An Experience

Years ago - the summer of 1961, in fact - I got my first "real" job - a labourer on a project in Moosonee, Ontario. Now, one of the facts about this is that, even now, Moosonee is an isolated community, with no road access to civilisation (or so we call it). I arrived by train - a full 20 hours' travel from Ottawa, and a long day's trip north from Cochrane, Ontario, with stops for shunting freight all the way. It was a fascinating trip, both for the scenery (and miles and miles of black spruce CAN be that) and for the people and way of life I saw - with the train stopping, virtually, at any mile-post or other "recognised" spot, to drop mails or package freight, or passengers, and occasionally to pick up someone going down to Moosonee.

However, my story really begins with arriving in the community - and walking into the hornet's nest of a strike situation. It appeared that the carpenters employed on this project (We were constructing a substantial radar complex for the RCAF, part if one of the three Early Warning chains across the continent.) were unhappy with their pay and conditions. Never mind that they had received at least one raise in pay over the past year, or that we paid only a few dollars a day for room and board in the camp, and that the meals were both plentiful and appetizing. Even an arrant new-comer, like myself, could figure that this was a good deal.
Certainly, we were expected to work a longer week - in those days, the normal work week was 44 hours, and we worked 59 - ten on weekdays, and nine on Saturday - but what else are you going to do, in a camp on the edge of the bush - for some of these men, far beyond the world we'd always lived in?

For the first few days, those of us who were working, ran the hassle of a picket-line, established where the access road to the job crossed one leg of the wye at the end of the railway, allowing the mixed train that brought us north to be turned for the return south. There were a few brave carpenters who risked the wrath of the Union and worked on, but most of the carpentry on the site was being done by local Cree, some from the Moosonee band, in the village, and others from Moose Factory, a Hudson's Bay post on an island in the Moose river, which flowed into James Bay at this spot. This, of course, explained both the "new" settlement of Moosonee and the railway - it was now a supply port for the isolated posts around the south end of Hudson's Bay.
One point to note about the men from Moose Factory - they never had to cross that picket line, as they landed on the shore, at the end of the rail spur, and walked the half mile up the grade to the job-site - always safely on the other side of the line.

In any event, matters came to a head when the Union started pressing for a general strike - they were going to close down the whole project, and that was that. A meeting was called, at which we were all asked (strongly urged was more like it, as I recall) to be present. There were, of course, Union officials, including some from down south, brought in, along with representatives of the Department of Indian Affairs, and some translators, to impress us all, particularly the local Cree. It was suitably impressive - as impressive as such meetings always are. The "brass" got up, and made speeches letting us know WHY it was vital that we act this way, and they were translated. The meeting was then thrown open to comments from the floor, and the usual list of hot-head "supporters" spoke up - along the lines of "Yeah, Brother, we're all right behind you!", and all went as expected - at least until this short, obviously young, green, kid got up - sounding a bit as if he lived up to his school nick-name of Professor, and opened his mouth. Other student workers started to dive for cover, expecting trouble. The kid spoke up, and admitted he was young, and very new to this business, but he was aware that we had had raises this past year, and that men were walking the sidewalks down south, looking for work. We had jobs, and he thought that, if we went on strike, we'd be cutting off our fool noses to spite our silly faces, and sat down.

Those other students were right - the room DID erupt, and he was soon surrounded by strong Union men, far older and more experienced than himself. One was shaking a fist in his face, promising dire things, another, in his heavily accented English, assured him that, young as he was, he'd soon find out. The organizers waded in. "Give the kid some room. He's young, and will have to learn, but he is entitled to his own opinion. Back off, and settle down!" A village elder came up to him: "I want to shake your hand. You say what I think."  As far as I can recall, my remark was the last one made. I do not recall hearing any motion to adjourn, or any decision made, any vote taken, and I made my way back to the bunk-house, more than just a little concerned for my own safety. All went well for the next day or so, though we heard of the theft of a jerry-can of gasoline from the job-site.

