Ottawa Bus Crash


Monday morning a double-decker city transit bus collided with a passenger train in Ottawa.  Six killed and about 30 injured in one of those horrific things that happen in the world, in this case a little too close to home.  We’re going to overlook the tragedy for the time being and focus on what were the potential contributing factors as the Transportation Safety Board (TSB) sifts through several months worth of investigation.  By the way, the TSB is very thorough:  If there is a golden nugget, they’ll find it.

The OCTranspo bus, here, weighs in at 52,911 pounds, about 26 tons.  A passenger train weighs in around 60 tons per car, with the engine weighing around 268,800 pounds, or 134 tons.  Easy math, the bus will lose.  So will people walking on the tracks, or a car, or a tractor trailer full of steel beams.  The train is bigger, weighs more and can’t stop nearly as well as any bus, truck, snowmobile, ATV, hiker, moose, or scooter puke on a Vespa listening to Juice Newton bootlegs on his iPod with the volume up at 11. 

Train versus any thing usually ends poorly for the other thing.

A major contributing factor in Ottawa is what is called a grade crossing or a level crossing.  There are more than 40,000 of them in Canada, most of the white cross-buck warning, without lights, bells or barricades.  The vast majority are rural, off the beaten path and the locals know enough to stop, look and listen.  In urban areas, we get the full lights, bells and barricades treatment to keep us from being complete idiots.  Even then, there are idiots out there that this link gives you enough examples of just how dumb humans can be.

The fix is to keep trains away from vehicles.  Underpasses or overpasses cost money, but they work well at keeping the two apart.  High speed rail, by definition has no, or almost no level crossings to keep a 300 kilometer per hour passenger train away from everyone else.  They almost always have their own dedicated tracks to keep them away from other trains too, the engineering of complete separation ensuring more potential for safety.  Not safety as an absolute, but the potential for safety.  Barcelona is an example of the human overriding the potential for safety in high-speed rail accidents. 

Canada flirted with high-speed rail in the mid-60’s with the CN Turbo Train.  On its maiden trip, the Turbo clobbered truck at a level crossing near Kingston, ON, essentially pulling the plug on high-speed rail in Canada.  The costs were prohibitive to give the Turbo Train a dedicated, safe, right of way in the Quebec City-Windsor corridor.  Move the calendar to 2013 and the problem is still with us.  Land, bridges, overpasses, underpasses and infrastructure all cost a lot of money for very little visible return, except for that nebulous concept of safety.

Like pilots, train engineers and bus drivers, those people are always first at the accident and have a vested interest in things being as safe as we can make them.

The cheapest and fastest fix today is to legislate that any vehicle that carries more than 10 people or weighs more than 10 tons must come to a full stop at any railroad crossing, lights or not and only proceed when the way is clear.  It’s a simple, cheap fix the Provincial and Federal governments can put in place in a dozen phone calls, some emails and a couple of weeks work. 

Which is why it won’t be done.  Stop.  Look.  Listen.

Twelve Years Later


A dozen years after 9/11 and it is still weird seeing that date on the calendar.  There is a smaller psychic wobble now as we’ve moved on from 2001, not really healed, but at least being able to cope with how we feel about things.

Like most, we remember where we were when it happened, in our case on a flight to San Francisco from Ottawa, to start building out some Hands-On Labs for that little company called Microsoft.  The flight got as far as Lake Ontario, when it was told to turn around, go back to YOW, land, get the pax off and shut it down to await further instructions.  That’s all the flight crew knew.  I called home to a tearful spouse who told me the rest of the story:  A plane had crashed into the WTC in New York.  I passed that data to the other passengers and the flight attendant nearby, who passed it on to the crew.

Landing and disembarking, we were confronted with 3,000 deadly quiet others in the Ottawa Airport, staring open-mouthed at the TV screens, not making a sound, not comprehending what they were seeing as the second plane had just punched a hole in our collective innocence.  I got the bags and met Marylou at the curb.  We hustled home and parked on the sofa for the next two days, unbelieving, uncomprehending and confused.

To this day those scenes are burned into our minds as they should be.  They caused a ripple of hurt, anger and confusion as there was no valid reason for this to happen to us.  Or so we thought. 

