Ruminations on the British election from a nosy by-stander

As shocking as the recent UK election has been for the British people, and for pundits of all stripes, it has the eerie feeling of familiarity for those of us in Canada.

To deconstruct this result in an organized and thoughtful manner would be pointless, so I humbly offer an outsider’s view:

1.    The economy – Sure, it’s not where people want it to be, but based on the measures, it’s doing reasonably well. Advantage to the powers that be.

2.    Holding the base – In agreeing to be part of the governing coalition, the Liberal Democrats signed on for policies that were anathema to their base. Your base is party members, the people who canvass, phone neighbours, and cheer at rallies. They donate their time and money. They lend their name and reputation to your cause. As Canada’s federal Progressive Conservatives learned in 1993, lose your base and you will lose your deposit.

3.    A mile wide, but an inch deep – UKIP and the SNP demonstrate the fact that when it comes to votes in a Westminster style First-Past-The-Post system, you need quality as much as quantity. Back to the 1993 Canadian federal election, the total number of votes cast nationally for the Progressive Conservatives and the Reform Party was roughly at par.  Yet, the former earned two Commons seats while the latter attained over 50. The Bloc Quebecois received even less than them and ended up with even more seats than that!

4.    Fear trumps all – It is an old bromide of political veterans that voter intentions really get sorted out in the final 7 days of the campaign. That’s when the undecided start to move and soft support begins to shift. In this vote, that timeframe was dominated with reports that neither the Tories nor Labour could get a majority, and that the SNP would be the kingmakers. If you were a voter in England or Wales who fretted about the notion that the people who initiated the independence vote last year would have any control over Parliament, you may have decided to pick the party who was closest to the finish line. It was Hadrian’s Wall rebuilt with ballot papers instead of stone and mortar.

No analysis would be complete with some nosy neighbor advice, so here it is:

1.    The promise of a Referendum on Europe will need to be kept. Given popular opinion on the idea of a vote, let alone how it would go, a government that reneged on this promise would burn through its political capital like a rogue currency trader on a bender

2.    The Unity issue needs more than an ad hoc treatment. It is all well and good to say that you will keep your referendum promise and give more to Scotland, but understand that in doing so you set a precedent. Imagine coming home to your four children and giving one of them a brand new PS4 gaming console, then explaining to the other three why they got nothing. Yeah – thought so. Remember that a big component of the success of Canada’s Reform Party was based on the sense that Ottawa favoured Quebec at the expense of the western provinces. If the voters in England and Wales feel that Westminster is prepared to give Scotland things that no one else will get, then expect a bump for Plaid Cymru and whatever party seizes on comparable English discontent the next time around.  In the end, the best approach may be the dreaded f-word…federalism.

3.    Scottish votes for Scottish questions, etc. is a dangerous idea – How would this work? Imagine the Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod playing nightclub bouncer and kicking out 90 percent of the elected MP’s at Westminster because the government needs to vote on buying 5 acres to extend the runway at Edinburgh Airport. How does quorum work on this? With only one MP in Scotland, how does the government argue its policy? Would every bill, in this instance, be a private members bill? Even if you resolve all this, what if 80 percent of the money for said airport expansion came from English and Welsh taxpayers?

When all is said and done, every election is a setup for the one to follow. Those of us in Canada who have endured referenda and numerous constitutional debates should have some empathy for the British people. Even if we’re too polite to give advice (which evidently I am not), we should be willing to offer some reference to consider on the long road ahead.

Discipline is the next item on my 'to do' list...Seriously.

The key to writing is discipline.

I suppose the good news is that I’ve identified it. The not-so-good news is that I don’t seem to have mastered it as of late.

I’ve been relatively prolific on Twitter as of late (@BrentHCameron for those wanting to follow….please?) but I really don’t think that counts. It’s 140 characters, and it usually gets used when I am in a particularly smart-alecky mood…and it’s the weekend…and it’s late…and…Anyway, beyond exercising my typing fingers and my clownish tendencies, I don’t think I’ve actually accomplished much by it.

