Large Fierce Mammal

A beautifully ripe specimen, obviously recently harvested. (Source: http://www.birchbarkcanoe.net/images/furtradetop.jpg)

I have gone on record here many times as having a propensity to fuck with people, particularly when it comes to the Lore of the Great White North. Here is yet another example.

I once had cause to drive with a passenger from Miami, Florida to Lunenburg, Nova Scotia. You may recall that I have previously chronicled another incident from that very adventure. Story wise, that drive is the gift that keeps on giving.

It was in the early Spring and, as we drove ever northward, my Floridian passenger grew progressively riveted to the gradual appearance of more, and then still more, snow in the woods. Even more so when the Birch trees began to become more commonly seen, ultimately asking, “What ARE those white trees?”

“You’ve heard of Birch bark canoes?” I asked.

“Of course!” she replied.

“Well,” I said, “Those are babies. We harvest them in the fall.”

A conveyor belt in a German supermarket, photographed from an unforgivingly low angle. No mysteries here, of any kind. (Source: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Conveyor_belt_in_a_supermarket_in_Germany.jpg)

Totally Organic

By LFM

Conveyor belts at checkout stands
Are monuments to careless hands,
For as each turns it brings to view
Smears that range from “Yuck!” to “Eww!”

It may be water, maybe not.
It might be drool, or might be snot.
One critter’s blood? Another’s jizz?
No way of telling what it is.

So items bought are placed between
These smears that won’t soon be unseen.
Take care so nothing soaks it up
To float atop your coffee cup.

The secret’s in the timing dear.
If you have that, there’s nought to fear.
Await the dry as belt turns ’round,
And take no GROSS’ry homeward bound.

But wait! Now here’s a better though!
Why not clean the fucking lot?
A pause from moving cash to till
Might just give chance to fix this ill.

So grocers all, attention please..
Don’t make us wonder … spill or sneeze?
You keep the mung from off your shelves,
Why must we mind your belts ourselves?

Left to Right: Cst. Dave Joseph Ross (32), Cst. Fabrice Georges Gevaudan (45), and Cst. Douglas James Larche (40) of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police – Killed in an ambush in Moncton, New Brunswick on the evening of Wednesday, 4 June 2014. Click the image to enlarge. (Photo source: RCMP release via CTV News)

For the information of anyone who has somehow missed the news of the tragic events that played out this past week in Moncton, New Brunswick, I’m going to recap here. For a complete time line of events as reported by the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (CBC), see here.

The infamous photograph of 24 year old Justin Bourque, taken by a witness on the evening of Wednesday, 4 June 2014. (Click the image to enlarge)

On the evening of Wednesday, 4 June 2014, 24 year old Justin Bourque dressed in camouflage, armed himself with what reports from witnesses say was a collection of weapons including at least one knife, a crossbow, a rifle, a shotgun, and a supply of ammunition, and walked brazenly out of the trailer park where he lived alone. The timing of his actions made it a certainty that he would be seen by many witnesses, one of whom shot the picture at left.

Police responding to reports of an armed man, dressed in camouflage, walking through a residential neighbourhood, found themselves ambushed when they were fired upon from a concealed position. Seconds after their arrival at the scene, Constables Dave Joseph Ross, Fabrice Georges Gevaudan, and Douglas James Larche were dead or dying, and Constables Darlene Goguen and Eric Dubois were wounded and down. By all appearances, the suspect let himself be seen near the selected site of a planned ambush where he then set himself up to wait for his selected targets – law enforcement.

The police reaction was, not surprisingly, swift and massive. The portion of Moncton where the initial assault occurred, along with a large portion of the surrounding area was placed under lockdown. Everyone was asked to remain inside, and at night to leave all exterior lights on, while the area was gone over with a fine toothed comb. Citizen cooperation was pretty much universal, and finally, in heavy rain at 12:10 hours Atlantic Daylight Time on Friday,. 6 June 2014, a soaking wet and unarmed Justin Bourque surrendered to RCMP with the words, “I’m done.”

Speaking for my own part, I believe the fact that Bourque was still breathing so he could utter those words – innocent until proven guilty notwithstanding – stands as a testament to the professionalism and self-restraint of those RCMP members who took him into custody.

As usual in any case where someone turns a firearm against other people, particularly when the targets are members of an identifiable group suggesting their execution to be part of the assailant’s agenda, the political grist for assorted gun control mills – pro and con – is inevitably going to be ground with vigour. It was with this in mind that I was disappointed (to say the least) at the nature, and most particularly the timing, of the statement from the Canadian National Firearms Association that struck the first blow in this sadly undying rehash of an age old argument, even before the bodies of the slain were cold. I was not alone.

In an article posted yesterday by the CBC under the headline Moncton shootings: National Firearms Association response ‘premature’, we have this:

“I thought it was pretty premature,” said Tony Bernardo, executive director of the Canadian Sport Shooting Association, adding that discussions about the causes of the Moncton shootings should “not [be] about gun control.”

He said the focus has to be “on identifying people who have mental health issues.”