We haven’t fixed any of it.  Some would say that the military-industrial-security complex that suddenly popped up made sure we would never feel safe again.  A fearful populace is a compliant populace who will pay for and demand every possible protection and agree to every possible intrusion on our privacy as long as the government promises to never let that happen again.  As long as we didn’t have to see a tower turn into powder and fall to the ground, we bent over.

A dozen years on now, we should revisit how we reacted and what has been done in our name to ‘protect’ us from that hurt. I’m not saying it was all good, nor all bad:  Like all humans making decisions on the fly we may have made mistakes that we should go back and look at again.

And at the same time, remember those who lost so much on September 11, 2001.

Ariel Castro Exits Stage Left, Feet First


Ariel Castro decided to take the coward’s way out on Monday, hanging himself in his cell, using a bed sheet to escape the 1,000 year sentence he received for ten years of kidnapping, raping and assaulting three women in Cleveland, Ohio.  This is the story, if you’re not up on the details.

Our commentary is not on the horrendous particulars, but on the application of Justice.  We’re using the upper-case J in justice for a reason.  Law is one thing, usually ordained and managed by the judiciary, endorsed by voters and at least conceptually messed with by politicians on our behalf. 

Justice is something else.

We have laws for just  about everything from the definition of Grade A eggs to how to settle fence disputes in the country.  Often there are minimum penalties, or scales of fines for everything that comes under the purview of the law.  Justice tends to be a little more on the Hammurabi Code side:  Eye for an Eye, an Ear for an Ear and so on.  If you vandalize my car, I’d get Justice if I trashed your car to an equal amount.

However, when the Law gets involved, sometimes Justice has to go blind.  We’ve moved away from Justice, in most cases for the overall good.  We can imagine the specter of a malpractice suit being settled by a family member with a bricklayer’s hammer and a surgeon’s hand , under the supervision of the court and think that perhaps this might not be good.  Entertaining as heck, but not really, socially, good.

Then there are monsters like Ariel Castro, or our two homegrown beasts, Clifford Olsen and Paul Bernardo who have crossed way over the line that we, as a society, have established as “Very, very Bad”

Estimates of how much it costs us, as taxpayers, to keep these monsters incarcerated vary widely from $30,000 to $140,000 per year.  They have to be treated with a modicum of civility, fed, housed securely, usually separate from the other prisoners, given medical care, education and at least the tiniest of steps towards rehabilitation, assuming we don’t execute them.  Even then, the bar to execution is set so high, that the legal fees incurred with mandatory appeals, easily quadruple the costs borne, before we even get to the intellectual point of is state-ordered execution the best we can do?

We prefer to ignore the arguments either for or against the Death Penalty.  There are sound arguments for and against it,  with greater minds that ours arguing passionately on both sides.  It is often too much of a Law discussion, while we are more concerned with Justice.

Justice would have seen Ariel Castro, or others of his ilk, placed in General Population, not Segregation, or a Special Handling Unit.  Prison has its own version of Justice.  Castro would have to endure years of abuse, not enough to kill him, but enough to make every moment of every day and every night a continuous horror of constant violation in every imaginable and several unimaginable ways.  Then, after a few years he would likely die at the brutal hands of an inmate with nothing to lose and nothing to do on a Tuesday evening except beat him slowly to death with his fists and boots over several hours. 

That of course would have been outside the law, not permissible, forbidden. Illegal.

But it would have been Justice.

Syria and Sarin


In this story the Syrian government has agreed to let some UN folks in to investigate the possibility of the armed forces using nerve gas to quell protests in a suburb of Damascus.  How nice of them.

The bones of story, if you haven’t followed it (and many have not) is that the Syrian Army of Bashar Assad gassed people with Sarin, killing either a dozen, several dozen or thousands, depending on what source you use.  Medecine Sans Frontieres  (Doctors Without Borders) has the smallest axe to grind in the region and have put the number around 355 deaths and 3,600 with symptoms of exposure to a nerve agent.  We’re inclined to go with their count as the closest to reality.