Now don’t get me wrong. I do have something that is similar to discipline, like the difference between real coffee and decaf (I’m sorry, but c’mon now…). I have a specific time each day, from Monday to Friday, and in the same spot. If I am duly inspired, I can churn out a somewhat respectable bit of writing.

Today was one such day, and it felt really good to get in there and mix it about. Felt good until I looked at the page count, which has risen as quickly as the odometer in the Griswold family station wagon haplessly meandering on its way to Walley World. The voice inside my head was telling me this wonderful story and pestering me to write faster. Lately, it just sits in the back seat and whines ‘Are we there yet?’ or ‘Can you pull over? I gotta pee!’

One of us – the writer or the voice – needs a cuff in the head, or a kick in the pants. Unfortunately the voice has neither a head nor the need for fashionable slacks, so its humble human vessel needs to put its middle-aged doughy self back into the game.

And yes, in writing this, I appear to have used up my allotment of novel writing time for today...

Canada Needs a ‘Commonwealth Minister’

A few years ago, the government was taken to task over the appointment of Ted Menzies as a Parliamentary Secretary to then Cabinet Minister Josee Verner. The criticism had nothing to do with Mr. Menzies’ per se, but was made because his role made him a ‘back up’ to a Minister whose portfolio included the job of ‘Minister of State for la Francophonie’. For some, the idea of an Alberta Anglophone answering on behalf of the Francophonie Minister seemed inappropriate.

The one thing that the critics could not ask, however, was how many of us would feel if a Quebec francophone had been named as the Parliamentary Secretary to the Minister of State for the Commonwealth. For that to happen, the federal government would first need to name a Commonwealth Minister – something that no Prime Minister has done in the more than two decades since the Francophonie portfolio came into being.

Canada’s support for the Francophonie has been significant and substantial. With the election of Michaelle Jean as its Secretary-General, that support has only increased in stature. Having a member of Cabinet whose job, in part, is to focus on Francophonie issues sends the signal that Canada considers the organization, and the community of nations it represents, as a priority. I would be the last person to argue with that view.

On the other hand, we are also prominent members of the Commonwealth – an organization that encompasses significantly more jurisdictions and a higher portion of the world’s population than la Francophonie. Outside of the United States and France, all of the most important military and economic allies Canada has are Commonwealth jurisdictions. Based on population, GDP, and the distribution of regional and global power, the Commonwealth is a far larger presence on the world stage.

The Commonwealth comprises 54 jurisdictions that hold one-third of the world’s population. Together, they account for 13 of the world’s fastest growing economies and almost a quarter of the world’s economic output. It includes every continent and region, as well as India, which is emerging as a global economic power in its own right. With Britain, Australia and New Zealand, it also includes the nations outside of the US who are our closest allies.

It all begs the obvious question - if the Francophonie merits a seat at the Cabinet table, why is the Commonwealth not even present in the room?

In fairness to the present government, the appointment of then-Senator Hugh Segal as a ‘Special Envoy to the Commonwealth’ was the most attention any Canadian government had afforded the organization since the appointment of Arnold Smith as its Secretary-General fifty years ago.

I would also acknowledge that the Commonwealth has its share of challenges, from the effectiveness of the Secretariat to the governance issues and human rights concerns within member jurisdictions. The problem with using this as an excuse for non-engagement is the fact that the same complaints could be made about la Francophonie. In many cases, it fares no better. 

Canadian objections to the Commonwealth of late were primarily due to human rights concerns in Sri Lanka. This issue appeared to be the impetus for the withdrawal of Canadian support for the Commonwealth Secretariat. If one considers this action to be principled and legitimate, then one would need to ask why the current situation in Egypt has not brought about a similar reaction toward the Francophonie? In the former case, we downgraded our support while in the latter we have maintained our commitment and lobbied to have a former Governor-General lead the organization.

Canada’s neglect of the Commonwealth has been long standing, and the remedy will not be found in a quick fix. It could, however, turn the corner with a simple act – the naming of a Minister of State for the Commonwealth.

The advantages of such an appointment are numerous. They would act as a reference point in dealings with the Secretariat, yet be able to work with officials and organizations in member states directly. They would also demonstrate to Canadians and to the rest of the Commonwealth that this nation does value our relationships. At a time when nearly fifty percent of immigrants to Canada come from Commonwealth jurisdictions, this importance cannot be overstated.

