We visit the children's section at Mount Royal Cemetery

 Photographs taken in the children's section of Mount Royal Cemetery.

This is the headstone of my mother's brother, my uncle, Willie Parker;
much loved by his family who were devastated by his passing in 1914

Thinking of Keitha K. MacIntosh

Eleven years ago I heard of the passing of Keitha K. MacIntosh; she was a poet, author of short stories, a publisher, a professor of English at Vanier College, and someone who encouraged Montreal writers, including myself. She was also a good friend; we first met at Sir George Williams University around 1972 when we were enrolled in Richard Sommer's creative writing class; later, I did poetry readings for her class at Vanier College and visited her when she lived in a trailer adjacent to her future home in a 200 year old log cabin. We corresponded for years, and in 1979 I bought property near Trout River not far from Keitha's home in Dewettville. Here (below) is a photograph of her headstone in the Ormstown cemetery, courtesy of the "find a grave" website. 

Last night, watching the Antique Roadshow on PBS, I was reminded of Keitha who was an avid collector of antiques, mainly antique bottles. She told me that she used to find these bottles in the ruins of houses and other buildings that had been abandoned. She and her family and friends explored many of these homesteads in South Western Quebec until the supply of bottles ran out. This reminds me that Artie Gold also collected antique bottles, some of which I inherited after Artie died in 2007; Keitha also published, in her poetry magazine Montreal Poems, some of Artie's early poems. And then I thought of the weeks preceding hearing the news of Keitha's death; I hadn't thought of Keitha for years but I had a curious experience, just before I heard of her death I was filled with memories of Keitha, not just one or two memories but a flood of memories, mostly of things she said about her mother and father, and her husband Archie. Even I was surprised by how much I remembered!

It was at this time, in 2012,  when I was "rampant with memory" about Keitha, a phrase Margaret Laurence uses in one of her books, that I received news of her passing. I have always remembered the past, perhaps more than most people, and, of course, I have written about it, the early death of a parent does that to a person, grief does that, every memory is precious because it is all that we have left of the person, so close to us, that died. Memory is a part of our DNA, years ago I read Henry Miller's Remember to Remember, C.G. Jung's Memories, Dreams, Reflections, and Jack Kerouac's novels and poetry, "Memory Babe" said Jack Kerouac. 

Before hearing of Keitha's passing, I must have spent ten years trying to write "A Poet's Journey", an essay based on remembering the past and on becoming a poet; and it was Keitha who I was thinking of when I began that essay but it developed into a life of its own and became a personal memoir; writing, editing, remembering, and then it's ten years later but the essay has found its own voice and content. 

Keitha had a Celtic background as I do, and for the Celts memory, the ancestors, family history, and spirit are all important. You might not set out to record the lives of your ancestors, you just do it, as you breathe or have lunch or sleep. It's what we do, it's a natural thing to do, one foot is always in the past and the ancestors are never far from thought. It was a natural event to remember Keitha in the time preceding her death; it was as though she was paying me a last visit before moving to the great unknown.   

Memory is like a dream or a poem, what you remember is subjective and may say more about you than you realize. Two people have the same experience and remember it in different ways, one positive, one negative. Sometimes the memories of siblings conflict, and at those times siblings seem to come from different families. And then, after remembering Keitha in 2012, I thought of Louis Dudek and, again, long forgotten memories returned to me, riding a city bus with him, sitting with him in his office, that particular memory changed my life and I have written about it elsewhere; and I thought of another old friend, George Johnston, what a kind and generous person he was.  

But how much can memory be trusted? I stand behind the veracity of all of my memories but when other people who shared experiences with me give their version of certain events, sometimes they contradict what I remember, sometimes I don't recognize anything they remember, sometimes they add to and enlarge my memories, sometimes we have false memories. But even a false memory has some truth about it, just don't base your life on a false memory; sometimes memories are like poems or dreams. Without memory everyone would be immediately forgotten after they die, as though they never existed, this is something all poets know and our books and poems are a pause in the inevitable act of forgetting. 

Mordecai Richler at Mount Royal Cemetery

Sometimes I visit the graves of Montreal writers and statesmen, politicians and businessmen, when I visit Mount Royal Cemetery; these are the people who made Montreal a once great city. Here are some photos of Mordecai Richler's grave.

