Remembering

While most people were sitting at home, enjoying their dinner, young cadets stood guard at the Cenotaph in London's Victoria Park.

It was a bitter cold night on November 10th. Nearby stood a lone man with a camera strapped around his neck.

"He hates the cold," the father said of his son standing guard. "And he doesn't quite understand why he volunteered to do Remembrance duty. But he knows he had family in the War. In Holland."

A few hours later, I returned. Another round of cadets now stood guard.

The view through my camera lens humbled me. Until slurring words interrupted my thought process. I looked up to find a young man brush by me.

"Ya know what the travesty is?" he said, his index finger wagging to puncture the air in the direction of the young cadets. "Sending these guys to Afghanistan."

I shook my head as Genius waltzed off, unsteady in his gait.

What do you say to the man who thinks he knows everything?

Drumbeats

In my first exposure to the indigenous culture of North America, I attended the Traditional Pow Wow and Harvest Festival at The Museum of Ontario Archaeology in London. But not before scouting the Museum grounds, spellbound as I was by recreated history, a cedar palisade, and a Carolinian forest. It promised to be a memorable three-day celebration.

During the Pow Wow, I enjoyed chatting with exhibitors, storytellers, dancers, potters, and Museum staff. In the elm longhouse, covered in birch bark segments, corn cakes cooked over smouldering fires, the smoke rising through holes in the roof. In one corner, surrounded by children, Nina 'of Many Names' (because she has married and divorced a few times) told the story of the corn husk dolls. Closer to the edge of the forest, members of the London Potters Guild recreated an ancient pit firing. Beyond, Museum staff taught children about archaeology at a hands-on dig.

Near the noon hour on 'Indian time', the Master of Ceremonies, Gordon Nicotine-Sands, announced the Grand Entry. To underscore its sacred nature, the MC requested no photos to be taken during this time. And so began the drumbeats from the ceremonial drum, as veterans and flag bearers solemnly entered the Arena through an easternmost portal, before circling to a certain protocol. More drumbeats followed, as did the chanting and dancing by dancers in regalia in each specific dance, according to custom. The view from my lens inspired images of impressionist-style movement, as my camera swayed in two-step time.

On the last day of the PowWow, a bald eagle circled high above, tipping its wings to the resonating drumbeats that closed the ceremony. It was a fitting signature to an unforgettable experience.

Of hawks and tobacco

Photo courtesy Hawk Migration

It was an overcast day when I approached the recreated palisade of an old aboriginal site, now the Museum of Ontario Archaeology.

The entry looked forbidding. But that was the point. The Neutral Iroquoians had erected the pointed cedar poles with a maze for protection.

Just as I was about to enter through the palisade portal, a large bird with an even larger wingspan flew over me, nearly grazing my head, before returning to its perch. Its cream-coloured, speckled chest revealed the markings of a hawk.

Startled, I wound my way through the maze to find a grassy arena. At one end stood a longhouse — an arched structure covered with large, weathered tiles of bark. Inside, rustic bunks revealed some insight into how former inhabitants lived, 500 years ago.

At another end, by a forest, a man unloaded materials from his truck. I approached, finding a descendant of one of several tribes that, long ago, freely roamed this area. We exchanged hellos. He said he was setting up a booth of historical artifacts for interested visitors to the upcoming pow wow.

I told him about the hawk.

"Red-tail," he said.

"How do you know?" I asked.

Without another word, he walked briskly across the arena, his salt-and-pepper ponytail bobbing along. I kept up with him — barely, as he whisked off his steel-rimmed glasses and rubbed them with his shirt tail. He put his glasses back on and squinted at the top of the palisade. The hawk was still perched on one of the poles.

"Look at the base," he said.

I saw russet-coloured feathers at the bird's behind. But they were small.

"He's immature," said the man. "Probably kicked out of the nest."

I wondered how the man knew that. We parted ways. As I headed out, he called:

"Have a cigarette?"

I turned and said: "No," somewhat disgusted by the addiction that needed to bum cigarettes off others.

The man raised his arm and rubbed two fingers in the air.

"Need it to sprinkle," he said.

"Does a cigarette these days even have tobacco?" I called back.

The man paused. I sensed a chuckle.

On my way out, I entered the administrative building. Staff member Anne Tremblay-Pedersen was wrapping up for the day.

"Is the man that's setting up still on the grounds?" she asked.

"Yes," I said, before telling her about the tobacco incident.

"Indeed," she said. "Tobacco, like sage or sweetgrass, is sprinkled about in what's called a smudge."

I expect a few more aha! moments during the pow wow — my first — this weekend.

