3.

Grey fur frames each face –
How many wolves gave their lives
to warm Montreal?

Coping with Societal Change

You know, I wish we could all sit down over tea and talk about the issues raised by the "Feral Capitalism" post and in the comments. I think we'd find that we agreed on many points. Immigration is, to me, an issue separate from the riots, though there are cross-threads. I don't think anyone has suggested that the British rioters were mainly immigrants, but that the lack of jobs is attributable in some measure to the influx of immigrants as well as offshore manusfacturing. And I certainly hope no one is saying that immigrants are, somehow, worse or more neglectful parents. From my own experience in both America and Canada, the opposite might well be true. Immigrants are among the hardest-working people in these societies, whether we are talking about students, fast-food workers, shop-keepers or doctors, precisely because they have come for freedom and opportunity, expect to work hard, and do not have a sense of entitlement.

Among my own close friends, all of whom have tried hard to be good parents, the majority of the children have thrived but there are some who have gotten into genuinely serious trouble, floundered, made a series of very bad decisions, or had difficulty with substance-abuse. Others have suffered from depression and mental illness, seemingly from a variety of causes, one of which is anxiety caused by an inability to cope with the pressures of modern life as adults. Several of these young adults have had problems with managing anger and frustration. "Tough love", counseling, and medication have all helped, but even these have failed at times. Parents who must work outside the home, and are often raising children alone, without the extended families and neighborhoods and churches that used to form the basic structure of social life, cannot possibly counter all the influences to which a child or young adult today is subjected, and cannot protect them from the fears, anxieties, and uncertainties to which we are all subject and from which we all suffer to one degree or another! Violence has come much closer in the West, both in reality and through the media and technology. Parents are primarily responsible for teaching children right and wrong, that is certain, but they themselves have to have a decent childhood where they learned respect and were themselves respected, and to have internalized a personal value system and the skills for passing on. Meanwhile, all around us are examples of people who are seemingly rewarded with wealth and fame for their talent, perhaps, but also for their greed, corruption, and flagrantly consumptive habits; some children are much more susceptible to these pressures than others.

And ever since Watergate, I think we've all grown more aware of the hypocrisy and unfairness that seem part and parcel of politics, government, and institutions. I knew a lapsed Catholic businessman, who used to repeat, "I was taught differently, and try to behave differently, but I've learned that nice guys finish last." In a world where acquisition of money and possessions is a primary goal, who is arguing effecively with that? As religious belief and attendance decline — as a result, partially, of the hypocrisy of the church, the abuse scandals, and its failure to adapt and speak effectively to modern men and women — one wonders, actually, why more people don't lie, cheat, and steal. In secular life, one can run up debts and declare bankruptcy with impunity. How many people nowdays believe they'll be accountable in an afterlife, let alone in this one, for breaking the ten commandments, if they even have an idea what they are?

There is a whole constellation of reasons why social values and a sense of participation and fairness have broken down in our societies. My reason for writing the previous post was to try to go deeper than the "bad parenting" answer and ask WHY — and let's stick to white anglo-saxon culture, since there is no evidence that I've seen to blame these riots on immigrants. In my own WASP family, which has been in the U.S. since the first boats arrived from England, there have been people who've contributed a lot to society and some who have not. Those who have, have fought in the wars and farmed the land and taught in the schools and volunteered in churches and organizations, and raised "decent" children. Yet, like Jean, I feel no sense of entitlement or earned privilege as an American, none whatsoever. I feel incredibly fortunate to have been born free and to have had loving parents who gave me a good education and continued to love and encourage me. I know now that this is far more rare than it should be, but I refuse to judge other people. Instead, I want to try to understand, and to share what I've been given — especially the love and understanding — with those who don't have the same.

My husband's family came only one generation ago from the Middle East and Armenia, escaping persecution and seeking education and opportunity. They worked hard, just as my ancestors did when they came here from England. If we had had children they would have been browner than I am, just as the world is gradually growing browner. That's fine with me. I have no attachment to some notion of "American" culture, nor can I even define it: unlike the Tea Partiers, who have a much narrower view, to me American culture is this rich melting pot that results from immigration, mixed cultural contact, and intermarriage. I do not believe in cultural, racial, religious, sexual, ethnic, ancestral or economic superiority; I really do believe all people are created equal and have an absolutely equal right to "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness." Perhaps that's a liberal attitude that's easier to sustain in North America but, after all, it is the founding principle. The difficulty of carrying it out and remembering it ought to be painfully obvious by now, only 235 years into the experiment of American democracy.