It would be naïve to presume that the Commonwealth could not benefit from reform, but Canada’s disengagement will do nothing to remedy the situation. Indeed, by applying a different standard to our involvement in la Francophonie, we create a perception that our stance on issues of principle are purely situational.

The logic behind Canada’s support for la Francophonie is understandable. The lack of equal regard for the Commonwealth is not. Naming a Commonwealth Minister would be a tangible step in the right direction.

A sappy soliloquy

This weekend, with kids in tow, we made our seasonal pilgrimage to Wheeler’s Pancake House, just outside the village of McDonald’s Corners (within an hour’s drive west of Ottawa for those not familiar with the topography of rural eastern Ontario, Canada). From our vantage point, it’s roughly a forty-five minute drive over country roads both familiar and vague to our recollection.

You get the idea you’re entering a simpler time when you are faced with a large sign that tells you not to rely on your GPS (or SatNav), and that the large signs along the road will point you in the correct direction.  Of course, there was the pleasant irony of having to brake at a caution sign warning about pedestrians in order to allow a deer to run to the other side (with two others waiting their turn for a quick prance).

Once there, you come to a collection of log buildings, one being significantly larger than the rest.  On one end is the dining area, which could easily accommodate over 100 patrons, while the other displays two stainless steel evaporators that apply the steady heat that transforms the maple sap into syrup. Of course, the fare on offer consists of breakfast, and each table is given a sizeable bottle of maple syrup to complement their order.

Amid the litres upon gallons of amber liquid, you would get the impression that the stuff is as plentiful as all get out, and that we Canucks just have to jam a spigot into a tree trunk and voila - we have something to pour on our French toast.

I love maple syrup for the taste, but it goes a bit deeper.

First, it is only a particular type of maple tree that produces this sap, and it tends to be located in just a very small geographical part of the nation. If you live in western Canada, for example, you would be hard pressed to find a maple tree of any species – period. I lived in northeastern British Columbia for six years, and if you were to find maple syrup for sale, it was shipped in from Ontario or Quebec.

It’s also time consuming to produce. Yes, it’s pretty much about the boiling, but consider that to get one gallon of syrup, you need to start with forty gallons of sap. You also need to get that sap from trees that release the fluid at the rate similar to that of the steady drip of a leaky faucet. Once you collect enough, you have to get that sap to the ‘shack’ where it’s boiled down. To do that, you need to traipse through snow drifts that might still be a foot deep. Also appreciate the fact that usable sap only runs during certain conditions – no warmer than 5 degrees Celsius during the day and no colder than minus 5 at night.

The Wheelers, like many large producers, have employed innovations that help the process, like running miles of flexible tubing between the trees in order to run the sap to a central collection point. Despite that, they need over 700 acres of land and over 14 kilometers of piping to accomplish this task.

I may sound as though I am fixated on the time, effort and labour expended in this pursuit – and I am.

The syrup reminds me of the spring of 1985, and my grandfather. It was the spring that he had resolved to tap some sugar maple trees and that I was going to help him.

Late February in rural eastern Ontario is a case study in fickleness.  The temperature straddles either side of zero degrees with nary a warning, while the elements disperse equal amounts of rain and snow with the capriciousness of a fickle lover. The caress of an engorged snowflake is suddenly replaced by the rude slap of a pellet of rain, hard against a chilled cheek.

Along the shore of the lake, the large boiling pan was propped on its corners by old cinder blocks, while the space below was crammed with logs and kindling. Gallons of clear sap, painstakingly collected from solitary trees that escaped frost, wind and the gnawing jaws of beavers, was poured into the heated pan. Steam, laden with the smell of sugar and smoke, rolled like ethereal mist over a graveyard.

Over the course of hours, the foot deep bath of liquid dissipated into a brown distillate that stood no more than a quarter-inch from the scalded bottom.

The fire was extinguished and the remains were poured into a large milk can and brought back to the house. There, my grandmother ladled the liquid onto a piece of cheesecloth that covered the pressure cooker pot on the stove. Bits of dirt, grit, twig and bark lay in its wake.

