Librarians To "Weed"

 A librarian trained in university whether for public work or educational, is a librarian. Today I read where "school librarians" are forced to weed books and other materials that their school districts deem non-inclusive. Tons of books were discarded. What we end up with if over-zealous "weeding" takes place is censorship and usually it is done with very little specific attention to the details such as re-reading the books to see if, indeed, they are offensive and not inclusive. What, if we are not careful, left with is a load of biassed pap to offer children from the time of starting school to leaving school as adults. Books that are non-inclusive need to be judged so by a broad panel of people who discuss and examine before tossing out what could be fodder for beneficial discussion and comparison. Like the world wars and other cruel historical events, they need to be remembered not tossed, as one person spoke on the radio news today. They said, "so we don't forget what happened as to never let it happen again". I imagine that most authors of a few decades ago, used certain words that today are wrong, while then, they were used because they weren't considered during those times, offensive. What better way for an English  Literature class to use such book as example of how society has improved and how the changes have benefitted us all. Simply "burning" all books that remotely refer to a person incorrectly or that appears offensive now but was not at the time, disallows the deep reason to understand the course of our world that is supposedly coming to grips with all sorts of injustices. We need to know what's wrong before we can fix it. I am a librarian, or was a few decades ago, and I can easily think of certain books, I would either want to see on the shelves of schools while there are others I think ought to be scanned and judged by today's standards and perhaps removed. At the same time, I would like to see those who might find the text offensive present before decisions are made to remove the material. Writing and or speaking are one of the ways of making changes to right wrongs and within that power, is a big responsibility before muzzling speech or throwing out books whose darkness needs some curative light, the light of change. 

The WHOLE Truth

 In court, as a witness, one places a hand on an ancient book of wisdoms and pledges to tell "the whole truth and nothing but the truth". What is the "whole" truth? The pledge isn't always done, even though marked, because the "whole truth" can be a dangerous thing. It's everything around, over and above the truth, and thus is seldom told. Most of us try very hard to tell truth while others may not and call it "a little white lie" or "I can't because the real truth might hurt" or a host of other excuses to never quite make the "whole" truth. Why can't we tell the whole truth? What's so hard about it? Aha. The whole truth is like, in front of us, a gargantuan mountain or a bottomless pit. We protect the whole truth because it feels too big to climb or to span. It's our secret, our very personal one, that isn't for public knowledge. We carry it. We hold it. We don't want to drop it. It's always there and we know it's needed to emerge, but we guard it and ignore it and often treasure it, because, like a precious gem, only our unique selves can see it. Thus, it's our specific need and special. Sometimes this "whole" truth haunts us so that we dream about it only in fear it might be seen. But it's safe within a room inside us, a place that no one else can enter. There are people who know that eventually, they must out this truth, but if they do, they fear the consequences. The consequences might hurt someone else, or worse, themselves. There are brave souls who do let the whole truth free and find it, while an enormous relief, also now a tremendous burden. Perhaps "tis better to bear the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune" than let them go? Revealing whole truth isn't just a small matter: it involves all kinds of complicated little truths that snowball and grow into something we may not expect. We may very much regret having allowed it to escape. It feels good in some ways and painful in others, but all in all, the whole truth is no longer an unclimbable mountain or bottomless depth to fear. It has incredibly and simply disappeared. Surprisingly, it makes life clear, a better place to live, to breathe and to continue. 