It's too darn hot!

Church of God, London, Ontario

If the humidity weren't so bad, I could tolerate these 25°C plus heatwaves. But the humidex is wringing my patience.

Some say the excessive heat is caused by global warming. Dat so? Then how come the almanac records hotter temperatures, decades prior. Take yesterday, for instance. The high of 31°C (the humidex made it feel like 42°C), in Toronto, underperformed the 1937 record of over 33°C. Care to explain that, Al Gore?

Whatever the reason for the heat, it's days like these that make you long for crisp autumn winds, while seeking ways to keep cool. In case you're running out of ideas, here's one: A church with prayer AND air conditioning. That may come in handy for some after viewing Ann Miller's sizzling rendition of Cole Porter's "It's too darn hot!" Now that's cool! (Note on the link: the video of Ann Miller's dance may be unavailable.)

Context

Context is everything.

















Then again, not so much.

















Sometimes the message and the medium don't mix, regardless of context. Under the banner of Grace Church Christian Reformed, I read: "Well, it is a whole lot better than shooting each other."

Sure, the message grabbed my attention. Not because of what the sign said, but because I wondered if there wasn't a better way to say it.

I suspect the reverend tried to provoke some thought in the face of rising urban violence. And by provoking, he may have also wanted to improve the attendance ratings at his church.

Is that what it takes now?

Perspective

There it was. An anniversary announcement to beat all. The sign stood before the Château. Château trailer, that is, by the road that leads to Mitchell, a town near Stratford, Ontario, home of the Shakespeare Festival. Somehow, methinks the Bard would have loved the ribald humour in this southwestern Ontario countryside.


















But forsooth! What's this? A change in camera position (and lens) reveals a distinctive lawn greeting by a family's home. Members of the Garden Club will never be the same when they come to this address for afternoon tea.

Special Olympics

The Special Olympics are the only Olympics where contestants hug their officials. Or so it is said. I can attest. There were plenty of hugs. Lots of high-fives, bumps, and handshakes, too. But above all, I saw smiles. Miles of them. The joy was infectious. And genuine. For five days, London, Ontario hosted the 2010 Canada Summer Games of the Special Olympics. I'll never forget the experience. It was honour to be included as part of the media contingent for this event. For more photographs, please go to the Inafoto gallery for Special Olympics.

The dress shoes are those of a Yukon athlete, worn during the Opening Ceremonies at the TD Waterhouse Stadium.

On trial

Eighteen months ago, I gingerly changed lanes in heavy traffic on a rainy night. After nearly completing entry, I found an express transit bus of the Toronto Transit Commission scraping my driver's side. I remember my terror; I don't remember the impact to my front wheel well. I do remember the bus rolling a little ahead of me, on a diagonal. It's rear end was still in the left turn lane.

A reconstruction of the events revealed this: the bus travelled down the left-turn lane, presumably to avoid traffic, until another car ahead, which was using the left-turn lane as it was designed, forced the bus into the centre lane, where my car had almost completed entry.

Although the forty-foot bus still had its rear end in the left-turn lane, the police chose to view the scene according to the revisionist story from the bus driver. So much so that when I mentioned to Officer Ashley Wolosinowsky that the bus was going down the left-turn lane, she countered with sarcasm ("Oh, really?") before charging me with careless driving ("You're at fault!").

Say what?

The terror of almost losing my life to an express bus that did something it should not have done, was compounded by the horror of questionable behaviour from the police. That double-whammy caused me to suffer cognitive difficulties for well over a year. A few issues remain.

But there was a silver lining to the fiasco. In the five hours that it took the reporting police to arrive at the scene, I gained time and the mental wherewithall to realize that I had my camera equipment with me. I photographed some incrimminating evidence, not by design -- I wasn't thinking straight -- but by coincidence. Without those photographs, now well presented for the judge, I doubt that I would stand much of a chance, just with my diagram of the positioning of vehicles after impact. For it would be my word against the police diagram, which indicated that (a) the bus was never in the left-turn lane, but rather in the centre lane, and (b) I was the one driving on a diagonal towards the bus. According to the police, I was the one that hit the bus, and not the other way around. Oh, really?

The fairy tale by the bus driver, in cahoots with the police, has an expiry date in court. This assumes that no other shenanigans take place, tomorrow, on the day of my traffic trial.

The motto for the Toronto police is "to serve and protect." And for the most part, I think it is an honourable force that does just that. But I wonder: Do police get commissions from certain segments whom they protect more than others? Say, the bus driver's union, which has a vested interest in keeping their insurance rates down? Just wondering.