The cooking continued, with the familiar maple smell permeating the walls and ceiling of the kitchen. The liquid, now as viscous as gravy, was on a rolling boil. Light brown foam began to form on top, with yet more bits to scrape off. Under her instruction and watch, I continued the work of removing the sediment. After what felt like an eternity, I reasoned that my work was done. My grandmother, however, put that lie to rest by pouring a quarter cup of milk into the pot. Almost immediately, the thick, white foam appeared with yet more bits of bark – as though I had accomplished nothing up to this point.

When all was said and done, after the days of sap collection and the hours of boiling and straining, we had produced enough to fill a large mason jar. Within a week, it was gone.

Never before that year, and never after, did I ever do the trees. Funny enough, though, neither did my grandfather – at least in my lifetime. While he was not an overtly sentimental man, he always found reason to pass on to me knowledge of what had been. To this day, it shocks some people in their late 70’s and early 80’s that I know where a particular barn, or local cheese factory sat – places that had burned or demolished four decades before I was born!

The syrup means many things to me. It marks the transition from winter to spring, and it defines much of who we are in our part of the world. It also reminds us of who we used to be before the modern world homogenized us into a monotone culture that, like anything mass marketed, lives in the shadow of the lowest common denominator. It’s a fact that we don’t recognize or appreciate until we’re older and have seen change first hand – when we’ve been around long enough to compare and contrast.

My grandfather has been gone for nearly a decade, and the land where we tapped and boiled now belongs to me. I’ve not subjected my son or daughter to making our own syrup, but I’ve inflicted the story of my experience on them – usually every time we make the pilgrimage to McDonald’s Corners.

Much drier and far warmer.

Wear a hat!

This weekend was one of those rare occurrences in our household - sort of like the return of Halley's Comet or Kanye West creating a scene at the Grammys...Oops, scratch that last one. Anyway, it was rare because it was a solid two day period where neither I nor any member of the household left the house. Technically, that's not quite true, as we did bundle up to go outside, but you get the drift.

Coincidentally, we got the drift too - big ones that required yours truly and the man of the house trainee to fire up our snowblower and set to work. One pass along the length of the driveway, and I made the call to send him back inside. I'm not sure if the contorted expression on his face was a result of the cold or the shock of hearing his old man tell him not to worry about a household chore!

For the next half-hour, with the wind whipping up a furious sting of moist cold, I persevered. Did the driveway, the turnaround spot, and across the highway in front of the mailbox.

When I came inside, my wife took one look at me and in a very muted and casual tone remarked "Oh my God - what happened to your ear?!"

On my right ear, in the top outside corner (I believe the correct anatomical name is 'the spot where people put third, fourth and fifth piercings'), the skin was as white as the stuff I had just spent all that time moving.

Despite living for six years in Dawson Creek, BC, whose main thoroughfare is the Alaska Highway, she felt it incumbent to inform me that it was frostbite (and that anyone who argued that they lived in a place where it could drop to minus 50 should have had the brains not to let that happen to begin with!)

The issue was, of course, why I didn't wear a hat. In truth, I did wear a hat, but apparently my wife felt that a black golf hat with 'Taylor Made' emblazoned on the front was, in her words, "not a good choice." Actually, she said something to that effect. I had a hard time hearing on account of the frostbite in my ear.

I will quickly calm any fears by stating that the rosy pink returned to that blanched patch of cartilage (along with a sting that felt like scraping one's knee on pavement, but je degress...). Next time, of course, I will don the goofy ill-fitting toque with the big fuzzy ball on top.

Of course, before you all lose complete and total respect for me - and in my defense - it was an easy error. It's just that I can't keep track of all the hats I have and wear.

I have a husband hat, a father hat, a son hat, an employee / co-worker hat, a municipal politician hat, and - of course - the hat I'm wearing right now....Yes, it's a 'writer' hat! Maybe with all these interchangeable hats, it's easy to neglect one or two every now and then. After all, wearing them all simultaneously would make me look like an idiot.

On the other hand, my wife would argue that my ears would stay warm.