One Sentence

 Read today, "use one sentence only for email". Who made up that one?  Oh wait; it must have been the kid in the third row rear who peers at his cell hand during class instead of listening to the teacher. He's called on by the teacher and his response is usually, "Huh?" True; that is one sentence. I guess it could be called "email"-able. Not a true story, but it could be somewhere. I can see that texting someone requires not only the brainless codes that are used mostly by those who do that kind of thing.  To me texting is one matter, but emailing is like mail and if you think  you can communicate on a one sentence basis, you are unique. I don't use a cell phone even though I have one. None of the people I know, call me on it because most of them have the luxury of time to make a land call or an email as a piece of good English rather than poking off a lot of capitals done in haste to hasty folk. The age old saying that haste is waste, here, does not apply. Seems these days everyone is in a terrible hurry. Going where they do mach speed, and doing what they're supposed to be doing, remains a mystery because no more is accomplished than those who slow down and focus. Getting back to having to use only one sentence, encourages one to the run-on varity of sentence or at least one with more than normal, commas, because, as an example, today I wanted to hire a handyman or woman to please come and put together a received via FedEx an on-line item, an electric fireplace that when I opened the box, appeared to be a lego project of some length -and width - due to the Amazon shopping list illustration that makes it look wonderful for its black oak surround, its dark marble margins and the interesting flame that when turned to the designation, "heat", produces a healthy, looking flame that blows warmth out of the vents in its, the unit's thirty-two inch front that faces the user.  (How is that for a LONG sentence; it's one only!) Next time, a cyber genius makes a rule such as this one-sentence thing, it should be more specific as to how.  But OMG TMI IMHO BTW J/K then again DILLIGAS?

No Heat

 When your condo management says, 'because we are installing a new system, there will be no heat for three days", your "blood runs cold". Well, not really. What did make my blood "run cold" was the levy we had to pay to replace the gas heating boilers. Levies are never welcome even though they do buy needs in an old building that you own jointly and severely which I can say is sometimes "severely". But that's what it takes. So what to do when the heat is off? It's autumn and even on the West Coast, it does become coldish and damp because we are oceanside and grow big trees. No heat is a learning experience. I found that the portable ACs I bought for the very hot summer, are also heating units. But, and it's a big one, they blow out cold air at the back just as they blew out hot air previously when used as ACs. Fortunately, I could train the blowing duct into a guest bathroom and using some cushions, prevent the cold from reentering the rest of the place. Also I have a tiny electric fireplace on my TV stand cabinet. I use it mostly for the  fire effect but this time, for the electric heat. Using the ceiling fan above and turning the little fireplace to its first notch I soon felt a lovely warmth pouring out. Ahhh! Then again, after baking bread, I left the oven door open instead of letting the unused heat go up the vent. More useable warmth. Nightime was no problem at all. With the windows shut and snuggling inside my down quilt I was comfy all night. What I am learning, is just how much heat we waste. Some people keep their window open "for the fresh air" but the heat goes out when the "fresh" air comes in. And we pay for it. Our system here is gas-fired but using electricity offers more options. Those little electric fireplaces are very cheap and they look warm as well as casting out heat.  Why not take advantage of such small gifts as residual oven heat after cooking or baking? Our TV sets these days, pour out heat. Put your hand above your operating TV and find out. All screens, including your cell phone, are hot in more ways than one. Don't let your money escape out open windows. You pay for heat, keep it where it belongs. Best of all, wear what keeps in your natural body heat. You are  a small furnace! 

Trees The First "Humans"

 Trees were the first "humans" and much better at it than we humans. When they first arrived on earth in its early days, they had trunks and limbs that protected creatures. Human beings are supposedly here to do the same to act as guardians of the earth and all of its beings. Sadly, we aren't doing much of a job at it. Trees are neutral. They take no sides. When they appeared on the young earth, their limbs provided leafy or frondy shade from the sun and shelter from the rains. They became home to  smaller life forms as well as larger ones that lived beneath and inside them. They made strong, reaching roots that sucked up water to become sap and sap fed many of its adopted "children". They also had their own "children" and made seeds that fed animals and insects, with and without spines, and their sap was savoured by those who happened to discover its qualities.  When their trunks were thick, they could be used to make houses, their branches and leaves became rain proof roofs. Their fruits made food of many kinds, and their seeds were eaten and were spread by wing and fin over the whole earth to feed all the creatures on it. Trees that were big and tall, were killed and cut up to be used in many ways: houses, furniture, equipment. Firewood was of prime importance. It remains so.  There are no beings that have not benefitted by trees in some way. Naturally, something so precious as trees, when money of various kinds was invented and trade came upon the earth that pointed out the value of trees even to make paper money and stock forms themselves. And trees were easy to capture and enslave. They don't walk or run away, they stay and submit. They are never angry or vengeful, they don't war or become depressed  even when pitted with disease and the abuse of overuse. Trees do one thing, they grow and grow and grow.  They don't give up. After a forest fire they come back in rather mysterious ways. Some trees actually benefit from forest fires to cleanse in their way. Trees are good "humans" who know no prejudice or fury or political sides. They do exactly as they are told and "smile".  If we lose trees, it will be time for the return to how earth stood eons ago before we two legged creatures came along on the trail that could destroy us. We should be trees. 