On Thursday afternoon, while the manhunt for suspect Justin Bourque was still in progress, the NFA released a statement saying that while it “deplores the terrible actions by a clearly deranged individual,” the killings demonstrated that “Canada’s excessive firearms control system has failed again.”

Despite his misgivings about the timing of the NFA statement, Bernardo said that shooting rampages, which happen more frequently in the U.S., always result in finger-pointing at the gun lobby.

“When this kind of thing happens and the immediate talk is, ‘Let’s put more regulations on the law-abiding,’ you can understand why the NFA might be feeling a little twitchy here,” said Bernardo.

Most important to my point today are the words quoted in the article from University of Toronto sociology professor Jennifer Carlson, “… who said that given the high emotion surrounding events like these, it’s inevitable that talk will quickly turn to regulation.”

It’s to Professor Carlson that I’ll give the next to final word because I couldn’t have said it better:

“Part of the reason for why this debate is reproduced ad infinitum in the U.S. is because shootings have no intrinsic pro-gun or anti-gun meaning: both sides see them as vindication of their own perspectives.

“Unfortunately, it seems like this same deadlock is also at work in Canada.”

So for now, let the grinding of the mills be silent. Beyond that, let’s use this latest human tragedy as an opportunity to learn something, once and for all, about realistic, effective, and most importantly relevantly contextual response that doesn’t end up looking, yet again, like entrenched lines of wild eyed zealots jabbing accusing fingers at each other from behind their respective shield walls.

Spirit Messengers. The term conjures images of animals sent by a higher power to offer guidance toward the right Path. A Google search will turn up reams of pages identifying the characteristics of each creature, along with its “meaning” should it choose to make itself seen to you under a variety of circumstances.

As with publications that purport to assist you in the interpretation of dreams, I personally hold that this “if A then B” approach at once trivializes and over complicates something my experience has shown to be both subtle and powerful, as is Nature Herself.

To clarify, let me relate some encounters of my own. The first I wrote about back in the Spring of 2009, and published here under the title Moments of Magick (read it by clicking the title). The last line in that piece defines my point:

“… For this to be experienced I needed to be exactly where and when I was. So simple and yet so profound.” ~ Moments of Magick

In the Spring of 2011, two years after I wrote of my encounter with the Damselflies, came my article, Blessed by Birch and Eagle , that contained familiar echoes, and evidence that Spirit Messengers need not be animals at all. (more…)

I personally espouse and teach what I hold to be the necessity of being as self-sufficient and savvy as one can possibly be in seeing to the welfare of you and yours. I believe in community and lending a hand in defense of those who can’t help themselves, and in knowing how to recognize evil under all its masks; but none of this make me responsible for, nor entitled to force my personal philosophy on, anyone else. I take responsibility for my own actions, and the outcome thereof, and I expect all others to do the same. Weakness, sickness, age, infirmity, or a present shortage of real world education or training do not represent Human conditions deserving of the endowment of sheephood. However, willful ignorance, in hope that whatever ails you will be cured one day when “THEY” find a solution, certainly, to my mind, is characteristic of another term I do enjoy – that being “sheeple“. ~ I’m Not a Sheepdog – I Have Sheepdogs for That (Part 2 of 2)

What do an incinerated homeless man, a missing Python, and homicidal outbursts involving weapons that occur on school premises have in common? Good question. Let’s take a look. (more…)

Here’s a little entertainment to give you a send through the rest of this Friday. Whatever your flavour of spiritual philosophy that explains your place in the Universe, assuming you have any such thing, this uplifting little ditty by Rusty Cage (“Where the occult meets folk.”) offers a toe tapping go it alone approach that’s free from any expectation of Heaven or Hell. It’ll get stuck in your head. I promise. (more…)

Hank Snow was the musical idol of my late Father, who sounded a lot like him when he sang. You’ll notice that the new stamp honouring Hank Snow bears no mark of monetary value. That’s because here in Canada, we don’t know the latest postage price increase from one minute to the next. (Source: Canada Post – click the image to enlarge)

Last December I posted a piece here called Drying Up and Blowing Away that spoke to my contempt for the Canada Post Corporation. From that, you won’t be surprised that I greeted last Friday’s announcement of a commemorative Hank Snow stamp with a snort of mirth born of irony. The choice was perfect.

For those of you who don’t have a grounding in good old country and western music, Hank Snow (AKA The Singin’ Ranger, back in the day before  the term “Ranger” had any widespread public connection with Chuck Norris or anyone named Strider) was a native son of Liverpool, Nova Scotia; a small town located about a half hour drive west of where I’m sitting, and from such humble beginnings grew a country music legend.

Where the irony comes into the issue is how perfectly a couple of ol’ Hank’s more famous hits fill the bill as theme music for the Canadian mail service. (more…)

This was inspired by a CBC article Mrs. LFM brought to my attention today on the subject of those items of produce most infused with pesticide contamination.

Ode to the Marketplace

By LFM

The money’s spent, the thing is built,
It’s time to market, screw the guilt.
Though testers, testing, met their ending,
Still they sell it, patent’s pending.