The UN has finally got weapons inspectors on the ground, looking at what evidence they can, aside from testimony of hundreds of eyewitnesses.  The UN folks have their hands tied however, they have to stay within the tight proscription of their mandate.  Find evidence of the munitions and tie that to the Syrian Government.  Unless they find an unexploded warhead, loaded with Sarin, with a shipping tag signed “Bobby Assad, Prop. Syria” with a photo of Assad and a copy of last week’s Daily Worker stuffed inside, like the classic Lee Harvey Oswald shot, that won’t be good enough to pass the nut of the UN.  They’ll come back with a suitably couched diplomatically-weasel-worded ‘Maybe they did, maybe they didn’t’

Here’s the problem.  Assuming the Syrian Government did fire off Sarin-loaded munitions and had them successfully detonate, gassing 350 or so ‘rebels’, what the hell can the UN do about it? 

The fast answer is absolutely nothing.  Even if the UN finds video of Bashar Assad loading the munitions himself, the UN can do absolutely nothing except complain.  They can’t even bring a motion of censure in front of the General Assembly because Russia and China, both members of the Security Council, have vetoes and have already promised to use them if the UN Weapons Inspectors find anything.

Why?  First off is money.  Russia sells a lot of military gear to Syria.  China sells the rest to them.  Secondly is money.  China needs oil.  Syria has oil.  Third, it will piss off the Americans, which is a sport in China and Russia.  They both know that American can’t do anything about Syria without incurring the wrath of the rest of the Middle East.  Fourth, they know the UN is nothing more than a Toyota Land Cruiser full of mentally constipated bureaucrats who can’t decide to take a dump without fifteen nations being involved in negotiations for the next six months, then a resolution to take a dump put before the Security Council, then the General Assembly. 

Then the UN would have to undertake a study of the paperwork involved, likely meeting in Berne, Delhi, Sao Paolo and Auckland to determine if they should wipe from the front to the back, or back to the front, with a certain kind of paper, or just a page from a newspaper. But which newspaper?  Is it Eco-friendly newsprint (+20% post-consumer recycled) with low-VOC inks from vegetable and sustainable sources?  Which hand?

So who’s left to do something?  The US can’t.  If they so much as take out an ad calling on the UN to do something, every nation in the Middle East will claim the US is but a puppet of Israel.  If Israel so much as coughs deeply, then the Jews are trying to take over Palestine and the rest of the Arab world with their nuclear warmongery trying to wipe the Arab nations off their rightful inheritance of all those maps coordinates that don’t actually get printed on Arab maps, as Israel doesn’t actually exist. 

The EU that counts (Britain, France and Germany) dare not so much as clear their throats for fear they get asked to actually cowboy up and do something.  The UK conceivably could, but knows it opens a can of pan-Arab whoopass.  It would start with bombings in London wrapped up with a side order of Palestine in 1947,  Besides, the UK Parliament said “Thanks, no”.  France couldn’t organize a two car funeral procession without endless protesting from the polar extremes of their five-dimensional political spectrum from the punctuation-phobic Social Democrats to the four guys in Lyon who can actually name the President and think his wife is a babe 

Germany is too busy trying keep the Greek, Italian, Hungarian and Spanish parts of the EU from being sold at a garage sale next week in Bonn.  Turkey, more or less next door, isn’t interested.  They’ve got enough refugees from Syria running across the border already.  Lebanon, Iraq, Iran, Saudi, Jordan, or anyone else in neighbourhood with more than two shotguns and a guy in a camo vest won’t touch it.  They all know it’s a zero-win proposition and if they do step up to knock Assad down, then someone will look a little too closely at how they have kept their own house in order.

That leaves Chad, Burkina Faso, Bermuda, Afghanistan, Iceland and, wait for it, Canada.  Unfortunately out airplane is up on cinder blocks right now.  The batteries for the starter are back ordered at Canadian Tire and nobody has jumper cables.  Oh, and our helicopters fall out of the sky if you try to make them fly against their will.

Short form?  Assad has gotten away with it.  Nobody is going to do anything.  Nobody can do anything about it. 

Been a while: Today’s Outrage


It has been a while, what with life intruding, but we’re back at it, hopefully on a more regular basis.  Thank you for your patience.

