From the CBC

A new poll suggests the vast majority of Americans are unaware that Canada is the largest foreign supplier of crude oil to the U.S.
The Canadian American Business Council (CABC) — which represents some of the biggest private sector companies in both countries — said its survey of 1,000 Americans found that only four per cent of respondents thought Canada was the country that provided them with more oil than anyone else.
The survey also found that 41 per cent of Americans asked would support replacing oil from unstable areas of the world with oil from Canada “even if doing so resulted in higher prices for U.S. consumers.” “The findings suggest a foundation of American public support for meaningful initiatives to expand Canadian energy supplies to the U.S.,” said CABC chairman Randoph Dove in a statement.

If you look at the top of this page, you may find pleasing to the eye a pair of planes. These Harbour Air seaplanes were photographed by talented Briana and she very graciously applied them to the front bumper of this web-log.

At that time she and I lived not three blocks from where these planes and others of their ilk could be seen idling at all hours of the day and night, should one care to see them. They would fly in from parts unknown (or Nanaimo) and land in Coal Harbour and disgorge their folk onto the dock.

Once, the seaplane became engorged with the very photographer who took the above photos only to deposit her into the waiting arms of her fuzzy lover in Victoria last November. Ahh, la Bree en Rose. Romantique, c’est vrai?

Now however, we live no longer by the sea and all of its aircraft but rather on the roaring Fraser River, at the Quay, in New Westminster. It would be dishonest to continue associating myself with these high-flyers now that I’m a burb-blogger. I need a new photo, I need a make-over.

Papa needs a brand new bag!

But what? What image can hold the front line and convey all that is -me- and -New Westminster- and -the Fraser River-. Skytrain? No, too in-other-suburbs-as-well. The Tin Soldier at the Quay? No too, um , too irrelevant.

Give us a hint, guv?

Recently, at work, I was participating in water-cooler type conversation when I learned something rather shocking. Some one had commented that I had just cut my beard short. These trimmings are always overdue so when I do get around to them I get a little crazy. My beard is, for the time being, significantly less fuzzy than usual. I replied to my co-worker that, yes, I had cut my beard very short and that I had lost all of my superhuman strength as soon as my chin hairs hit the sink.

Blink.

There were four persons in the room between the ages of 21-29 and none of them could pick up what I had just put down. I should have said, “ya I have Ryker beard now”. That they would have got but all I got were crickets.

Shocked (as referenced above) I explained, in brief that this guy in the bible named Samson was wicked strong and he would wrestle lions and then he met with this dame Dalila. He said his strength was due to his doo and so she went and truncated his fortitude, follicle by follicle. Amen.

No one had heard the story before. No one had heard of Samson at all. Strong like Samson? Is that supposed to mean something? Nope.

Now I may have it wrong but I thought that, like Noah and the Ark, the Samson story transcended the religious myths and had made it into the cultural ones. Noah they got.

Hmmm. Interesting.

Months ago, I had a dream where (for reasons forgotten or perhaps unformed) I killed a man. How and who is not important. I woke up immediately and I really couldn’t get my head around the fact that I had killed someone. Why, was I gonna get caught? Could I live with my self?

Not long after when I had woken up enough to realize it was all a dream and there was really nothing to worry about in this world, I was stupefied at how I could have concocted a dream that contained such violence. We weren’t spacemen or knights, just men, in the world; one murdered and one murderer.

Well last night I had another dream where the vague plot of the previous dream invaded everything I could dream about. I relived the murder. I was on the lam. I was ridden with guilt and worry and I even woke up and fretted in bed in a half awake middle realm of the subconscious.

What dreams are next? What come to you?

During the Victoria long weekend in May Briana, Myself, my father and my son Solomon went on a short overnight boat trip from LaConnor to Hope Island. Hope Island is ridiculously close to La Connor, where we started and where my parents reside. Close as it was, it soon became the abode of trolls and pirate treasure.

I think the exploration of this little island (where incredibly, we got lost) was the highlight of the trip for litte Solomon. For me, it was wonderful to spend time with my Dad, Bree and Sol in a “magical” place. Pop is in St. Petersburg Russia right now learning to be a tortured artist. I hear he is feeling a little isolated. I am sure he is having a great time despite that but we miss him too.

I found this little beauty on the net and so I share. What shall we do with the Fountain Tire “buy 3 get one free” event.

Blogged with Flock

Linked here is a Baby Name Reference Tool with some wicked kool flash-happy tooling. Check it out even if you are not getting into the baby racket. It is truely a blast to playwith. Oh Oh Oh! Let’s try Wagner! Wallace, Eunice, Beatrice! Ahh….. Instant gratification.

Check Baby Check Baby 1 2 3.

The turtle pictured here is Harriet the Galapagos Turtle. She lived in the Australian Zoo (owned by Steve Irwin) where this picture was taken by either Briana or myself on our summer holiday to Bribane in 2005.

Harriet was born at an unknown locaton nearly 180 years ago and was suposedly studied and captured by naturalist Charles Darwin on his “Voyage of the Beagle” to the Galapagos Islands in 1835. Harriot died today after a short illness in her pen (in the photo). On her death, she was the oldest known animal in the world.

Who’s the fittest now?

I had a lot to think about today. My little boy who is now five and deep into his adventurous imagination fills me with pride and a keen and sweet remembrance on the small boy that I perhaps once was. With his “ho-hooongh! Avast yer scurvy Pirate!” or his Potteresque “rengaurdium leviosa!” I remember similar pasionate mimicry for spiderman, St. George (cave! Sic Dragones!), Robin Hood (and his rocket bound analog) and of course, the below showcased, Hercules. Olympiaaaa!

