chance of encountering idiots. It is difficult to limit it based on laws, or principles of economics; notwithstanding, a movement by governments to do so. A conflict of nature and human desire to control. Two, a potential for international immigration to be understood in terms other than ‘integration,’ ‘melting-pot,’ and ‘pluralism.’ More in terms of ‘assimilation’ versus the ‘mosaic.’

Sentient

People like what they are familiar with. To me, this is as near a universal truth as ever can be found.

As part of my lessons, I ask my students to use three or four adjectives to describe a prescribed list of objects. Then, we evaluate the sophistication of their adjective vocabulary – and more interestingly, I interpret these objects as if they were dream images. Having done this with about nearly a thousand students, I like to think I have become quite proficient at interpreting the symbols.

My students are impressed with how much I can tell about their personalities – lives – intellect, from twelve or sixteen words. An important part of this exercise, is to indicate, that during a communication, if a speaker selects the most precise words possible, and their listener is a trained or sensitive one; that the communication enters the sublime.

Nancy Ruth is obviously an excellent listener. I intentionally buried my preoccupation with a comparison of beauty and love in my previous post. She came very close to defining it as a concern for the æsthetic. That is exactly where my mind was when I wrote the post – and thereby renewed some faith and conviction I have in human communication.

Finding a particular state of zen known in Japanese as kensho, is important to me. Surrendering the familiar for what appears to be a calm chaos is frightening. I am not physically ready for this. Mentally I am. It is my desire, because I undertstand this process will amplify my absorption and appreciation for all that is æsthetic.

The æsthetic is not only beauty – but of course a response to any stimulus – revolting or stupefying. Your finding revulsion or fear to darkness and pain, might be nostalgic for the next. Ceremony, habit, tradition are comforts – and surrendering them for an unknown is a sacrifice and a suffering.

Attachment to rules and limits, that are only inventions of others, is contrived — resulting in tension, hypercorrectionism, unnecessary or diminished judgment. Judging for survival is a natural urge – judging by prejudice is not judging, it is an unhealthful attachment to what is familiar. Attachment to rules, traditions and similar also promotes discipline and society, and should not be ignored. There are an elite who can know both sides of this attachment. When there are those who have no access to nutrition - your fasting will do little to help them. They might think you a fool.

Dividend

Yesterday’s blog got me wondering about time value of money. How much would that $6000 of 1979 be worth in 2006? Canadian websites are great. A Bank of Canada website gave me a beautiful tool for at least ballparking a comparison. Using a Consumer Price Index relative to the Canadian market – that $6000 would be equal to about $16,666.67.

This change from 6000 to nearly 17,000 may seem a lot – but it speaks very well of the Canadian economy. We can see that inflation has been moderate to low relative to other so-called developed countries. Of course there are other factors to be considered like quality of life and work. Yet, I am satisfied with this estimate.

That was not the first time I had worked for wages. I had some experience delivering newspapers as a pre-teen and teenager, working as a camp counsellor in my teens, working in a large grocery store during high school, some construction labour experience, some income through photography, retail store work and others. With nine children – I have five sisters and three brothers – my parents were unable to give us large hand-outs of money, although there was almost always some small allowance. So I had a good concept of the importance and value of money.

Still, at 18 – almost 19 – years of age, having that $6000 in my backpocket had little importance. Today at 45 – almost 46 – years of age, having $17,000 in my wallet would … I am unable to imagine what that would be like. Now, I will be wondering what else it is that I am unable to imagine.

Currency