2012

2015

May, 2023

16 May 2010, thirteen years ago

 

It was thirteen years ago, mid-May 2010, and I spent most of the month in Vancouver, doing research at the UBC library, staying at the residence on the UBC campus, visiting with CZ's family and hanging out with CZ. Here is the old apple tree in our backyard in Montreal; whatever there was of a garden can't be seen here, it was on the periphery of the garden but it was there, and spring had arrived in Montreal. It was 16 May 2010.

Watching birds on a spring day

The main thing with a bird bath is to put in clean water everyday, no one (including birds) wants to sit in dirty or shallow water, or drink dirty water. Changing the water will take you all of three or four minutes and is worth the effort. The birds will thank you, too.

Commentary: on the Epic of Gilgamesh

 

Part of the attraction of the Epic of Gilgamesh, at least for me, is that this is mankind's oldest literary work; the tablets containing the story of Gilgamesh were written approximately 4,000 years ago. Despite this, the text has a contemporary quality not necessarily found in other ancient texts. It is the story of a man's journey to self-knowledge and inner peace; of course, this "heroes' journey" is not exceptional in describing the journey, it is the traditional journey from unself-consciousness to being conscious of one's life; in its simplicity, directness, and its archetype of inner discovery, we can relate to Gilgamesh.

            In the Epic of Gilgamesh we can see ourselves, but to do so we might delete cultural referents and concentrate on the man who is Gilgamesh, a man who is us. We are contemporary people, living at least four thousand years after Gilgamesh lived or was invented, whether he is an invention, a fictional being, or an historical character; we can relate to his journey for it is also our journey, not embellished by belief or gods or being saved by someone else, and in this Gilgamesh, portrayed in mankind's oldest text, is contemporary. He is relevant at both ends of linear time -- alpha and omega, beginning and ending, A to Z, the apparent beginning and the end of the age in which we live -- we can identify with someone from the beginning of time. Ironic, isn't it? But it speaks to the enduring authenticity of the Epic of Gilgamesh.

            There is also the story itself, and what a contemporary story it is as Gilgamesh searches for the meaning of life, the ultimate meaning, the meaning that explains the purpose of life, that explains the purpose of his life. The meaning of life is to understand life better, to be a conscious person, to make sense of life, perhaps to even find some peace in life. Gilgamesh is an archetype for the person who searches for meaning; that's how I read his adventure, his story, his journey. This is one of the ways in which people today can learn from this epic, it is thoroughly contemporary even with its inclusion of gods and experiences impossible for people today to relate to except as literature, myth, and dream content. But at an archetypal and psychological level Gilgamesh and his story open a level of understanding of existence that is valuable for a contemporary audience. 

            Gilgamesh predates Homer's Odyssey and Iliad which date from 1,000 B.C. There is an oral tradition that helped preserve Homer's work but this doesn't seem to apply to the Epic of Gilgamesh, it is a written text. This reminds me of Grimm's fairy tales, collected by the Grimm brothers in the early half of the 19th Century; but research maintains that the stories collected by the Grimm brothers originated as far back as 4,000 years B.C. and I have also read that they are as old as 20,000 years, predating even Gilgamesh. They are archetypal and ageless, beyond time itself, as are all myths that work on a psychological level: don't take them literally but as a way to understand the eternal enigma of human existence.

            Gilgamesh seems to have missed out on an oral tradition as is found in both Homer and the Grimm fairy tales, but we have a written text for Gilgamesh. We know of the Epic of Gilgamesh only because cuneiform tablets containing the text of this literary work were discovered in the mid-1800s and later translated into English, this was fortuitous because even today very few people can actually read these tablets or speak the ancient language in which they are written. It is also a synchronistic discovery, Gilgamesh was discovered just when his story needed to be discovered. But is it possible that the Epic of Gilgamesh is older than 2,000 BC?  

            Another point is that the biblical story of the flood, coming after Gilgamesh was written, is also found in the Gilgamesh epic; apparently, whoever wrote the Book of Genesis, in which the flood story is included, knew or had heard of the Gilgamesh version of the flood. The biblical version of the flood is more or less a direct copy of that which is found in Gilgamesh. Was the Gilgamesh version of this story transmitted orally to the authors of the Old Testament?

            I am old fashioned, I believe in a didactic aspect to what I read; I like to learn things from what I read, especially things appertaining and contributing to my understanding of life. Whether it is F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby or Melville's Moby Dick, or the Epic of Gilgamesh, I am always aware of content and narrative, symbol and archetype that help me better understand both my own life and the life of others. Never underestimate this transcendent aspect of reading.   

