Opinions
genius. Instead of sounding a warning you could send the car flying! Perhaps the mayor may also have been equipped with this feature when he made a hasty leap away from Mary Walsh recently, called 911 and when his horn didn't sound he called again with his own unique sound display. Edsel's unusual features did not sell then, but it is a collector's item today. It remains a prime example of a corporate planning boondoggle.
Ford should lighten up. He must remember that he was elected mayor of Canada's premier city, which last time I checked is a 24/7/365 job and like any other authoritative political personage usually becomes every jokester's target. George Bush as president of the United States provided billions in earnings for satirists worldwide, both by direct contact and through his words and deeds. When Obama became president, Comedy Central openly mourned George's departure and regretted that Obama's prior clean record, from the comedian's standpoint, might starve them of material; sadly that has not happened even though the pace did slow considerably.
Ford's victory last year was a protest; people are tired of waste and thievery in government. But response to his and brother Doug's proposals has been cool. Their general focus seems antediluvian; they cannot turn the clock back. Ford attempts to find the gravy train - a major campaign issue - focused on councillors, transit, cyclists, pedestrians, libraries, arts grants, contracts, etc; the last one is most likely a major source of "gravy", but hardly the billions alleged. And while pointing fingers he is said to have awarded a printing contract to his family company paid by Toronto at a rate more than twice the highest the city printer charges! So much for integrity.
Mayor Ford is undoubtedly a staunch conservative. This however does not excuse his irascible behaviour when Mary Walsh, a comedienne on the This Hour has 22 Minutes TV show, as her character Marge Delahunty "ambushed" him recently on his driveway "to give some advice". He called 911 and came across as shallow, suspicious, afraid of what might be asked or said, without guile, rather like a felon finally caught; his rush to call 911 was childish. He could have chastised her for the ambush and indulge the extempore interview. He was not smart enough however to seize the opportunity for positive publicity which he badly needs. The last thing you want to do is to act like a buffoon as he did or be called one. Who will he rail at next? Atwood had her come-uppance in August over libraries; now Walsh, what unpublished others?
Even Prime Ministers – Trudeau, Chretien, Harper, all far smarter minds - have realized how easily such opportunities can work to their advantage. The excuse of not knowing the TV show was disingenuous. Politicians, especially one sporting a smart phone, should know that social satire exists in every medium and should be prepared for contingencies; otherwise they should change careers. I doubt though that Ford has the intelligence to realise this. He came across as rash and confused under fire, a poor judge with no common sense. Even indifferent Harper has capitalised on such appearances and might even have picked up a few seats in the last election by not being a boor. Ford's views come close to Harper's in many ways but at least Harper recognises the difference between conservatism and stupidity. It was sad to see Toronto's mayor forced to apologise to the world for behaving irrationally. Had he tolerated the exercise his image today might have been totally different.
Rob Ford's response re-awakened my interest in his behaviour. I had almost forgotten, although not excused Doug Ford's ignorance of Margaret Atwood, an admission of which a city councillor should be ashamed. The Delahunty character is brash, even offensive but essentially fair comedy which sometimes helps us to tolerate the shenanigans of politicians especially those who claim to be reformers, but immediately fall prey to the very temptations they criticise.
Ford should be ashamed of this and of his abuse of the 911 service.
Changing face of beggars at the gate
A yam field thrived at the foot of one of the hills that made up the central range of mountains where I grew up. This was a communal field of yams. Its vines climbed up and down the hills, wrapped around the base of trees, or tried to strangle each other with its green leaves greedy for the sunlight, its vines purple like inside the mouths of poisonous snakes.
The villagers walked to the field carrying brown crocus bags, broad-bladed cutlasses for snake-chasing, and spades and forks for digging. We easily crested the undulating hills, working our way into the heart of the lush rainforest that covered the summits of the more mountainous areas.
It was here, where the canopy overhead was not too thick, where the sunlight that streamed down was filtered, softer and nourishing – it was where the yams grew huge, some the size of basketballs, others elongated and large as pumpkins; some as thick and the length of an adult's thigh; others like the hypertensive hands of a giant with misshapen, swollen fingers.
Then, there was a sense of community when we set out as a group as on an outing, or out foraging. We were the children in the group, so we ran ahead to harass the birds, or pull out the long stalks of grasses with seeds, which we stripped and threw into the wind. The adults followed us with a more even gait, pacing themselves, knowing they had to keep an energy reserve for the trip back with the weight of yams in a bag sitting on their backs.
Our world-view then was a sustainable one. The response to our environment was it fed us so we treated it with respect. We took no more yams than we needed; for each vine that was cut, each tuber that was dug, we respectfully shaved its top off and re-planted this in the rich humus among the trees with a final pat that gave it the go-ahead to replenish itself. The field of yams flourished; no one starved in the village when I was growing up.
No one could recall how the fields of yams had started. Some felt there was a connection to the past, one good thing coming out of the horror of the slavery years. The village where I was growing up could have dated back to this time, for the sugar canes and its factory had always dominated the landscape. So, the field of yams could have been as old as slavery itself – it made sense since the slaves had to find a way to master their environment even as their forced labour made others wealthy.
The same was said of the water well, cemented with irregular rocks that sat at the foot of one of the hills. It was from here where a mossy and fish-tainted water sprung. A few vague, older memories recalled with the wrinkles of age the field of yams, and the watering well, as always being there, as if from the start of time itself, so rooted in history were these two local entities.
The area around the field of yams was almost magical – it was quiet, and despite our steps being muffled by the decaying leaves underfoot, the birds still flitted out with dread into higher branches to watch us with frenetic nods of concern. So quiet and undisturbed was the area that a cutlass knocking against the metal of a fork sent a ringing, like an alarm, among the tree trunks and into the beds of criss-crossed vines. Creatures emerged with alarm – the vines rustled with the unknown - perhaps a snake, or a stalking mongoose, or a multi-child-bearing manicou scurrying out of its lair.
Fruit bats made a winged exodus just barely negotiating the obstacle course of trees with bellies heaving like cargo aircraft; the athletic projectiles of blue jays contrasted sharply with the lumbering of the bats; a flock of scandalised parakeets scrambled to safety into the bamboos beyond, glaring at the intrusion with one-eyed annoyance.
We walked into the musty scents of flourishing growth. It was here where the rot of leaves mixed with the headiness of renewal in a cycle of unbroken days of sunlight and rain. It was here where standing before us was a seascape of healthy leaves and the purple, snaking vines with its harvest of yams rooted below.
We dug the yams with care, parting the vines with the digging forks extended before us. We scraped the surface layer of rotted leaves off with feet well out of the way to ensure that centipedes, a few as wide and long as a one-foot ruler, had scurried off in a multi-legged, sinuous blur. Scorpions remained territorial, challenging like crabs, with stingers arched, until flicked up and away with a cutlass's broad blade.
We filled the crocus bags with a weight of yams that could be carried comfortably on the back. We returned to the village in single file, the young children crying from the sting of cuts on bare legs from the malevolent blades of razor grass.