A Royal Affair

The Royals, William and Kate and their two children, George and Charlotte, have just arrived here in Victoria. I watched the opening ceremonies with interest. I must say that George really stole the show here. What a cute kid he is. And Charlotte could almost be his twin.

Now I do not consider myself to be an ardent monarchist but I do respect our heritage and historical ties and links to Great Britain, the Commonwealth, and our Queen. We fought two World Wars under the monarchy to defend our Judeo Christian values as well as to free the world from tyranny. I am also very proud to have served for Queen and Country in the Royal Canadian Navy. So:

Welcome to Victoria Will, Kate, George and Charlotte.

 

The Sky is Falling

I just re-read a prediction the Sierra Club of Canada made about 10 years ago about how Victoria would look under 75 feet of water and how the various areas around the CRD would be affected. I remember writing a letter to the editor at the time – a time when Global Warming hysteria really began – about this very prediction.  I think it is worth repeating here because much of it is still relevant:

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Victorians are gurgling with excitement over rising sea levels! Alan Lowe (Mayor of Victoria) and the Sierra Club’s dire prediction of Victorian flooding of biblical proportions because of Global Warming got me to thinking:

  • If you thought the leaky condo issue was big news, standby for heavy rolling;
  • Our buildings have already been upgraded for earthquakes.  It’s now time to make them waterproof;
  • Just think, BC Ferries can now depart from downtown Victoria;
  • Kinda brings a whole new meaning to the Colwood crawl, don’t ya think;
  • Forget Light Rapid Transit. Make way for fast water taxis;
  • Getting rid of those “Fast Cat” ferries may have been a wee bit premature;
  • We won’t have to address our sewage treatment issues. Clover and Macaulay Point will be so far underwater that no one will notice. I hear Methane floats though!
  • We could establish a new tourist attraction: The Clover and Macaulay Point “Hot Springs”
  • The Premier and MLAs need not to fret. We can always move the BC legislature up into the dome – that is when they sit of course;
  • How about this for a new marketing strategy for Victoria’s tourist industry: “Venice of the North” 
  • Small businesses shouldn’t worry. A whole new growth industry could be established in gondolas, scuba gear and undersea gardens and shops;
  • Agricultural Land Reserve?? No problem. Just change the name to Aqua-Cultural Land Reserve. After all, Government can do whatever it wants;
  • Unfortunately though, a new building code will require that all existing downtown buildings over 75 ft in height will have to have jetties and bollards installed above the 75 ft level. Buildings under 75 ft????? Well, they’ll be waterproofed won’t they?

Another crazy prediction from the environmentalists that turned out to be all wet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Values

All this talk and discussion about values, as in Canadian values, or other values, got me to thinking. After all “value” is only a word:

 

So take the word “value”….please.  How I hate this word. There are so many variations to the theme that surround this word that any smart minded non English speaking immigrant to our country would think twice about trying to learn or understand the English language.  For example, an individual or group’s perception of worth, based upon personal or collective experiences in a shared environment can only define or measure “value”. “Value”” is illusive, as there are more perceptions of “value” out there are there are cars on the road…

 Let me try to exemplify exactly what I mean here:

 In 2005, I picked up my dear ole mother’s car: a 1979 Mercury Zephyr, something akin to a Falcon or Fairmont – Ford only knows.  My mother could not drive anymore. She was 91 for heaven’s sake.  Anyway, the car had about 56,000 kilometers on the O.D.  Mint condition! Lime Green with a sickly, yellowed tan interior.

 Now the market “value” of that car in 1979 was $6,500.00. Twenty-six years later the book “value” was about zilch. The insured “value” – who knows, but the assessed “value” was about $3,000.00 and climbing, as long as it didn’t disintegrate during the long hard winters.  Its “value” would continue to rise in “value”” as long as its condition remains, well, “valuable.”

Obviously my mother held considerable sentimental “value” in that automobile.  As I pulled away from the big city for the drive back to my home town, I came to understand the hereditary “value” of this gift to me and the intrinsic “value” of the trust she placed in me to take good care of Betsy.

I made it back home in one piece although the water pump went out around Tweed.  Between that and thinking about the local Elvis sightings, I was beginning to ponder the true meaning of life and the mechanical “value” of the car as well as the emotional “value” that this machine may have had and its effect on my own sense of “value” and well being. 

Arriving home I thought about its economical “value” as it had taken over a tank of gas to cover the 300 miles from the really big city to my hometown.  Had I been taken for a ride?  Were there aspects of this car that were known only to my mother, the parish priest, her hairdresser and the bagger at her local supermarket?  I had to contemplate its utility “value” considering the other two cars I had. 