As I recall, the fire that came close to destroying the warehouse, and threatening the camp, broke out that Friday night - about 3:00, breaking up a wonderful Poker game - my first ever. (No, I didn't lose. In fact, I think my skill at Bridge and Cribbage stood me in good stead, as I had some idea of how to assess the odds, even if I didn't have years of skill, and knew enough not to get in over my head.) We all turned to, helping the local Volunteer Fire Department, and then caught a couple of hours before turning out for work in the morning. The first of the strikers came back that morning: "When I heard about the fire, I went to the Shop Steward and said ' Gimme my tools. I don't want no part in that kind of violence. I'm goin' back to work.'" By Monday, all the others were back, too, and the strike had collapsed. The next day, the Labourer Foreman came up to me and told me I was to report to the Warehouse. It seemed the Warehouseman had asked for help cleaning up the mess, and the Foreman picked me, because he didn't want to have to watch my back all summer, and he didn't want any "accidents" on the job.

Now - one of the things I'd noticed, of the Cree "helpers" was that, for the kind of work we were doing, they were very effective carpenters - sometimes more so than the "real" ones, as they were good at using scrap pieces as fillers where needed, and saving the full sheets for where they would be most effective. So, obviously, these so-called "backward Indians" were at least as good at this job as the real carpenters, and evidently, they were in no way deficient in their ability to think. This was, I believe, the beginning of my education as to the value and worth of our First Nations.

I was thinking of expounding on my notions of the proper place of Unions in our work-force. But I suspect my views should be reasonably clear - they have a place, a proper one in seeing to it that management does live up to their side of any agreement - in spirit as well as letter. However, they are out of bounds, when they wish to usurp the proper duty of management - they ought, also, to ensure that their own members live up to the agreements in full - in letter AND spirit. If Unions want to run businesses, they ought to do so openly - buy into ownership, and accept the costs of that, as well. From what I have seen, though, of Unions, when it comes to relationships with their own employees, they are as adamant for the "rights" of Management, as they are opposed to them, for their own rank and file. You cannot "run with the hare and hunt with the hounds" - sooner or later, you will come a cropper, and be broken.

So - what am I really exercised about? I've just read John Ralston Saul's The Comeback. In it, he outlines what he has seen among our First Nations - how they are growing, in numbers, in knowledge and strength, even in our own terms. How they have learned, despite all the roadblocks put in their way, to use our laws to forward their own position - to recover their own understanding of the plain words and overt intention of all the Treaties signed. In short, of their recovery of real power - and of the lamentable mindset of our Governments - Provincial and Federal, that seeks to convert this into a zero-sum game, with winners and losers, when, in fact, it is not. What we will see, with this change (and, will we, nill we, it WILL come upon us) is that there are ONLY Winners or Losers - that either all Canada wins - First Nations and the rest of us - or we all lose, and the results of losing are far worse than those of winning.
Can we live with First Nations as fully integrated, even with their own territories, as any immigrant group? Certainly - for this was how the nation was founded in the first place. This is how we have coped with influxes of non-English-speaking Immigrants since the dawn of the 20th Century. I certainly recall the "fuss" about European DP's in the late 40's and early 50's. I remember, only too vividly, the fears that the fall of Vietnam engendered, about the influx of refugees. The same fear has surrounded ALL such immigrant groups - Chinese, East Indians, Japanese (to our great shame), Ugandans, Iranis - all have met with semi-official suspicion, and quite serious denial of any learning. We gripe about the dearth of physicians - and effectively make it certain that no Immigrant physician could possibly be licensed, unless he (and usually that) had been trained in a very limited number of suitable (i.e. English-speaking) institutions - no matter the qualifications, or the degree of competence. We do much the same with other such qualifications, now, too. This used not to be the case - but now we are afraid - that our own education will be "diluted" - in reality, that our own power, as the Rulers of the Land will be challenged.

