The Steinbach Caper

The Steinbach Caper

I know, I know. We're gettin' a little long in the tooth to be marchin' in a Pride parade. So I figured I'd better explain how we got there in the first place. There was never any thought of it until that terrible attack in Orlando, Florida. When the Missus found out that the girls and their kids was goin' to the Steinbach Parade, it was decided (not by me) that we would go an' march too. (Well, I done that in 1995 after Ron's passin' an' had a hard time with it. I even spoke at the steps of the Legislature). Well, the Missus put on her boss pants an' said we're goin'. That wasn't a request. Fortunately, I was on side with her. Human rights abuses are as abominable to me as they are to her.

My biggest worry was vandalism of my car while it was parked out there. Turns out that Yvonne, who has her mother's organizational instincts says we should go to their place an' then all ride out in one car. Okay I say, Bob's yer uncle. Well wait, if that ain't enough, we got a semi - invalided passenger with us. So, continuin' with her organizational mind, she decides to drop the aged an' infirm (that's me an' Judy) off at City Hall steps so we don't have to walk any sort of a ways, an they'll continue on to the Jake Epp Library where the parade is to start.

So we get perched on the sidewalk in front of City Hall on our camp chairs in the heat an' brilliant sunshine watchin' folks go by, greetin' us an' sayin' good mornin' an' other pleasantries. Several times my infirm partner hobbles off into the shade to have a smoke an' cool off, leavin' me there in the sunshine to people watch for a good couple of hours.

Finally, FINALLY, the parade shows up down the block an' suddenly a sea o' people ooze onto the City Hall front yard, almost swallowin' me whole in the process. I jump up and fold up my camp chairs in absolute terror, hopin' to save myself from bein' trampled. Before I know it, all six of our women are standin' around me, takin' pictures an' yakkin'. I put my folded up chairs in Yvonne's walker when the speeches get underway. I can't see nothin' cause o' them people all around, wavin' their arms, an' I can't hear nothin' cause o' all that screamin' an' yellin' goin on every time somebody says somethin' they like. It reminded me o' them Niverville church services where the preacher finishes his sermon early an' asks the congregation if anybody has anythin' profound to add. There was always somebody an' the service goes on forever 'til nobody can hold their water no more.

I finally got claustrophobia an' headed to where the car was parked only to find Judy sittin' on a bench nearby, havin' another smoke. After another hour or so of watchin' the Mounties direct traffic away from the crowd, the women finally return an' we head for home.

Well the upshot o' all this hullabaloo was that Steinbach certainly lived up to and exceeded it's Mennonite traditions, showin' respect for the celebrants and were repaid in kind. No vandalism, no protests, no interruptions.  . . . . (and unfortunately, no rollkuchen which is somethin' like Mennonite Bannock). Except for those, Steinbach showed the world how things ought to be done with respect, tolerance and dignity. At least, that's how it seems to me from up here on the tops shelf.

Just sayin'.

 

Mutual Respect an' Negotiation

I'll tell you what brought this on. That "Black Lives Matter" group holding up the gay parade in Toronto until the gay rights group signed off on the first group's demands. Well they got the publicity alright, but it wasn't the kind they were after. In one fell swoop they managed to diminish their credibility as a viable entity. In the first place, an agreement made under duress is not enforceable, as they soon found out. Secondly, they presented themselves not as friends seeking help, but rather as masters of the throng. It certainly wasn't well thought out. Maybe the following will serve a purpose.

 

Mutual Respect an' Negotiation

Well, that's what it's all about, ain't it? You gotta respect other people's choices about lifestyles, religion, ethnic culture, an' a whole long list o' other things. By the same token, them "others" gotta respect your choices too. That's what ya call yer mutual respect. And that ain't the end of it neither. No, that's only just the very beginnin' o' things. The hard part is to come to some understandin' of how to cope with all the things that are either foreign and/or disagreeable to you. Ya got to give somethin' in order to get somethin'. I think it's called negotiatin'. Well, an' there's all kinds o' negotiatin' tactics around too.

Years ago my sister's girlfriend wanted to bring a couple of Mormon elders over to the house (no doubt to convert us to the Mormon religion). My dad, sly old fox that he was said; "by all means, they're more than welcome. Why not come over for dinner?" That of course gave him all the advantages. It was his house an' he could afford to make the rules. There would be no talk of religion or politics, but they were welcome to come and have a good meal and a friendly visit. It worked out well too 'cause after these two big strappin' guys in their blue serge suits had packed away an enormous meal they sat around until late an' chatted about everythin' under the sun except religion an' politics. An' they came back a number of times too over their two-year assignment (probably because of mom's good old Mennonite cookin'). In fact, they corresponded long after their term was up an' they'd gone back home. Everybody came out a winner in that negotiation.