My Son

 My son was born today. It was sixty-two years ago when my husband, now also dead, built a house we could afford in a town now shunned as Lower Middle Class, but which stands strong even today. Our baby came along four years into our modest marriage in a nearby little city, once to be BC's capital but changed for one you can get to by ship or plane only. Our baby son held all the promises of life when he came along: love and security. He was a healthy, cheerful child. Our tiny mortgage was paid off before we were thirty even during an unpleasant stint in the North on relocation by an oil company. We went back to BC to a small coastal town with small coastal ideas. I went back to teaching and my husband found a good job in a government institution. Life seemed good. Besides inlaw problems and the minor discomforts of living in a small coastal town mostly run by locals with different life styles than we once knew in the city. My son started school but never liked it. He was polite though a free soul.  His bright wit got him into trouble sometimes with teachers thus he turned to music: the keyboard and classical piano taught by his uncle, a grad of London Music.  The best thing school did for him was his highschool band teacher who encouraged him to take the jazz world, one,  we, too, loved. I am ever grateful to this man. It made his life fine. My son met a great girl at a technical school and they married before they walked across the stage to receive their diplomas. Life seemed good and the two children of his marriage were and are adorable. He hoped to return to music and complete his love of it seriously when the marriage broke. Later, jobs and music on the side never paid enough but he didn't feel sorry for himself. One day, he learned about his brain tumor, benign, but after surgery, time to learn to walk again and work again. Life was not easy and there never was enough pay. He drove a bus latterly, and  loved it: the routes, the customers, the company boss and the benefits. He had good friends, some music pals and true. Then Pancreatic Cancer came along and it all ended at sixty-one years old. He accepted, as always what life threw at him, without blaming or complaining. He's back now, resting in the coastal town in a cemetery that is achingly small but surrounded by good people who built it through their efforts and hard work. Not every mother has the opportunity to see her son's entire life spread out for her to think about every day and what could have been and why. I have much to be thankful for this Thanksgiving for my son and his courage and love. 

Behind The Glass

We tread in an eggshell society. There is fear in what we say, the words we use, the colours we wear, the foods we eat, the places we live. The rules of behaviour and speech, even the way we live daily, is now subject to social speculation and scrutiny. If a once used word is innocently spoken in error, you are shunned even if you apologise immediately. You are looked down upon if you don't live in a home that is almost bare of any reminiscent objects that you want around you for comfort and if  you retain too many of them, you could be accused of hoarding. Labels are rampant. Your rent or mortgage is maxing out. Should you want to be someone who doesn't favour hoards of people around you constantly, you are said to be reclusive. The car you drive, if not a newer model that doesn't spout certain substances, no matter how useful it is, is frowned upon. What you put on your feet is stared at with chagrin if it isn't a certain brand or colour or shape. The food you eat or not eat, is regarded as the latest what-to-do or not of the most fashionably "healthful" sort, according to whatever freaky weight-loss game is in vogue.  If you dare to weigh over a certain scheduled amount, you are told by your thin doctor, "you need to lose weight" and you agonize in shame. Gyms show in windows with row upon row of bodies sweating and beating their knees up and down going nowhere notwithstanding future knee replacement. Elders are having bodies plumped up or down, hair added or removed, fat sucked out as well as  lips and eyebrows tatooed and still don't live to one hundred twenty. In the opposite direction, the young are doing the same but at younger and younger ages. Money is scarce and credit thrives, padding up the banks and their profits. Fashion reigns and some little singer makes millions doing what nature put there as he or she trots it out on a zany lit stage as thousands pay to watch. Games are places of gambling and worship. Politicians are chosen by their looks and hollow promises they sometimes die for. But this is our world. Too bad we can't sit in outer space and watch ourselves as one would stare at an ant farm. We might learn to be wiser.