After this heartfelt confession of my near-injurious idiocy, I want to let all you kind folk know that "The Barricade Diary" will be available for a free download as a Kindle e-book starting tomorrow (February 12) and running to February 16th. Of course, in lieu of filthy lucre, I only ask for those brave and intrepid souls who take the offer to post a review on Amazon when you finish. I really don't care what you say, so long as it's honest. If it's good, I want the world to know. If it's bad, then I need to consider my options - possibly a career in snow removal?

Here's the link: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00MYZ7XD6


Cheers (and stay warm!),
Brent

Look for the silver lining

As I meander away the waning minutes, hours and days of what constitutes my Christmas break, I received an e-mail from Writer's Digest Magazine.

The bad news was that I wasn't selected as a finalist for their annual Self-Publish e-Book Awards. As writers meet with rejection more often than success, this I can take in stride.

The good news, I guess, was the feedback of the judge who read 'The Barricade Diary' (minus the spoilers):

"Brent Cameron has written a fascinating novel that takes a little perseverance for it to get a hold on you... But if the reader perseveres they will be rewarded with a complex and interesting story... There are twists and turns that will keep the reader involved and wanting to turn the page. The writing, the voice, is very much of the time and feels authentic.  It flows nicely and moves the story along at a good pace. The characters are compelling and  the reader will be swept up into their lives."

There were 4 criteria being judged, and my aggregate score on them, on a scale of 5, was 4.2.

No - I'm not going to win, and that's fine.

My 'silver lining' is that my writing may have a place. These kind (and encouraging) words, combined with the equally kind and encouraging words in those Amazon reviews, make me believe that for those willing to give it a chance, there are people who enjoyed the journey.

A very happy and prosperous New Year to one and all!

An end to the interlude

And so, after an interlude from this blog, I have returned to posting.

The rule of blogging is to do the exact opposite of what I’ve been doing - to be regularly punctual, pithy and profound. As I am not particularly talented at the latter two, the least I could’ve managed was the former.

To you, my friends, I confess some significant reason for not being diligent in my writing. By way of full disclosure, my activities up to October 27th were directed toward some immediate goal. In the Canadian province of Ontario, where I reside, that was the date when all local governments and municipal level councils were elected. As coincidence would have it, both my wife and I were candidates for office.

While Jodi's run for School Board Trustee was agonizingly close - losing by less than 30 votes - I was elected as a member of council in the Township of Central Frontenac.

This has been something I have contemplated for some time, and it holds a great deal of significance for me.

I grew up in a municipality called Hinchinbrooke Township. It has its own Reeve and Council, fire and roads department. There was a Hinchinbrooke Public School where I first began my education. My grandfather was the grader operator and retired as the head of its roads department after over 20 years of service.

In the late 1990’s, there was a round of amalgamations of local governments in Ontario, and Hinchinbrooke was combined with three other townships to form the Township of Central Frontenac. Last year, the school was closed, and my grandfather has been gone for eight years.

What was once Hinchinbrooke is a district that has two elected representatives, and I’ve been honoured to become one of them. My term gets underway in earnest in 2015 – the year my grandfather would have turned 100 (Given his mother lived to be 103, not that implausible).

So, what does that mean for my writing?

Well, not all that much, really.

My council commitments will take up a lot of time, but my full time job at Queen’s remains in toto.  In addition, my writing time tends to be in the morning – after I arrive on campus but before I start work. Also, my employer closes between Christmas Eve and the New Year. Long story short – I can still write if the words and ideas are there.

Are they though?

Well, yes. Even though I am still pushing to get ‘Barricade Diary’ into a more public distribution, I have other projects in varying stages of development.

One project which I confess I did not plan on taking on was a sequel to ‘The Barricade Diary’. To be honest, I never considered it anything other than a stand-alone work. Of course, I had feedback from readers, and more than one wanted to know if a sequel was in the works.

I took a couple of weeks to figure out whether or not there was a story to tell, and I’m happy to say that there is. I’m still working on the outline, but it didn’t take long for the story to reveal itself.

Still no idea how long it will take to write, but given that ‘Barricade’ took, off and on, over 15 years, I’m guessing it will be quicker – even with my new ‘political career.’