Yet, thinking of my dear ole mother and somewhat excited about the possibility of getting perhaps $3,000.00 for the car’s assessed “value”, I thought hmmm, but quickly shook any thought of that out of my mind for if I “valued” my life I dared not even think about selling dear ole Betsy.

Trying to define “value” can be problematic, which in itself is an extremely overused word.  It’s like common sense.  Something that is taken for granted yet is extremely rare in today’s world.  And trying to make sense out of “value” as in “What are your values?” as opposed to someone else’s values is like an academia nut trying to make sense out of common sense and coming up with pure nonsense.

 There you have it. Shakey Jay’s take on…..Value!

 “The problem with theory is that it’s just not practical enough!”

A Religious Refrain

Yesterday’s tidbit about the British Scientist not believing in God got me to thinking.

 Yes religion is based on faith. And whether you believe in God or not is fine with me. That is your right and who am I to challenge that. That is why I get tiffed when famous people start pontificating to the rest of us about various things such as climate change, religion, Black Live Matter, Pride etc.

Famous actors in particular set me off about this as they have a very strong platform given to them to foist their opinions and beliefs upon the rest of us. That is why I no longer watch award shows. I can’t stand it when some famous actor or singer wins an award, struts up to the stage, steps before the mic then broadcasts that they have dedicated this award to the polar bears, or the continued Canadian climate change efforts to curtail the Chinook!

 So here is my religious refrain:*

 …….I sat there in that cavernous church for what seemed like an eternity. And as time marched on my hiccups seemed to get worse. I prayed and prayed that they would stop but no heavenly dispensation came my way that day. I held my breath for what seemed to be minutes but no luck.  Finally I sensed that I was the only young soul left sitting in the pews of the church, still hiccup-ing.  Just then the priest came out from his priest-cave, looked around in the late afternoon sunlit church, with its long shadows and soft beams of spiritual light with particles of floating, flickering dust and spotted me. It was Father Doherty. He was a fatherly Father of our church: nice but somewhat of a lush. Chubby, but not fat, more cherubic like features, weathered and somewhat rustic with a fractured nose and pronounced limp from his athletic days of playing ice hockey for the “Holy Rollers.”

 His robes hung over him in disarray. He was somewhat of a slob, or should I say heavenly slovenly. He always drooled so it was wise to give him a wide berth to avoid the spittle for, as mentioned earlier, second hand spittle was a fate worse than penance for someone as young as me! He had a high squeaky voice which did not adequately personify his physical features.

How did I know he was a lush? Several of my friends were alter boys – assistants to the priest while celebrating Mass. And father Doherty always celebrated the 10:15 Mass. That was the time that the semi-high mass at our church was celebrated.  And one dictum that every young lad or lass in the parish knew was never ever go to the 10:15 Mass. It lasted an eternity. And being a semi-high mass meant more wine at the Offertory segment of the celebration. It was the alter boys job to carry the small carafes of water and wine from a side table hidden from view from the parishioners up to the alter area such that the priest could mix the water with the wine. Only in his case there was no water only wine, and lots of it, in two carafes: one being white to resemble water the other being red to symbolise the blood of Christ. By the end of the Mass, Father Doherty’s limp became more pronounced as he began to slur his words. This was not really a problem because no one in the church was paying attention by this point in time anyway and even if they were they couldn’t understand Latin.

 “Smith” he commanded “What’s the problem”

 I thought that I think it is obvious Father.

 “I have the hiccups, Father, really hiccup-ing bad so I cannot say my hic-up-ed confession with these hiccups.”

 “Come here”

 I obeyed and when I got within an arms length of his massive arms he put his left arm around me, chuckled somewhat and told me not to worry about the hiccups as he led me to the confessional. Perhaps he was impatient for this session to end so that he could run back to his own quarters and watch Tarzan.

 And at that exact moment in time, without a doubt and with no exaggeration on my part, when he slung his left arm across my shoulder, those hiccups ceased, instantly.

 Is this a saintly, canonization, beatification worthy moment? Probably not in the overall Catholic scheme of things but for me it was an experience that I have never forgotten. Right up there with my Uncle Rupert’s guardian angel apparition on that dark and stormy night or my Dad’s miraculous recovery from cross eye-ed-ness at St Anne De Beaupre’s shrine outside of Quebec City. Truth or fantasy? Don’t really know for I was an impressionable and innocent soul back in those days. Cynicism had not yet manifested itself or wrestled away or destroyed my enthusiasm, innocence or naivety as yet. Only happy thoughts.

* Excerpt from my book: “I Thought I’d Died and Gone to Heaven.”