303 Squadron badge

Bloody Foreigners is the name of a four part series that aired on British television beginning in 2010. It tells the story of how pivotal events in British history were brought to a successful conclusion in no small part through the efforts of non-British people. The series title alone spoke to me because I am the direct and proud descendant of bloody foreigners from Germany who answered Britain’s call for people to settle the strategic port of Lunenburg, and dd just that in 1753, but one particular episode hooked me completely in my capacity as one who has a passion for military history, aviation, and most particularly, is proudly Polish by marriage. The one titled Bloody Foreigners: The Untold Battle of Britain.

While it’s open to dispute whether it actually represents an “untold” story in the overall historical sense, the episode chronicles the exploits of a small band of pilots who survived the German invasion of Poland, and made it to England where they were formed into RAF 303 Squadron. Untold or not, when I played selected segments of the documentary for Mrs. LFM, she was delighted, and admitted that she had never heard about any of it before. Well dear reader, that’s “untold” enough for me, and my beauteous specimen of Polish Pulchritude is now even prouder than ever of her national heritage. (more…)

For reasons that don’t relate to anything I can remember dreaming about last night, I woke up with a particular song in my head that we’ll get to in a moment. Like most things in my life, it reminded me of a story from personal experience. In this case it’s one that, as in the song, involved a naked man seeking to escape post coital danger.

This is a representative sample of Lunenburg architecture. It is neither a house of ill repute nor a den of iniquity. You can’t see the nearest one of those from this angle.

I happened to be manning the Lunenburg emergency dispatch centre the day it all came to pass, and first learned of the aforementioned unfortunate when I received a phone call complaining of a naked man screaming on the sidewalk in front of a particular address. I continued to receive similar calls until the police and fire rescue units I sent arrived on the scene … but before I get into all that, let’s set the stage.

Lunenburg is a small town on the south shore of Nova Scotia that built its fame and fortune on the fishing industry. The life of a fisherman, even in these modern days, is still a hard and hazardous one. It’s also a conveniently predictable one when viewed from the perspective of those left ashore when he goes to sea.

It’s this predictability that has always been a plague on those mariners unwittingly cursed with significant others of dubious fidelity – the boat sails at known times and returns at known times, plying its trade far out of sight of land from which vantage the cries of passion from the homestead can scarce be heard. In this case, as is common, the unfaithful wife drove her husband to the dock, and kissed him good bye before heading back to the apartment they rented on the top floor of a house fronting on Lincoln Street – Lunenburg’s main drag. The strutting cock in this equation was so hell bent on cuckolding our stout mariner, and so sure of impunity, that, as is said, he was into the wife before the dust of her husband’s departure had settled in the driveway. But into the best laid plans, a little entropy must fall, and so it did on the day in question.

You see, a fishing vessel is a complex machine comprised of an array of implements and equipage critical to the mission of catching fish. In fact, so critical is each component, that the failure of any one of them puts a stop to the entire enterprise until repairs can be effected. A major component, like the winch for example, that deploys and hauls back the fishing tackle, can take a day to repair, and in such cases, the crew is dismissed to home and returns the next day for another go.

Are you with me so far?

Well now, as it happened, our stout mariner’s boat experienced a problem with its own winch, and after several tries by good old fashioned pre-cellular telephony to call his wife for a ride (ironic reference), he hired a taxi and headed home as things back at the homestead were proceeding apace. So it was that after a time, or even a few times perhaps, the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs leading to the only door in or out of the apartment could be clearly heard by the couple engaged in the boudoir within!

By way of clarification, I should point out that Lunenburg is an exceedingly hilly place, with many houses of the sort involved in this case, built into hillsides so that the house is two stories at the back, and three stories at the front. The fisherman’s apartment was accessed from the low side at the back by means of a single flight of exterior stairs. This led first into a small porch which in turn emptied into a hallway that led from back to front, with kitchen, living room, and bedrooms feeding off either side. Straight at the end of the hall, overlooking the street, was the bathroom,. housed in what is locally referred to as a “Lunenburg bump”. If you take a look at the picture that tops this article, you’ll see a yellow door at street level, a set of windows directly above it, and yet another set in the front of a projecting structure that juts out of the roof. Please note that the image does not depict the actual scene of these events, and is offered here purely as a representative sample of the same sort of house, but if were to be that house, then the bathroom would be located behind that upper set of windows, and it was into this that the miscreant fled at the first sound of a key in the lock.

While he may have been unfortunate, our mariner was not stupid. A snoot full of the ambient scent and a glance at his wife was all he needed to assess what was going on, and locate his foe who quivered in fear of his life behind a locked bathroom door he knew would not withstand the mariner’s onslaught for long. The list of injuries reported for the man who subsequently left the bathroom through the window included fractures to his heels, ankles, knees, several leg bones, both wrists, one elbow, and a finger, as well as an assortment of lacerations and contusions. He was fortunate that the mariner’s attentions were absorbed by his wife long enough for professional help to arrive, or the list would have undoubtedly been considerably longer.

I hope all that was worth it as a lead in to the song of the day. Thank you Tex Williams.