We have sown a wind of denial and suspicion, much the same as that of our nearest neighbours to the south, and we will reap the whirlwind of permanent relegation to mediocrity, and poverty, where Canada once punched well above its weight. We will become, like our neighbours, the "poor little rich kids" of the world - pampered, effete, and afraid of our own shadows. This has happened before in history - Rome collapsed of its own inefficiency. Spain drowned in the wealth of the Indies, and was, like the USA, both manifestly the Hegemon of the World (well, at least to Europeans) and a state visibly weakening and collapsing at the same time. (This was the first half of the 17th Century - the period of the 30 Years' War in Europe.) I will not attempt to speak of China's history, nor of any other Asian power, as I am not as well versed in that part of the world, but what I have read suggests that much the same is true there. Britain collapsed - yes, bled white by the War that ran from 1914 to 1945 (despite the truce in the middle) - but managed to do so without completely losing control. The dissolution was orderly, and the new stares succeeding (in general) have stayed on a course of reasonably good terms, reasonably civilized behaviour ever since.
We can be what we were before. We can recover our ability to be a world leader. Butt it must start with a real acceptance of the reality of our First Nations. They are, individually and collectively, no whit less intelligent, no whit less able to use the advantages of our modern age - to dream new dreams, and invent or reinvent ways of living together in real community, of using our land, and wealth for the good of all. If this means we, as "white men", give up power to coerce, so be it. We have not, merely to take a local topic, shown much ability to co-operate and create a community that can police itself, build roads and streets, let alone a comprehensive sewer system. We are mired in "Us against Them". Perhaps - just perhaps - our First Nations (whose individual interests are at least as diverse as ours) would do a better job of organising to build such a system. Perhaps our local cities and municipalities ought, in fairness, to deed back the lands we live on to the peoples we stole it from. No - I doubt we would be dispossessed. They, like us, need the tax revenue to build and maintain our infrastructure. Nor would they (unlike ourselves) seek to boot us out of government - we live here as do they, and do have an interest in our community. The difference would likely be that Government would become rather less adversarial, more a matter of consensus, agreement, and serious search for solutions that will satisfy all.

Will this change come smoothly? No - not unless we admit we have been looking at life the wrong way. But it can come smoothly - once we make that change - once we "convert". I have worked among First Nations for years - had them as colleagues, as supervisors, as helpers. As far as I can see, there is nothing to differentiate us but the mythologies upon which our worlds are built - and theirs is at least as compelling as the standard adversarial one our rational mindset enjoins.

Counter-snobbery on a bike

I've been a cyclist, now, for over 60 years - it seems unreal.
However, despite the ranting of both motorists and hard core (or is it corpse - take your pick!) cyclists, I find it difficult to be angry at all other road users. Why? Well, I suppose the best way to describe it is that old quote from Pogo "We have seen the enemy, and he is us."


The other way to describe it is this: I'm NOT a "cyclist" (some sort of strange sub-species of H. sapiens) I AM a driver - who has, and still does, spend a significant amount of his driving time on two-wheels, entirely self-powered.
There's a real difference. I do not view the driver of that car or truck as my foe - to be feared, to be bested, and to be screwed over at every possible chance. I see him (and this includes HER, always) as just someone like myself, busy doing what I'm doing - getting from here to there as best he can - for whatever reason. I do not, as a rule, cycle for exercise - even though I do rejoice in the exercise I get from cycling. I DO enjoy the experience - the successful surmounting of hills, the effort of working into the teeth of the wind, as well as the avoidance of all the obstacles in my way - cars, trucks, busses, pedestrians, dogs, holes in the road, slick steel plates or manhole castings, even the slippery swathes of traffic paint meant to show me where it is safe to ride. No - it's not really safer on that swath of green paint, in damp weather - it's an invitation to a slippery fall, if you are not careful. It's just that this is a "safe area", where motorists are not supposed to attempt to hit you. Yet cycling, for me, is not about any of that - it's about getting to my destination, as quickly, as easily as I can - for the least cost - at least as I see it.