First off, Today’s Outrage:  An anonymous person in Newcastle, Ontario decided it would be acceptable to drop off a letter at a house.  The story is that the letter describes the noises the recipient’s grandson makes are “noise polluting whailing (sic)” scared the author’s “normal children”.  A reasonable gripe, kids are loud. 

The line was crossed at this point: “he is a hindrance to everyone and will always be that” and “do the right thing and move or euthanize him”  Said kid, is 13 years old and autistic, which the anonymous author recognizes up front in the first ‘graph. 

Now, aside from being a gutless birth canal, the anonymous author has managed to get a lot of righteous international support for the family of the child.  This kind of behaviour is never acceptable, under any of the tests of reasonableness, however, the local Durham region cops, after conferring with the local Crown Attorney, has decided that the test of “hate crime” has not been met.  Hateful, certainly, extraordinarily and very deliberately cruel, of course, but not exactly a ‘hate crime’. 

To illustrate a different reaction to excessive noise, we give you our own circumstance.  Last week some lads were delivering flyers in our modest neighbourhood.  They rolled the car up, bounced out and went door to door, dropping flyers.  Except they left the radio on, at a very loud level.  This we can tolerate for the couple of three minutes it takes until they move on, an annoyance, but not really an issue.

Except the lyrics of the particular song, which was very easily heard inside our house, started with “I’m gonna fuck me some niggah bitches right up the ass…” and went down hill from there.  Not exactly my taste in musical expression and I would suspect not exactly the most appropriate lyrics for anywhere outside of an after-hours club.

I took a few seconds to pull on some shoes and went outside.  Hailing down the driver of the vehicle, very calmly and very firmly said that, “I appreciate your taste in music, but please, I don’t need to hear it inside my house.  Could you please turn it down?”  The fellow reacted quizzically and asked if it was too loud?  I said it was and the lyrics weren’t really appropriate.  He very quickly turned it off and apologized.  I said thanks and that was it.  No threats, no offers to euthanize, violate, or chop up into small pieces and feed to the fishes.  Just a simple transaction of asking for a little discretion, courtesy and mutual respect from both sides.

Now back to this gutless birth canal in Newcastle.  If she had tried on several occasions to let her feelings about the autistic kid be known, or at least had tried to open a dialogue with the family, to understand the why or wherefore of the situation, then that should have been the end of it.  Perhaps a few hurt feelings, or a bit of a miffed attitude, certainly, but not this explosion of needless cruelty that has now gone very public and very viral. 

We know that someone, somewhere will find out who wrote this letter and delivered it, then someone else will decide that something equally as vile is a fair response, escalating until the Fully Stupid line is crossed involving pets, random damage and violence. 

It doesn’t have to be that way.  Ideally the author will approach the family, apologize, then the family will let us know that everything is now cool and there is no need to take it any further.  Equally hatful trolls will chill out and a very ugly scene will be averted.  Ideally.

Except that what we’re talking about is grownups behaving like grownups, taking responsibilities for their own actions and ensuring that things don’t escalate into Fully Stupid. 

We can only hope  

 

 

New Additions


There has been much ruckus in the RoadDave Household lately that has precluded some of the writing efforts.  Submitted for your approval, the reason why.

Marylou and I are neither cat people, nor dog people.  We have had both, all together, in a long line of disreputable companion animals, mostly shelter rescues of both cats and dogs.  There was the Fish Period, with tropical fish inhabiting two largish aquariums, much to the amusement of the cats who saw the aquarium inhabitants as 4K Dolby 5.1 HD video in a size that would upscale to 24 foot diagonal if it were human-sized. 

After Joseph Arthur Lonley passed before Christmas last year, we went down to one cat, no dogs, no fish.  A couple of months ago, after Marylou came back from a business trip, we hotfooted over the Ottawa Human Society to add to our brood. 

Our approach to household animals is simple enough:  They must be from the Humane Society, as we don’t do puppy or cat mills, and, the animal must have some kind of quirk that speaks to us both.  There has to be that je ne sais quai component that leads to some truly remarkable personality lurking beneath the surface as most of our friends will attest:  Our pets are all unique personalities.