A different kind o' negotiatin' was that of Nestor Makhno, the Ukrainian Anarchist who took it to a different extreme, makin' his own rules. He went racin' across the Russian Steppes on stolen Mennonite horses, pillagin' plunderin' rapin, an' murderin' an' takin' whatever he wanted. The only thing he an' his gang left in return was disease (Typhus) an' lice, much the same as the white man did in America. The upshot was that the communists finally wiped him out an' he died a penniless pauper in Paris France, still clingin' to his beliefs. Turns out he was only an annoyin' pimple on the arse of the Great Russian bear.

Well of course I could cite the negotiation between Moses, Aaron and the Egyptian Pharaoh which netted the Israelites the land o' milk an' honey an' swallowed the Egyptian army into the Red Sea.

What this points out (to me) is that while my old man wasn't no smarter than Makhno or the Pharaoh, (or even the Black Matters group with their shenanigans at the Toronto Gay parade), he had a genuine respect for his visitors (and they for him). On that mutual respect basis they were able to build a genuine friendship. We ought to learn how to do that. At least that's how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin'.

 

 

 

Canada Day

I posted this a year ago, but in light of Canada's birthday I think it's appropriate to do again. My old friend Nestor Kropatnik was not so much offering his usual sage advice as he was describing things that were important to him. I think he pretty well captured the idea of national pride in celebrating the country's birthday, so it's worth repeating.

 

Dear Canada

Dear Canada;

It’s me, Nestor! Hoys Boys, I so embarrass early first thing in morning I don’t know should I sit down, stand up, or hide face in corner. Sun is just peeking up from under sleeping blanket when I take my coffee and little bit ham sausage on balcony for think about what to do today. Well I know I not going to do things no more – I retire – but is old habit I pick up and hard to break. Even still is nice to plan for do nothing whole day. Besides, is Canada day today. Whole country having birthday party.

Now I look up from comfy balcony chair – just like pope – and look across courtyard at other buildings. Holy Moley, I bet my big boots I jump a mile high! Lots o’ people got big Canadian flag in windows and draped over balcony – just like huge big birthday card. Hoy Boys! What a good idea! How come I never think of that? I gotta admit, sometimes city slickers not so dumb after all.

All of a sudden I get great idea myself. Maybe I got no flag so I gonna make one for sure! Quiet as a little mouse I sneak in bedroom where missus still sleeping. She so cute, purr like tiny little kitten on pillow. I find brand new pair red wool gotchies and brand new white bed sheet and tippee toe out so wife not wake up. I know I got no business in sewing basket, but I look anyway for safety pins and take whole shebang to balcony. Hoy Boys – is hard job to figure out how to make maple leaf from pair o’ gotchies. Is one part short until I remember trap door. Look at that. Trap door is good for lots o’ things. By time I all finished, tongue is all twisted from concentrating, fingers full o’ holes from safety pins, but whole thing looks pretty good, I figure out. Not so bad for old pig farmer.

Holy Moley, if I not still on hands and knees, I bet you for sure I be fall down right away quick. Right behind me cute little purring kitten turn into ferocious big tiger – roar like lion – in mother tongue! Missus lets out string o’ words, some I never even know what mean. What I think I doing showing underwear to neighbors on balcony? What people going to think of bunyak pig farmer? They gonna laugh us right out of neighborhood! Hoy Boys, I so shocked I don’t know what to say for minute. I never thought o’ that.

Finally I get tongue back and I say, ”Hey listen sweetie, calm down. I make birthday card for Canada.” Hoy Boys, big mistake! She give me ‘nother blast.

Now I got to dig heels in little bit. I tell her, “Listen here sweetie, I CEO of balcony. If I wanna say ‘Happy Birthday Canada’, I gonna do it!”.

Missus shoots right back. “Maybe you CEO, but don’t forget who is Chairman of Board. Now shaddap and give me gotchies”.  

Just then our Olga – she now CEO of pig farm since I retire, walks in door and wonders what is all squawking about. Missus tells her I make jackass of self and show her what I make. She says she gonna throw in Dumpster.

Daughter says, “no, no mommy, don’t throw away! Is very important to say ‘Happy Birthday Canada’. Look, I brought present”! She open big Eaton’s shopping bag and haul out huge big flag she bought from store. Holy Moley I get such a big surprise! Is beautiful flag.

Missus like it too. She says, “here Mr. CEO, go hang up proper birthday card – and do it straight”.