The desire for freedom from oppression of all kinds, coupled with the possibility of movement, means that people are going to seek new homes and to mix, and that there will be a subsequent dilution of so-called cultural purity, as well as a loss of ethnic identity in the new homeland. These separate purities, which in their original form gave rise to tribes and nations, have been a source of imperialism, oppression, genocide and war, as well as unique and rich founts of literature, art, cuisine, dress, customs and rituals. No longer separated by geographic boundaries, or even by time and distance, we can neither hide from each other, nor suppress our natural curiosity and hunger for what we see on the other side of the mountain, ocean, desert or river — or, for that matter, the barbed wire or constructed wall. Human beings will always seek freedom, equality, and a better life for themselves and their children.

Living among the French in Quebec, as part of its English-speaking minority and as one immigrant member of an urban society filled with other immigrants from all over the world, has made me much more conscious of how a small isolated group can feel their unique culture is threatened. (Immigration to Canada is not guaranteed, there is a point system and a long process that must be followed.) But the dark reverse side of cultural preservation is racism. Each society has to decide what matters most, and where their true values ultimately lie: are there ways to offer freedom, openness, asylum, and opportunity and welcome the cultural richness which enhances life, encouraging participation in the society as a whole, while also preserving an existing culture and language? (Shall we ask the indigenous peoples of North America what they think about that?) In Quebec, when some racist (anti-Muslim, most recently) sentiment came to the surface, the whole society engaged in a debate and year-long process with appointed commissioners, because as a nation we wanted to acknowledge the problem of cultural preservation vs. immigration and deal with it openly. I think this will be an ongoing discussion, because it is generally agreed here that racism is unacceptable, immigration is desireable, French culture is valuable, and that we have to find ways of negotiating between the resulting tensions and fears.

Social and economic frustration; changes in values and behavior; loss of the familiar and precious; the breakdown of family and community support and increasing isolation of the individual; the omnipresent influence of technology and media; the diminishing reward of education and hard work; corporate and governmental corruption and greed; violence moving closer to us: these are very difficult issues, and I think we've already recognized here that they are interrelated. I'm glad we can talk about them and try to trust each other.

Sights and Sounds of the Park

Nothing too exciting here, but I hope my Monday to have acted on some further ideas and have something a bit more evolved to show you. I have to say, regardless of the outcome, it's awfully nice to sit in the park, my back against one of these old trees, and sketch, and look, and sketch, and look.

You see — and hear — quite a lot in an urban park.

All the while I was drawing, a group was practicing for an evening gig in the open-air Theatre de Verdur. Kind of folky, kind of pop. Not very excellent, but all right. Loud. The female singer sang lines in French, and then the male guitarist would stop and say, "Checking…checking."Again. And again. Odd because it's usually pretty quiet there.

Except for the ducks. Gulls. Dogs.

The older man I drew reading in this picture seemed all alone with his book. Now and then he's lean back, smoke a cigarette, gaze out at the water. He had longish grey-white hair that curled around the back of his head; a creamy white shirt that glowed in the sunlight; he seemed like an aging intellectual. But alone. Then, all of a sudden, along came a beautiful raven-haired woman, easily twenty or thirty years younger. His daughter, I thought. But no…when I left they were wrapped in each other's arms in the long grass, laughing.

Beyond them, a child wailed. Everyone turned to look; children in the park don't usually cry that much. I walked past, amused; she was a little girl of maybe four or five, with lots of dark curly hair, a deep rose-coloured dress with orange shoes, angrily stalking away from her mother while pushing her own carriage, her mouth open as wide as she could manage to release the wail that echoed satisfyingly across the water to compete with the sound checks from the band. And on her head was a white first-communion veil, or perhaps it was from a child's bridal costume; whatever it was, the normally polite Canadian bystanders were all smiling to themselves.

On the way home I saw roller-bladers doing synchronized skate-dancing, and heard someone playing bagpipes.

Late at night, J. and I took a walk in the park too. We walked around the lakes and came back through the trees, where a man was juggling fire.

August

The handle reads "Bleuetière" – a blueberry farm, often pick-your-own.

Yesterday, driving up into the Laurentians toward Mount Tremblant, we passed many roadside stands with signs that said "Fraises du Jour" — "Berries of the Day." The offering of the day was often, however, sweet corn, along with little baskets of raspberries, blueberries, or currants. And yesterday was the first day I've ever seen gooseberries for sale in a grocery store.