After rambling through the areas at the OHS it came down to three, Tommy a 4-year old neutered male “wallflower” who had been in the care of the OHS for a few months, then Gus and Charlie, found strays, litter mates, about 4 months old, also neutered males.

In talking with the adoption folks at the Humane Society, they assured us Tommy would find a home shortly, as more mature cats tended to be adopted sooner.  Litter-mate kittens like Charlie and Gus took longer.  We decided to keep the litter mates together and brought Gus and Charlie home, much to the annoyance of our incumbent, Bella, a ten-year old spayed female, who is very much the Queen of Her Domain.  Her motto is “Apres Moi, le Deluge”

The usual madness ensued of introducing two high-energy kittens to the comfortable lifestyle of Bella.  There were the occasional issues of hearing very bad language late at night as one or the other would attempt things they should not have.  I still have some healing scratches where Charlie decided that climbing Daddy’s leg, while Daddy was wearing nothing more than a housecoat, is acceptable behaviour.  We will not speak of the occasion whereby one of the new family took a look at me in bed and decided “Oooh!  Nipples!”  That has healed, more or less, but the emotional trauma will linger for several more months.  Charlie has forgotten it, but I still shake from time to time.

Earlier this week we needed more cat food for the kids and rather than going to the nearby purveyor, combined some domestic tasks and headed to a store in the west end.  Since the cat food at PetSmart is near the adoption cages, we naturally dropped by to see who was around, if only to give the adoptees a few minutes attention from some humans.

A grey and white lump was sleeping in his cage.  He had been moved from the Humane Society and as PetSmart has a very good working relationship as satellite adoption centers for the Humane Society, we asked about him.  It was the same cat, a “wallflower” 4 year old, who had spent the preceding several months in the system, named Tommy.  The OHS transferred him to the high-traffic PetSmart to find him his Forever Home. 

Call it Kismet, the Planets Aligning, the Hand of God, Curious Circumstance or whatever, but the decision was made, instantly feeling absolutely, perfectly, Right.

Tommy’s new Forever Home is here, with Gus, Charlie and Bella. 

It means we have heard more swearing, the occasional sound of something crashing to the floor in the kitchen and endured requests for massive quantities of food at hours of the night usually reserved for shift workers and sex trade professionals. We don’t care.  Tommy, Gus, Charlie and Bella all share their forever home with us now. 

There have been antics of course, some so sweet as to require insulin and others that make Marylou and I laugh uncontrollably for hours, but we’re not the kind of people to bore others with the stories.  Everyone is adjusting well enough, not perfectly yet, but well enough that we’re expecting to capture that visual meme of four cats, all sleeping, piled up together in a Gordian knot of feline contentment, in a discarded cardboard box.  When we do, we will post it. 

Cats, shelter adoptions, forever home, crazy cat people whatever meta tags you want to apply, feel free.  They’re happy, we’re happy.  The next chapter awaits. 

Boston


We’ve held off on writing about Boston for a reason.  The situation was so fluid and unpredictable that anything we wrote would be null and void a half-hour later.  Now that things have resolved we can comment with some certainty of reflection.

First off, the bombings have nothing to do with ObamaCare, Gun Control, Foreign Policy towards Syria, drilling for oil in Alaska or Obama’s birth certificate.  If the right wing nuts would be so kind as to shut the front door, we can go about our analysis with a semblance of intellectual rigour.

What we’re probably looking at are two disaffected young men with a wobbly set of beliefs.  There could be some religious overtones there, but nothing along the lines of Al-Qaeda jihadist cement heads that we know about yet.  Disaffected and unconnected to their society, yes, very much so, but we will find out more as the investigation progresses as to the motivations involved.

The technology involved in the bombings were crude, home made and very effective at doing exactly what these guys wanted to do: Spread panic and terror.  The objective was to maim and kill as many as possible, but without access to legit explosives and detonators, they resorted to some basement-built improvised explosive devices that worked fine, thank you very much.

The bigger questions, still unanswered, are why and who else?

Was there some mentorship, leadership or technical assistance from elsewhere to bring these two to a Monday afternoon last week?