Daughter tells mommy, “Give me daddy’s flag. I got good place for it. I hang it up in barn. Pigs will be so happy, they gonna squeal like pigs – maybe even sing ‘Oh Canada’. They see daddy’s gotchies, then they know who is Chairman of Board in barn. See, everything is hunky dory”.

Look at that! I don’t know how it happened. Missus comes and gives me little squeeze. She says I cutest little bunyak. Daughter says she gotta go show flag to pigs in barn.

Let me give you little bit friendly advice. Don’t worry, it’s free – no red tape attached. When it comes to ladies, just shaddap and do what they say. Somehow by magic, everything work out – every time.

You should drop by sometime. We could have some sausage and maybe I ask my boy who live close by if he got some extra beer. We could have nice visit. Just don’t ask for lady advice.           

Your pal,

 

Nestor Kropatnik PF (Retire)

Gardening for the Disadvantaged

 

 

Gardening for the Disadvantaged

I was just settin' out there on my balcony wonderin' what I might blog about this week. Watchin' the old folks up on the rooftop over the pool doin' their gardenin' (an socializin') gave me an idea. Well that's how our complex is. I can look down from our third floor apartment an' see what's goin on. There's some forty plots, four feet wide by eight feet long in boxes three feet high and they're given out by lottery every spring. Not surprisingly, the boxes are all spoken for an' all planted too.

It's pleasant to sit an' watch all the activity goin' on down there. Old people, young people, little ones takin' turns runnin' around on the roof top and helpin' mommy or daddy or even grandma water the plants. It's like an all day garden party, what with the comin's an' goin's of the people. The thing is, they all gotta inspect every plot on the rooftop before they get to their own little acre. If that's not enough, they gotta point out an' comment on every plant.

But that's not the best part. The other day two oldsters come out the door, hand in hand, teeterin' down the ramp. Slowly, they go through the whole ritual, he with is cane an' she with an arm brace type cane. Finally, they came to their own plot, done some putterin' an' then struggled slowly back up the ramp. I was worried they wasn't gonna make it, but they finally did an' disappeared into the buildin'. Then I see a relatively young man in one o' them electric scooters, in fact two different guys workin' in their plots. They was able to pull up along one side an' do whatever to their gardens, then scoot over to the other side an' work it from there.

Them plots is just high enough that they can do what's necessary right from their chair an' narrow enough that they can work a whole half the plot before goin' to the other side to do the same. The thing is that nobody's got to get on their hands an knees to weed the gardens, so anybody can do it either standin' up or sittin' down without getting' a back ache or crawlin' around without bein' able to get up again. I'll tell ya, every seniors livin' place every care home an every apartment block should have these garden plots for their tenants. They provide an alternative activity that gets people outside, gives them some fresh air an' pleasure, no matter what their ability is or their physical condition. At least that's how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin'.

A Moment of Sunshine - Part II

A Moment of Sunshine Part II

Well, I never . . . . . . Who'da thought? It's so simple that it's easy to miss. We're all so busy either creatin' or fendin' off the babble of the haters an' lovers alike, we have no idea of how to bring them together. My brother-in-law John posted a thing on facebook the other day that made such a lotta sense (at least to me) that I couldn't help but put it out here for all to see. He said something like: Ya can't all talk together at the same time (an' make any sense) but ya can all sing together. OF COURSE!  Don't ya remember them three hundred African firefighters who dropped in to the Edmonton Airport on their way to Fort McMurray just a few weeks ago. They didn't know each other that well but they did know the words to the music an' they sang an' danced up a storm like nobody's business in preparation to go to work as a unified team. It's just too bad they didn't get their employers in on the music. There's a big message to be read into that.

Well an' it's also a Mennonite tradition (or used to be) to sing some hymns out of the song book at social gatherin's or just ordinary visitin'. Everybody knows the words to them songs an' you can belt 'em out with gusto. An' think of the marchin' songs, the sea shanties to unify the participants into a work force, an' the frightenin' Waka war canoes. Think o' the Sun dance ceremonies an' the litany o' Powwows.

Here's the punch line. Suppose there was an amendment to the constitution requirin' all the political parties in both the commons an' the senate to gather together for a sing-song for a whole hour every mornin' before the start o' business of the day. Well they already approved the changin' o' the national anthem recently so why not approve this as well. I can just hear the whole bunch o' them singin' a rousin' version of "We Shall Overcome". That was a song that got my son Fred through washin' dinner dishes every day, so it has some merit. Well I don't sing no more cause I ain't got the breath an' my voice is too squeaky, but I sure remember the power a large choir had in moving all the singers to belt out their harmony until the boards under their feet trembled. It was remarkable.