Shorter Days

(I've added a new ending since yesterday)

Tanning salons and shorts notwithstanding, there's no denying the inevitable. The pool near the community garden is still open, but I notice there's a lot more sunbathing on the warm edges and a lot less splashing. The garden itself is filled with late August's horticultural staples: black-eyed Susans, once-pink echinacea fading to a mauve, overgrown cosmos and nasturtiums. Soon they'll turn off the overhead fountains in the wading pools, and then there will be a week of cleaning up before the pool — they just opened it, didn't they? — is drained.

" I think people are freaking out a little about the end of summer," J.
said to me at 1:00 am on a weeknight, when we're awakened by uncharacteristically
noisy partyers and the sound of breaking glass in the alley. We had to get up and turn off the window fan in the middle of last night, and this morning the thermometer, which has rarely gone below 70 degrees, was at 64, so I wore my jean jacket and wrapped a cotton scarf around my neck for the ride to work. Passing the elementary school up the block, I saw that the inside lights were on and teachers' cars parked along the side, and got that instinctive sinking feeling in my stomach, almost as if I were going to have to go back soon myself.

Last night we rode our bikes over to the Mile End and wandered down Esplanade, past the industrial reno store, the storefront of the guy who collects lures, the Mile End Mission, the Asian florist – plants cascading from the second floor balcony, covering the street, even the top of a parked car. We stopped at a tiny Vietnamese restaurant for dinner, our orders taken by the husband and cooked by the wife.  Later, waiting for a light, we watched Hasidic Jews, eyes downcast under their huge round fur hats and arms clasped behind their backs, hurrying home before sunset, black coats flapping.

I looked up at the water towers on the roof, the moon rising behind them; there was a definite chill in the air. In the Brazilian restaurant on the corner of Waverly, only one man sat in the outdoor chairs; he had a long yellowed beard, wore a hat and long sleeves, and seemed lost in a hefty book. A young woman and man sat inside near an open window, finishing their meal. She stared intently at the spoon going round and round in her coffee, and then placed it in the saucer with a decisive click. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's been nice, but I'm going to have to wind this down."

Charlevoix IV: the beach at St-Simeon

 

 

 

Charlevoix III: Jardin des Quatre Vents

The highlight of our trip was a visit to the Jardin des Quatre Vents (Garden of the Four Winds), a private garden owned and created by the eminent horticulturalist Francis Cabot. It's only open to the public – reservations required – four days each summer; our friends G. and S. invited us quite a while ago, and got the tickets. All the proceeds go to environmental causes. The garden, which comprises hundreds of acres and many different types of growing conditions, from formal gardens near the house to shady woodlands and meadows, a deep damp ravine, and a potager full of vegetables, fruit trees, and flowers. One of the most remarkable aspects, to me, was the use of water throughout, and there were also many sculptures — plus a lot of whimsy. Les Quatre Vents is considered to be one of the most beautiful gardens in all of Canada. Eventually I hope it will become a more public treasure like some of the famous gardens of Europe. It's fragile, though, and there would have to be a lot of care taken to control the foot traffic. We were impressed with the way the tour was handled; it was nearly three hours long, comprehensive and generous. These photos don't begin to show the variety or the detail, but I'll still let them speak for themselves. If you'd like to see more, take a look inside Cabot's book, A Greater Perfection, about the creation of this magnificent garden.

 

 

Charlevoix II: La Malbaie

La Malbaie from Cap à l'Aigle

Champlain had arrived here long before us, too. Unable to find a good anchor in the harbor for his ships, he was further frustrated when, the next morning, he found they had run aground. He christened the spot "La Malbaie" – the "bad bay", or "poor bay." The name stuck, even after Scottish settlers tried to rename it "Murray Bay."

We stayed in a bed-and-breakfast in Cap à l'Aigle (Eagle Cape) across the bay from the main town. It's a small place, not very touristy compared to some of the other towns we saw during our trip, with a huge Catholic church, a small hospital, a number of inns and gites, and a cluster of residences. With fishing so diminished, the main livelihood is tourism, and we speculated on how difficult life might be here in the winter after the short four months of high season.

There was a local celebration going on when we went over in search of dinner, with little tables set up on the main street outside the stores, and a local rock band playing on a makeshift stage in the city park overlooking the harbor. It was all lowkey and local, with a small crowd of mixed ages milling around, under a nearly-full moon shining on the water at low tide. A big cross on the cape opposite stood silhouetted against the sky. We ate in a nice restaurant that offered regional specialties — Charlevoix veal and beef, fresh fish — I had a good local paté as an appetizer, and cod in a delicious sauce.