Understandably the police, FBI and HomeBoy Security are not being particularly forthcoming with the information.  They should keep their collective pie-holes shut until they come up with answers that pass a rudimentary logic test.  We will find out more as this unwraps. 

Where this all goes to hell is with our media.  They’ve got a news cycle to fill and if you haven’t got anything to say, then they will speculate and surmise and guess, then bring in the ‘experts’ to add their noise to the news hour.  Oh and make sure you put a four-second clip of two guys walking around, on permanent repeat for at least a dozen hours along with the graphic crawl, along with the spinning animated ‘bug’ in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. 

Shampoo, rinse, repeat, endlessly, until we turn off the television.

Get your North Korea Program Here!


Back in July 2006 we published the Official Nuclear War Program for the Sea of Japan, if only so we could keep the players straight.  It hasn’t changed much.  The reason we published it on RoadDave was it is important to know the players, with any sport and planet-destroying nuclear war is certainly a sport.  Perhaps one with more importance than the NCAA Finals.  So here’s the players and a description of the field:

China:  Has missiles, has nukes, has a big army that can kick ass and take names and submarines prowling the Sea of Japan.  Most of their stuff is pointed at Taiwan.

Taiwan:  Has mostly ground to air and anti-ship missiles along with a decent air force to protect it from invasion by China.  The US has been the purveyor of fine weaponry of choice to Taiwan since 1948, so they have a lot of the good stuff.  They don’t have nukes, but they do have submarines.

South Korea:  Some of their own, but mostly US provided missiles for self-defense and a lot of effective artillery all aimed at North Korea.  There is a sizable US military presence in South Korea, continuing the ‘police action’ along the 38th parallel with the South Korean army that ain’t too shabby.  South Korea doesn’t have nukes, but there are couple of nuclear power reactors at Ulsan.  South Korea also has submarines.

Russia:  Has missiles, mostly aimed at China as well as an army that can kick ass and take names.  Russia has nukes and submarines but we don’t talk about that.

Japan:  Has missiles, but mostly shorter range air defense or anti-shipping missiles.  They do have a 240,000 person self-defense force that has the A-List US gear.  There are nuclear power reactors in Japan, but no nuclear weapons.  Japan has submarines.

North Korea has missiles that work well enough.  You don’t have to be terrifically accurate with nukes.  North Korea has a massive standing army, with hundreds of artillery pieces pointed at South Korea.  North Korea also has submarines.

United States:  Has missiles that can deliver rounds into Kim Jong-un’s second floor bathroom window in Pyongyang from Aegis guided missile cruisers stationed in the Sea of Japan.  The US has nuclear-powered submarines, with or without nukes, in the area.  Rule of Thumb?  If there’s an aircraft carrier, there is a battle group with it and CVN-74 (John C. Stennis) is at Changi Naval Base, Singapore while CVN-73 (George Washington) is at Yokosuka, a bit south of Yokohama, Japan.

Here’s the real danger, aside from all these people being armed.  The Sea of Japan is not that big.  You’ve got seven nations rolling around in an area of 997,980 square kilometers.  By contrast, Lake Superior is 82,100 square kilometers and the Pacific Ocean is 165,200,000 square kilometers to put some perspective on it.  Seven nations, rolling around with ships, submarines and aircraft, all with itchy trigger fingers, looking to get something going.

With that much gear bouncing around out there, the potential for a simple dumb accident is very high.  Will a submarine driver for any of the interested parties make a mistake and bump into someone else’s submarine?  Would the various governments manipulate that into a “provocative, unwarranted attack on a sovereign nation in the free and open sea.”?

Would that be enough justification to set off North Korea?  China is twitchy at the best of times.  The US is wound a little tight right now.  North Korea might go off just so Kim Jong-un can say he’s not a Daddy’s Boy.  Taiwan has their colour-code terror-threat Pez-dispenser pinned on red since 1948. 

It won’t take much.

Easter Catch Up


Sorry about not posting sooner, but life intrudes once in a while. 

We’ve made it to Easter, Good Friday specifically and am sitting here puzzled. 