The garden, early May

It was Coronation Day, 6 May 2023, and the garden was coming to life. After a lot of rain and cold in April the sun was bright and the sky blue, birds had returned to the bird bath, hostas and ferns were growing fast. Trees were turning green, the lilac bush was ready to flower.

There isn't much to the garden this early in spring but it is coming back to life. After months of cold, short days, snow, and more or less being housebound, spring had returned to Montreal. I've already planted six new hostas (and I'll plant another six next week) and we now have a second bird bath. It looks like we'll have a nice garden this year!

The fence has enclosed the garden and I've begun planting a second row of hostas

That bench is sixty years old but still in good condition, I look forward 
to sitting outside on it and getting a different view of the garden

A new, second bird bath

More ferns than ever this year

Return to the hidden trail

First walk this spring on the hidden trail which is on a ridge above the train tracks from the Westminster Bridge to Meadowbrook Golf Course. Access to the trail is below the bridge on the north side.

And, of course, wonderful sounds: birds singing, a train passes (a Canadian sound we all know), water running down to the tracks, and always more birds. 

But I am not impressed with all of the stuff that has been dumped in the area beside the trail: old tires, BBQs, garden junk, people think the world is their personal garbage can. BTW, we don't say "trash" here in Canada, it's just plain old "garbage".

And now there are notices posted saying this area will become part of a larger nature trail through this area. I heard of this before, it seems to be a joint Hydro Quebec - City of Montreal project, to clear the way between different sections of electrical pylons and create new trails that are connected and cross this part of the city . . . they say it will be the country in the city. It's a good idea, I guess, but I don't like losing this trail as it is. However, everything changes -- the St. Pierre River is covered over, the trail will be changed, and so on --. And how long will it be before this happens? At the rate government moves it will be years. So, for once, not worrying. 

Spring visit to Mount Royal Cemetery

You can draw a thick black line across history: there is before Covid and after Covid; and "after Covid" is worse than Covid. I really doubt any political party can reverse our decline, or wants to reverse it; the choice is between which party will accelerate the decline and which party will slow the decline. Of course, some places were on the decline before Covid and their decline was made more obvious by Covid. 

So, draw your line in the sand, draw it on paper with a thick black Sharpie, and say farewell to the past. 

Photos taken at Mount Royal Cemetery or 08 May 2023.

Above: the Molson mausoleum 

"The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" by Gordon Lightfoot

 

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they called Gitche Gumee
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy
With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more
Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
When the gales of November came early

The ship was the pride of the American side
Coming back from some mill in Wisconsin
As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most
With a crew and good captain well seasoned
Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
When they left fully loaded for Cleveland
And later that night when the ship's bell rang
Could it be the north wind they'd been feelin'?

The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound
And a wave broke over the railing
And every man knew, as the captain did too
T'was the witch of November come stealin'
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
When the gales of November came slashin'
When afternoon came it was freezin' rain
In the face of a hurricane west wind

When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck sayin'
"Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya"
At seven PM, a main hatchway caved in, he said
"Fellas, it's been good to know ya"
The captain wired in he had water comin' in
And the good ship and crew was in peril
And later that night when his lights went outta sight
Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald

Does any one know where the love of God goes
When the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
If they'd put fifteen more miles behind her
They might have split up or they might have capsized
They may have broke deep and took water
And all that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters

Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
In the rooms of her ice-water mansion
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams
The islands and bays are for sportsmen
And farther below Lake Ontario
Takes in what Lake Erie can send her
And the iron boats go as the mariners all know
With the gales of November remembered

In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed
In the maritime sailors' cathedral
The church bell chimed 'til it rang twenty-nine times
For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they called Gitche Gumee
Superior, they said, never gives up her dead
When the gales of November come early

Note: I think of the late Gordon Lightfoot as a poet, as a poet who was nation building, similar to Al Purdy. This is one of the great songs of Canada and is beautifully written. Gordon Lightfoot, born November 17, 1938, died May 1, 2023)

On liberty, from Barbara Amiel's Confessions

 

Confessions (1980, 1981) by Barbara Amiel

We Canadians take freedom for granted; unlike Americans we were never big on liberty and even less so today. I am not sure freedom was ever an issue in Canada, independence from the United Kingdom was greeted with a yawn; we have been complacent and lazy and assumed the government was benign. And now freedom and liberty have become verboten words, they associate anyone saying them with being a conservative and we all know the anti-conservative bias of the CBC. Conservatives are condemned out of hand by progressives and liberals. Conservatives are cancelled. 