The next morning J. and I woke early, around 5, and got up and went out for a walk, discovering for the first time the beautiful views downriver; a small Anglican church – St. Peter-on-the-Rock – established and maintained by English-speaking summer residents; and the cape's own wharf, where we watched the sun climb into the clouds, cormorants diving for fish, and a large boat moving west, on its way to Montreal and the Great Lakes beyond.

A Trip to the Charlevoix – I

This past weekend we went on a trip, with our traveling companions S. and G., to the Charlevoix region of Quebec, north of Quebec City above the St. Lawrence river as it heads toward the ocean. This was our first time going as far north in the region, celebrated as one of the most beautiful not only in Quebec but in Canada, and we weren't disappointed. And because J. and I have recently read a new biography of Samuel de Champlain, who explored and started the first French settlements in the St. Lawrence valley in the early 1600s, we were keen to see more of this history firsthand.

Our first stop, for a picnic lunch, was Montmorency Falls. We'd seen the falls from the road when we visited St.  Anne-de-Beaupré, Cap Tourmente and the Isle d'Orleans — you can't exactly miss it! – but hadn't gone into the park area; this time we did. The access road had a detour, which took us along the ridgeline along the "Chemin de Nouvelle France" where we saw a number of old Norman houses, built of stone with curved roofs, some dating from the end of the 17th century, and all of which still seemed to be occupied.

The falls were named by Champlain in 1613 for Henri
II, duc de Montmorency who served as viceroy of New France from 1620 to
1625. And they are impressive, at 76 metres high. On the western side, where we began, a walkway leads to two observation areas and then climbs up to a suspension bridge directly over the top of the falls.

In the 1800s the falls were used for water power, and a large cotton mill stood in the flat area below; now it's empty except for a few fishermen.

The suspension bridge overlooks the river and the beautiful Isle d'Orleans, home of the first French settlements that lasted and thrived (the very first were in Acadia, or what is now known as Nova Scotia). In contrast to the area around Quebec City, just to the south, the island is still mostly agricultural — Isle d'Orleans strawberries and mais sucré, framboises et bluets (sweet corn, raspberries, and blueberries) were being sold from farmstands all along this area of the river.

I stayed behind for a little while, at the lower observation area, to do this study of the falls, the dramatic trees, and bare rocky hill, maybe for a painting or a print later on. Then we got back in the car and drove for several more hours: next stop, La Malbaie.

First of July

My morning porch is a terrace, open to the street but semi-hidden behind a hedge, shadowed but adorned with begonias, lantana, coleus. Out here early with my coffee and the baby spiders swaying on their strands of silk, I watch the sun struggling through clouds that split and rise from the St. Lawrence, casting the first bright rays of light through the trees. Morning comes with an effort, like our summer that's barely begun. The sounds of the city build slowly too: the traffic coming off Pont Jacques Cartier, the clank of bike locks against metal frames passing over bumps, the feet of a runner, crows shouting over the incessant chirps of sparrows. Three-quarters of an hour ago, when I first came out, the birds dominated but now it's wheels, and the occasional murmur of human voices.

J. rose early and went off to take photographs in the Old City and port. I stayed in bed a little while longer, and then got up, lit a candle, did a bit of meditation, took my calcium and vitamins, made my coffee and some oatmeal. I love the mornings when I can unfold slowly, like the day itself, and just watch, just listen.

It's Canada Day today, and also Moving Day, when leases are up and people change apartments. Just now a small local moving van has pulled up outside, and if I went down any of the nearby streets the scene would be repeated: men in white t-shirts rolling up the back doors of the vans, taking out blankets, standing together staring at large objects before the collective heft. Yesterday we watched three men wrestling a full-size refrigerator three flights up one of the city's outdoor, metal spiral staircases. Terrible, and typical. Before the light changed and we moved on, we saw the man carrying the most weight move to the outside of the railing, and three more men – strangers – gathering below, hands lifted helplessly into the air.

Last year at this time, we were moving too, and I find myself reluctant to think back over the experience. It's over, thank God, and here I am in Canada on Canada Day, wondering what that means, or if it even means anything. I've crossed a border, ever more fortified and regulated, so many times I can't count, and yet I've felt more and more free, less burdened by material things, and by concepts of myself that weighed even more. I used to know who I was, if you had asked me. Now I know both more and less. I can tell you that the leaves on the poplars, way up there, are dancing in the wind like sequins, each one sewn on by a thin green thread.