The meme of Good Friday for those of us who do the Judeo-Christian thang is a religious holiday commemorating the crucifixion and death of Jesus around AD 33.  It is preceded by Maundy Thursday, the day of the Last Supper and followed by Easter Sunday celebrating Jesus’ resurrection.  One would suppose nothing much happened on the Saturday, except getting the camel washed at a Sabbath Camel Wash, where you didn’t actually have to do anything, except walk the camel through and go to Temple.  Like Walter Sobchak, most folks back then didn’t roll on Shabbos either.

What is puzzling is the conjunction of marketing and occasion-hype with a religious holiday.  Here’s the story, as told by advertisers:  Easter Sunday all good children get chocolate eggs delivered by a rabbit or a ginormous chocolate mould of a bunny that weighs more than the kid.  Official colours are purple and fire-engine yellow, with a bale of chopped paper or plastic excelsior stuffing to ‘cushion’ the 14-pound chocolate eggs from damage. 

Or, the young ones search for brightly wrapped ‘eggs’ again hidden by the mysterious Easter Bunny all over the back yard, with the attendance of parents screaming fearsome encouragement at their offspring to find more than the other 3-year olds who can barely walk, let alone understand the confluence of bunny-egg-chocolate-purple-yellow-basket-uber-competition they’re being immersed in as a cultural touchstone of their faith.  Then we sit down to a massive meal that must feature ham and scalloped potatoes, otherwise what kind of shitheel parent are you, ignoring the whole pork-kosher thing.

Yeah, yeah, we get the bunny-fecundity-spring-renewal thing and wonder exactly why a manufactured spring ritual is now tied to the peak of the holy story of crucifixion-resurrection-redemption of one of the bigger religions out there.  It sits poorly.  There’s no marketing tie-in with March Madness college hoops, uncontrolled sports wagering and specials on carpet, siding or replacement windows at special prices to celebrate some guy getting nailed on a cross a long time ago? 

Heck, if all we wanted to celebrate was an execution, Gary Gilmore was executed January 17th 1977 and we could use the energy to lasso in some last-of-Christmas season sales by pairing a cute groundhog mascot with Little Debbie cakes (Gilmore Dusties!) as a swing-holiday between Christmas and Groundhog Day on Feb 2.  Dammit, Stella, get me the Coast!  We got us a movie-tie and merch to move!

For those of us who have a clue, we are left shaking our heads while the neighbour’s kids carom off the second floor siding, in the grips of a sugar-buzz that would stun a buffalo.  At least there’s a holiday out of the deal. 

Pennies and Cheese


There were a couple of stories in the news here that piqued our writing fingers.  One, is the end of the one cent piece as circulated coinage in Canada.  Since 1858 the one cent coin has endured its’ lot in jars, wedged under table legs, rattling around in the car, or simply being used as a counter for various games.  As of February 4th, Banks are no longer sending out rolls of pennies as part of the coin order for retail outlets.  They stopped minting the one cent piece last year and now they will be falling from circulation. 

Electronic transactions will still be totalled to the cent, but cash transactions will be rounded up, or down to the nearest five cents when it comes to getting your change.  The reason is simple enough, the government saves $11 million dollars by no longer producing the smallest coin of the realm.  Over the next few decades you will hear the old codgers bemoaning the penny.  I will add a small postscript now and leave it to future generations to colour in the rest of it.

It used to be that empty glass pop bottles had a two cent deposit.  As a kid we would collect them from construction sites around the neighbourhood.  Pure Spring bottles were my favourite, as were the voluptuous green glass Gini bottles.  To replicate the taste of Gini, wrap a fresh lemon around a brick and smash yourself in the mouth a couple of times.  Only grown-ups drank Gini, usually mixed with gin, over ice in the summer; for us it was root beer or the red Swiss Cream soda. 

With our two, or three empty pop bottles, we would go to either the Elmvale or Arch Street convenience store.  There, arrayed for our pleasure, was penny candy.  Blackballs were usually the target, two for one cent, which meant with a good days’ hunting for empties, you could have four, or even six blackballs to stain your mouth the colour of coal. 