Let me wander back in history. Imagine a boy - barely ten years old, and rather small for his age - living in a farm-house three miles (or 5 Kms - about the same) from the village, and at least a kilometer from any possible playmate. Get a "lift" over to a friend's house? Not a chance. All the others around us were working farm families - with more important things to do than cater to the whims of small boys. Dad worked in the city - a good hour's drive away - and Mom never did master driving - a badly smashed left ankle as a child made mastering a clutch too difficult. Perhaps Dad was a bit too doctrinaire about the use of automatic transmissions-  but maybe not. They were not very effective, in those days. No - the only way I was going anywhere, except with the family on weekends, was either on foot, or on that bike. Once I mastered the basics (I could actually ride a straight line, and didn't fall off every couple of hundred feet.) the bike won out, hands down. I could go any where, at three times the speed of walking, or better. On foot, going in to the village would take most of an hour (trudge, trudge, trudge) while the bike took only about fifteen to twenty minutes - a huge improvement.
What did it matter that I might have to walk up a couple of hills - at first - or that there was little room for me to meet a car, and I might have to stop - I could GO!
Of course, muscles soon grew with use, stamina improved, and I learned how to navigate the windrows of loose, coarse gravel on either side of the beaten tracks. No more stopping for cars - I just rode on.
Here, obviously, is where the love of cycling first bloomed. A few years later, now living in the city, I became even more comfortable with cars around me - and realized that, if I behaved as the drivers did - stopped for stops, stayed to the right as a rule, signaled my turns, and so forth, I'd be accepted. It was fairly simple.
Those were, truly, the "good old days", a time when most drivers had, themselves, of necessity, used bikes beyond childhood. Who could afford a car in the depression era? Not that many. Who could afford to drive everywhere during the war? Very few. So most drivers were comfortable with bikes around them - having had to bike in traffic themselves. Eventually, I turned sixteen - the desired age of all teens, and could get "real wheels". As I started my driver's lessons (eager enough to learn properly, I was prepared to pay, out of my own pocket. It never occurred to me to ask for assistance) I soon realized that I only had half the business to learn - that of controlling the car (Ease the clutch in until the engine starts to slow, then flip the right foot from brake to gas, simultaneously easing up the clutch enough to prevent the car rolling backward down the hill. Damn! Stalled it! Neutral, brake on, restart, wait for the light to change, try again. Damn! - repeat the scenario until you DO get it.) I already knew about traffic, and what to look for - and realized that the faster you go, the farther ahead you had to look. Suddenly, as never before, I saw cycling as "just another form of driving", and set out to act that way. Why should I be afraid of traffic? I WAS traffic!
Of course, it took time - far more than I'm completely happy to admit to - to realize the full inwardness of this. However, it did make it possible for me to accept the fact that we were not flush enough to afford a second car, and keep on riding - now just a form of driving - all through my teens.


Let's skip about a decade, to the late sixties. Better paid jobs allowed me to become a car-owner - but I found the habits of the past were still too engrained. I actually LIKED cycling. Part of it was the fact that I now lived on the Wet Coast of Canada, where the weather made it possible to ride in reasonable comfort 14 months of the year. Contrast this with April icy roads in the Ottawa valley - where the winter had been far too long already. Another part of it lay in the parsimony with which I'd grown up - driving a car - fun as it is - costs MONEY, and I was a "Starving Student". Bikes paid no parking fees, cost no gasoline, nor did I need to pay for "Proof of Financial Responsibility". In a big city, like Vancouver, it was not that much slower than a car - particularly if traffic was heavy. Besides, I didn't need to go to a Gym to maintain fitness. So I rode, and get even better at dealing with traffic.
The bulk of the 70's was spent in a small outport at the north end of Vancouver Island - only sporadically connected with the rest of the world. Roads that were scarce-improved logging trails, a fairly strongly vertical topography, and the distances involved, rather left cycling as a thing I once "did". But then, a change of employment moved us (now four) to Victoria. If possible, I was determined to live where I could easily commute by bike. I wished to avoid the expense of becoming a multi-car owner - particularly if one were used almost entirely to get me to and from work, and that was all. I succeeded, and almost immediately after moving, bought a bike, and began to ride. In a funny way, it was as if the previous decade had not occurred - all my traffic skills were there, and in good shape.


Over the last four or five years, I will admit, the eagerness with which I ventured out into winter rains, just to get to work, has waned. I no longer refuse to see the comfort of using a car in such weather. However, the skills that had me riding are still there, and the sheer pleasure of hustling along, under my own steam, still stirs.
Perhaps I'm selfish - but I don't wish everyone were out there with me. There's no sense in which I want to see others "suffer" as I did (but did I?), nor any notion that I am, for some reason "Better" than all these. I just accept the quiet pleasure that I can still do what gave me such a thrill sixty years ago - and that it IS, still, just as much fun as it was, then. So, when I can, I concentrate on teaching others my few skills, my attitude towards the road, and everyone on it. Right now, I'm working on a couple of grandchildren, who bid fair to be as much pleased with the thrill of independence of movement as I was. The world has changed - but it also seems to have come, almost, in a full cycle. Where, in the sixties, seventies, and eighties, cyclists were seen as something to brush off the road, and were feared, because most drivers hadn't a clue what they were going to do, we have come back, now, to a world where cyclists are seen - more or less - as simply part of traffic, and are rated on their merits, as we do other drivers. The world has become, once again, almost safe for us. That, if nothing else, is a matter of real satisfaction.