Making the future

“You can’t change history,” buddy tells me, as if that settles things once and for all. It’s hard to know exactly what is meant by these words, which are most commonly uttered by guys who came through the 20th century pretty comfortably and would prefer that things continue along more or less the same. My uncharitable interpretation is that it’s a sage-sounding way of saying that one doesn’t give a damn. It’s a rejection of empathy – a quasi-philosophical “I’m alright Jack.”

Essentialism

Chatting with my dad on the phone, trying to think of some good news to share, I mention that the swallows have come back. “Back to Capistrano?” he asks. As is often the case with his literary or musical allusions, I have no idea what he’s talking about. He sings a few bars, but it doesn’t ring any bells with me, so I have to look it up.

Back to the land again

by Rupert Jannasch
In December 1968, Country Guide magazine described a world awash in grain. Three years later, the first of several crop failures in the Soviet Union led to the emergency purchase of millions of tons of American wheat and corn. A spike in oil prices in 1973 launched the decade-long energy crisis. By the mid-1970s, Canada’s Consumer Price Index was increasing by about 10 percent per year.

Beware the Bolsheviks!

I had a chuckle recently listening to an archival news item on the radio, from November of 1983, when John Buchanan, then-premier of Nova Scotia, delivered a barn-burner of a speech in Amherst, N.S. Addressing the local Progressive Conservative Association, he succeeded in getting his audience riled up about a very pressing issue of the day: road signage.

My darling young one
The kid has an essay assignment for one of his classes, and during supper I am invited to provide some input. Wonderful, of course! What’s the topic? “Why young people should be optimistic about the future.” Oh man, that’s a doozy. In our time, it seems there’s a surge of optimism about the past – a collective nostalgia for some imaginary golden era – but the future is tougher.

Midwinter mix-up

Is it suppertime already? As the year winds down and the days grow shorter, I’m having trouble adjusting. The positive side of this seasonal shift is that there will be more time for cooking. In the summer, when everyone’s doing stuff outside, our main meal of the day sometimes gets pushed to 10 p.m.

Bellwether

Because we do not have a dishwasher in our house – at least, not a mechanical one – the theory and methodology of dishwashing is a recurring topic of conversation here. Having been brought up in a household that leaned toward the germophobic side of the hygiene spectrum, I’m a pretty devout rinser of dishes.

Remoteness and proximity

In the leadup to this fall’s federal election, the Federation of Canadian Municipalities (FCM) has just released a statement calling on all political parties to commit to greater support for rural communities. The FCM comes across as pretty friendly toward the Trudeau Liberals, giving them credit for promised spending on improved internet connectivity and rural infrastructure.

And the livin’ is easy – for some

We got a sweet, sweet rain the other night, starting just after supper. You could feel it coming, and then, when it began to soak in, there was the aroma of earthly contentment, like the smell of a baby’s scalp, as the hot soil was quenched – the juices flowing through plant cells, the dust and pollen washed down into the ground. After such a wet June, it was hard to believe we would need precipitation so soon, but need it we did – and need it we will, soon enough.

Memories of Peter deMarsh

For many of us, the news of the Ethiopian Airlines crash on March 10 would have registered only as a distant and abstract tragedy, except that 18 of the 157 doomed passengers were Canadians. When their names were read on the radio, the emotional synapses began firing in communities across the country.

Getting aboard

Amid a slew of spring meetings and conferences, I did some planning for a trip to attend an out-of-province event recently, and realized the schedule would actually make it feasible to take public transit – which is not the first option that occurs to us, living pretty far off the beaten path. Our road, this time of year, is little more than a beaten path – a muddy track gouged with ruts and pocked with craters, frequently requiring the driver to drop into first gear, while maintaining enough forward momentum to avoid bogging down.

A rooster in every pot

Sometimes, before I’ve even decided what to make for supper, I chop up a couple onions and throw them in a hot frying pan. Within a few minutes, people start showing up in the kitchen. “Mmm, smells great!” they say. “What are we having?” “Don’t know yet,” is my reply. “How about you leave me alone for a while, and we’ll see what happens.”

More variety (and varieties) on the dinner plate

I have been looking back at a tribute to Arthur Vesey that appeared in Rural Delivery 20 years ago, following his death at the age of 92. The company he founded, Vesey’s Seeds, was marking its 60th anniversary at that time.

A friend of mine recently cut off a couple of his fingers on the table saw. When I saw him a while afterwards, he still had his entire hand wrapped in bulky bandages, and he gingerly held it close to his body. (He has a couple of little kids, who were scrambling around nearby – and everyone knows that little kids have a knack for whacking whatever part of your body is particularly sensitive on any given day.)

Power fetish

When a major power grid failure hit Eastern Denmark and Southern Sweden on Sept. 23, 2003, leaving millions in the dark, a standby generator was fired up to provide electricity in Copenhagen, the Danish capital. This was unremarkable, except for the fact that the backup power source was a massive diesel unit that had been in service for 70 years.

Becoming home

    The government of P.E.I. recently launched a campaign urging Island expats to return to the province of their birth. At least, I assume that’s what they mean when they say they are targeting “Islanders living away.” Doesn’t that turn of phrase have a charmingly old-fashioned ring to it? Kind of like “living in sin.”