If I was to suggest anythin' the government could do to work more co=operatively an more effectively, it would be to appoint a Minister of Music to the cabinet. His/Her mandate would be to replace that stupid question period thing with choral singin'. That in itself would be an improvement (unless everybody decided to sing off key). At least that's how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin'.

 

 

A Moment of Sunshine

A Moment of Sunshine

It don't take much to brighten up yer day it seems. I guess all that broodin' over the negative things goin' on in the world reaches the saturation point sooner or later. Ya just get fed up with one thing after another goin' awry. But pretty soon ya start to see the sunny side of even the saddest of affairs. What I'm talkin' about is the passin' o' Muhammad Ali. It's sad indeed that this "Mountain of a man" as his daughter described him is no longer with us and one feels an empathy with his family. But no one is really surprised, given his long standin' illness. But that's a separate issue.

What it was that put a smile on my face was not his boxin' prowess though that in itself was a wonder to behold, but rather his single-minded steadfastness in (with the help of his lawyer) defeating the U.S. government and the U.S army all in one fell swoop - without even firing a single shot. It was basically a battle between an adversarial government an' a pro-activist human bein'. It wouldn't have stood out that much for me had it not been for those two goons currently runnin' for the U.S presidency an' all their red-neck followers.

Ali exercised his right to refuse the draft and took whatever the government had the right to dish out. He steadfastly defended his position and spoke eloquently about the injustice of the Vietnam war, never once waverin' in his conviction. Well, three years later the government gave up an' he was allowed to resume his career. I think the government was still secretly smartin' over that one when Ho Chi Minh kicked the Americans' arses right outa Vietnam anyways an' Ali continued in his career, winning several more world titles in the process. The American government in the meantime went on for years ignorin' the poor slobs who went over to Vietnam on their behalf in their murderous adventures.

What made me smile was the recognition in it of a story I had written a few years ago called "Talking Stick" that pitted the different facets of adversity against pro=activity within the spirit of a single person, the talking stick representin' the basis of real truth. It paralleled the ancient Indian myth that tells you which path you choose accordin' to yer own wishes. It explains a lot about personal choices and has a ripple effect on communities and even nations. So each must live with the other since it's never gonna be settled. An' it makes me smile 'cause I ain't gonna be around that long to see the results. At least that's how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf where I can watch it all go by.

Just sayin'.

 

Sell, Sell, Sell

Sell, Sell, Sell!

Well if that don't beat all. Now they're puttin' pop up ads on the TV - right in the middle of their programs. I'm just waitin' now for them to put pop up ads on their own commercials. There's so many commercials on the TV now, you forget the storyline o' the program you're watchin' for crimeny sakes. They're like them magazines what are ninety-nine pages o' advertisin' in a hundred-page book.

Up to now, it's been a blessin' to be able to record the various shows an' then watch 'em later by cuttin' out the advertisin'.

Thinkin' back now, when the power was out for a coupl'a hours at our place an' I was starin' at a blank TV, it was kind'a peaceful an' serene. Oh sure, I couldn't watch a program, but on the other hand, I didn't have to watch some jackass try to sell me somethin' neither. So I just sat there starin' at the black screen. It was kind'a nice, actually. A coupl'a years ago, I wrote a piece on how the CRTC should legislate a separate channel for advertisin' only. That way, if you were lookin' to buy somethin' you could just go to that advertisin' channel an' look up what ya needed. But apparently nobody agreed with me.

It seems somebody decided we don't need to go shoppin' for what we need no more. No, now we gotta' buy what them pukes put up on the TV. It's buy, buy, Buy!

 None o' their advertising makes any sense no more neither. The only thing worth watchin' is them heavy horses of Budweiser's in their commercials. Other than that it's all crap designed by people who got no sense of how to relate to what they're tryin' to sell, taken in by the people tryin' to sell it, who pay good money to the TV stations that wanna make a buck, all governed by the vastly incompetent bunch at the CRTC.

Next thing ya know, we'll be legislated into buyin' a lot o' this junk just so the TV stations an' the advertisers can get richer. Tell ya what: Why not sell a whole bunch o' broken TV's so people can watch blank screens without seein' or hearin' anythin'? That's a peaceful preoccupation whereby ya can let yer imagination wander to wherever it wants to go an' there's no bills to pay neither. I'll bet if we done that, the CRTC an' the whole industry would sit up an' take notice. At least that's how it seems to me from up here on the top shelf.

Just sayin'.