Why did the parents of some of my former students come to Canada? Some were boat people from Viet Nam, some were from Cambodia, others were from Afghanistan and other places where freedom didn't exist. All of these people love freedom and came to Canada in order to be free, which means to have the opportunity to fulfill one's capacity, one's ambition, and one's intelligence; to speak freely, express one's religion freely, to buy and own property as one wishes. Most of these people have flourished in Canada which has given them a new life of opportunities in a new country. These people came to Canada for liberty and freedom but the times have changed; in Canada today, the desire is to restrict people's liberty and criticize anyone who speaks of freedom. Being safe is the priority of our federal government, and Justin Trudeau is quick to praise being safe; maybe he's right . . . but you don't build a great country by being safe.

Still worth reading over forty years after it was first published, here is what Barbara Amiel writes on liberty; from Barbara Amiel's Confessions (1980,1981), pages 118-119:

And why is liberty important? Liberty itself, of course, doesn't solve any of the problems of existence. It doesn't even address itself to their solution. All it does is to leave each person free to find an answer to a pressing human need, lack, or iniquity. It does not attempt to substitute a party's, a dictator's, a saint's, or a philosopher's view for the goodwill and ingenuity of millions of free individuals.

Does liberty have a price? It certainly does. When people are free to act well, they are also free to act badly. When they are free to hold humane and accurate views, they are also free to hold inhuman and stupid opinions. But the safety-net of classical liberalism rests on the not unreasonable belief that free people will act for the good with at least the same frequency as they act for the bad, while excesses of malice and greed can be held in check by ordinary criminal laws guarding citizens against injury, theft, fraud, libel, and the like.

Does liberty work better than the planned society? For millennia centralized kingdoms, empires, and religious states have planned diligently for prosperity which eluded them (or was theirs only temporarily as a result of bloody conquest) until the ideals of classic liberalism allowed a small part of the world in which they took hold -- North America and Western Europe, mainly -- to create undreamed-of riches. Of course, the technological advances of the Industrial Revolution played an immense part in this -- but were themselves largely produced by this freedom.

The wealth created by a relatively undirected, uncanonized, untheological, un-feudal, free-trading, supply-and-demand economy was, of course, not distributed equally among citizens, but who can deny that it was distributed more equally -- and more equitably -- than the wealth of any centrally regulated regulated system, monarchy, or dictatorship, before or since? And while justice in such free societies was far from perfect, who can deny that it was far more perfect than justice meted out in  a regulated state? 

Temporary Permanence

  

Labyrinth under leaves outside of Buddhist temple, Terrebonne Avenue;
this Buddhist temple used to be a part of Rosedale United Church

There is no real permanence to life, there is only change and impermanence. The opposite of change and impermanence isn't permanence, it is not a duality; we fool ourselves thinking things are dualities when they really have nothing to do with each other; is good the opposite of bad or are they totally different states of being? Writers have a claim on permanence, a temporary claim, and this lies in writing things down, this gives a kind of permanence to what we think or say. Of course, it is also a kind of folly, but who really cares? We prefer illusion over truth; all writing is illusion and impermanent and one day even Shakespeare's plays will disappear. Writing is folly if we think it will give us any permanence; life is not constituted to be permanent. So we vote for a temporary permanence, and we love irony.  

The Shovel

 

At 2217 Hampton Avenue, around 1953

Not long ago I wrote about my grandfather, who was a fireman, and about a steel fire department shovel of his that I was given after he died. The photo above was taken outside of my grandfather's Hampton Avenue home, I am on the left, my brother is on the right. Perhaps I was three years old and not necessarily the lovely child I thought I was; around this time I dropped lighted matches in my grandfather's mail box, just behind where I am standing on the front steps to his home. My grandfather was a fireman and what do I do? I set on fire the curtains just above his mail box. Meanwhile, upstairs from my grandfather's flat was the flat of my Uncle John and Auntie Muriel; one day we were visiting them and seeing a large and difficult jig saw puzzle that my aunt had just completed I wondered how strongly it was held together, pulling two sides of the puzzle, the jig saw puzzle fell apart; this is minor compared to the fire incident, but it didn't go over very well. No wonder the young are parents, only the young have patience needed to deal with children.