It is not just a good time for a laugh at the past. It is also Father’s day and this is a day that occasions much thought. Solomon was with me this weekend and for that I am thankful. We played, worked on holding a pen and making letters, had a lesson in dog training, visited a toy train store near the corner of Carnarvon and 6th street in New Westminster where we had a lesson in economy, and we played outside under the very trees I played under when I was a boy. The whole thing got me to think about my Dad a lot.

He is in Russia learning how to paint. St. Petersburg has the l’Hermitage museum and a bunch of painters that tell old dudes from Washington State how to paint like you need the money. I remember him today because in my son I see the same convinced passion about imaginative play that I remember in myself. It is a type of play that is both hilarious to the outside observer and truly serious to the “inside eyes” of the little boy.

I remember not really believing that I was doing battle with the Sheriff of Nottingham but that the idea of the battle and the forces (bravery, justice, history) at play were important and real. I had to try them on, like armor (or a blue toga) to see how they fit. My seriousness, and now my son’s can’t be laughed off. I don’t have the answers but I know that it is formative. So much of this play for little boys is verboten today, often by well meaning caregivers and teachers that can not tell that the outward pantomime of aggression is actually a minute examination on the qualities of mercy and the difference between right and wrong.

I give my son free rein (mostly) with this, as I was afforded by my parents. While he plays under the same canopy as I once did, and as my father also played (and as it happens in the same hobby store where my father shopped as a kid) I remember this continuity. It is comforting, but I often feel as if I am parenting from another age.

Time will tell.

Mary-Ellen Lang delights in being a mom, grandma, writer, teacher, gardener, and equestrian, usually in about that order. She has been teaching since 1972, and writing since 1980. Two of her three (award winning, Young Adult) novels are published in many languages in Europe, the USA and Canada.

Before the movie started, a row of rowdy young teenage boys three rows in front of us was annoying everyone with their coltish antics. Why they were there, no one could imagine, but there they were. The movie started; the story quickly drew us in. It drew me in because it was pressing hard on all my mother buttons. A mother gorilla’s baby was killed. She rescued the infant Tarzan, who quickly grew into a spunky and brave little person despite rejection by the alpha male gorilla. Also, the art was fantastic and the dialogue was clever. It was not hard getting me to buy into Tarzan.

What fascinated me was the reaction of the kids three rows up. They got quieter and quieter. Slumped in their seats, they were spellbound. When the show was over, they stayed where they were, silent and still.

I’m sure they responded to the movie’s very powerful male situation and message. The struggle between the alpha male to do his job — to protect this family — and Tarzan, whose most basic need was to find out who he was and fit in somewhere, drove the plot, as conflicts always do, and engaged the boys.

For one thing, Disney’s Tarzan is decidedly masculine in its situations, action and themes. Finally, after years of little mermaids and princesses, the boys have a protagonist they can relate to. He beats his chest, roars and plunges off cliffs.

Starved for father figures

But I suspect that at a deeper level, the movie Tarzan speaks to boys about a gnawing problem so many of them face in today’s world, perhaps more than ever before. I suspect that legions of boys (and girls) are starved for male involvement and approval in their lives. A story centred around a powerful male’s stubborn refusal (or inability) to accept or acknowledge the young boy and the youngster’s desperate attempts to win his approval hits lots of kids where they live.

There are lots of reasons so many children lack a father figure in their lives. I’m sure you’ve heard them all many times. Apart from death, divorce, disappearance or disinterest, political correctness inhibits us now from even mentioning that a lack of men in the lives of children is serious and sad. We’re all supposed to hold hands and skip off to the wonderland of genderless equality.

Well, humbug.

I would like to suggest for one thing that most of the bad-boy behaviour we see in schools would be alleviated by positive connections to committed men. When a troubled boy is taken under the wing of a caring man who pays attention to and values him, the chances of that boy developing more healthy attitudes and behaviours increase dramatically.

In schools, boys and girls are in desperate need of men. There are lots of caring, nurturing, effective women teachers and they are worth their weight in gold. Schools would collapse overnight without them. Still, for lots of kids, a dose of masculine energy, style, outlook and inclination would be a more than welcome relief.

A life-changing influence

So many kids arrive at school poverty-stricken when it comes to parents. For those who lack a mother figure, there are lots of women who can meet this need on some level or another. Even a pat on the head and an inquiry into last night’s sleep may be appreciated by a young person. For those who do not get enough fathering in their lives (maybe dad isn’t there or maybe he’s too busy), the men they encounter in school can be a life-changing influence.

One of the best years one of my sons had in school was Grade 7. His life in school up to that time had been dismal and dominated by some very good, albeit female, teachers. (I can see I could get into trouble here). Anyway, he needed a man. Pure and simple. No disrespect intended, but another woman was not what I thought he needed. I went to the middle school to which he was headed with a shopping list. I wanted my son to have a good-humoured, no-nonsense, structured but flexible, wise, calm, high-energy and intelligent male teacher. Did they have one? They did.

My son blossomed in school that year. He desperately needed a man in his life and there was one, waiting at his desk every morning for the high-strung pubescent hordes to arrive. I will be eternally grateful.

Men who bring their confident, masculine enthusiasm for life to a school enrich kids in ways that only they can. Men who are willing to connect with children, to recognize, value and encourage them, are doing a necessary job. Men who choose, as does Tarzan, to commit everything they are to those who need them play a powerful role in the good order and health of society.

Good men who go into teaching can be assured they will be important in ways they cannot imagine and have a profound and lasting effect on generations of people.