None of this was done under parental supervision, or organized in any way by adults.  No special equipment was required, nor lessons from a Romanian semi-pro tutor.  There were no medals for participation.  It was our introduction to capitalism.  If you had a good day, you got more.  If you didn’t find any, you got bupkis and relied on the good graces of a friend to give you a blackball or a sour baby.  You learned the value of a penny, which to a six year old, is almost inestimable, as it meant the freedom to choose what kind of candy you would buy with your own money, from the sweat of your efforts.

The St. Albert Cheese Cooperative has been making cheese since 1894.  It was one of the first farmer-based co-ops, the farmers owning the cows and providing the milk to the dairy to make cheese.  St. Albert’s has thrived all these years as a local co-op through globalization, quotas, marketing boards and other economic disasters, as their cheese is exemplary.  It was exemplary because it was made from milk from cows around St. Albert, about a 40 minute drive east of Ottawa.  Every day trucks would arrive with the milk and every day they would create the most astounding things from it. 

Cheese is not a complicated product to make adequately.  Mega corporations like Kraft or Saputo make tons of it daily, packaging it to serve the common tastes of the common man with something perfectly adequate.  St. Albert Cheese was never adequate.  It was always special. 

For those of you who have never had cheese curds, the backstory is important.  After milk is coagulated in a cheese tank with heat, colouring, salt and rennet, the lumps of protein coalesce into the curly globs of solidified protein called curds and the liquid left over, called whey. 

Yes, like Little Miss Muffet.  Curds and whey are basically cottage cheese, with the solids and the liquids together.  After cheddaring, if you drain off the whey, you are left with curds, that are eventually pressed into blocks and become cheese.  Apply a bit of heat and you get the curds to melt together to form that lump of cheese you can call Cracker Barrel.  Perfectly acceptable as a foodstuff.  Age it for a while and you can even get the foodies to go all gushy about your stuff.

Where the magic lives is in the curds.  If you scoop out bags full of the curds, they are still warm and salty from cheese-making with a little bit of whey left over, clinging determinedly to the solids.  Curds squeak against your teeth when you bite them and they have to be fresh, as in made that morning, or perhaps yesterday.  Fresh and never refrigerated either.  Cold kills the squeakiness and crushes the salty-whey tang of real, fresh, warmish curds fresh from the vat.

You can buy perfectly acceptable cheese curds, but they have been almost always refrigerated, made last August by some agro-conglomerate owned by a Brazilian oligarch who wouldn’t know cheese from a freighter of Vanadium ore.  They are unacceptable, even in Wisconsin, unless you go directly to the factory and get them the day they are made, if they are allowed to sell them.  In Ontario, you can sell cheese curds, unrefrigerated, as nature intended. 

In the past, when there were a few small cheese factories around Ottawa in beautiful rural areas, we would load up in various cars and drive, ostensibly to obtain curds.  One particular Cheese Run, many years ago involved a 5.0/5-speed Mustang, a V-6 Fiero and a 2.3 liter Dodge Lancer followed by a vintage ‘68 Lotus Elan breaking a large number of sections of the Highway Traffic Act between Ottawa and Plum Hollow, Ontario.  I neglected to mention earlier that the high concept of the Cheese Run involved back roads and as much velocity as you dared, the objective being get there fast and drive back at a leisurely pace.  The parking lot of the Plum Hollow Cheese Factory was occasionally the scene of other customers complaining about the smell of hot brakes mixed with the feral reek of clutches, engines and tires pushed beyond their design limits, as the Cheese Runners scanned the local roads for any sign of the police.   

To this day we get the hankering from time to time for the exquisite squeak of curds and drive at a leisurely pace to St. Albert.  Yes, you can buy their products in grocery stores.  Not but five blocks from here is a Metro supermarket that sells their wares, but it isn’t quite the same as going to the cheese factory and getting them at the company store, not 30 feet from where they were created earlier that day.              

Unfortunately on Sunday morning a fire broke out and burned the whole operation to the ground.  St. Albert’s has promised to rebuild and will shift their operations to another plant near Mirabel, Quebec in the interim.  There will still be cheese curds in our household, except now, we’ll have to drive to hell and gone to get them.