Memo to agriculture minister

I may be a Liberal to my very core, but I am not celebrating [one year in office]. I am trying very hard to understand Keith Colwell's recent performance as agriculture minister. The only conclusion I can draw is that Colwell knows absolutely nothing about agriculture in Nova Scotia. You see, I grew up on a sustenance farm in Antigonish County. We had a dairy cow that was bred beef every year and we also raised our own meat birds and laying hens. It was how my parents managed to feed four kids while working and living around the poverty line, like so many rural residents. We weren't alone, most of our neighbours did the same. It is a way to make rural life work. Not everyone wants to live and raise their kids in a city.

So when I see the agricultural minister on Sun News, of all places, stating his absolute support for the turkey board's decision to shut down small processors right before Thanksgiving, I have to wonder about his suitability as minister. These turkeys were bought and raised to be ready for the holidays/winter food stocks. Since you have to sign an affidavit to buy those chicks, the turkey board could have made their stance known then and let people decide whether they wanted to continue knowing they would be forced to use a provincial processor.

Instead, the board lets these people buy and raise the birds for months and then shuts down the local processors. Unless there was some documented evidence of how these local butchers were failing public heath, this could have waited until next year's crop of chicks. In Gordon Fraser's case, I suspect after 36 years of processing birds without incident, he probably could have made it through year 37. It was either a stupid, short-sighted decision or an intentionally-malicious decision on the part of the board. Having reviewed the social media efforts of the turkey marketing board, I'm leaning towards the former.

Even then, it still would have been the wrong decision. Most farmers have other jobs, and sustenance farmers definitely have other jobs. For the ones that don't possess the knowledge and facilities to butcher their own birds, they have to find time outside of work to get their birds to the butcher and picked them back up. Gas is also expensive. If it means a day or two off work, possibly without pay, and a long drive to get them to a provincial facility, they may not do it next year. And that is the exact opposite of what an agriculture minister should want.

I am aware that this province is in a deep dark fiscal hole and farming is, decidedly, not glamorous. Nor is it lucrative. Farmers just grow our food and food for their own families. As agriculture minister, the job is to support those that are already farming, especially the ones doing it to feed their families, and to bring in newcomers. Our rural communities are struggling with declining and aging populations. Either we want people to live there or we don't. If we want people to live there, we need to find reasons for them to live there. Food, by way of farming, can be a reason. There's the eat local movement, there's the sustainable food movement, the slow food movement, the organic movement, and the farmer's market/meet your farmer movement, and of course, basic food security. Then there's foodies, there's tons of those. Did you know artisanal butchery is a thing? Heritage turkeys and pigs? Agriculture won't solve our deficit, but there's an awful lot of people willing to pay top dollar for the right agricultural products. We just need to grow them and we've got the land and the communities to do it.

I've met lots of folks who love rural life and working off the land, I have yet to meet a call center worker who shares the same enthusiasm for their job. If the current rules make it harder for people to grow food, then the rules need to be modernized. It's a majority government, you have the power to pass legislation. Proper food safety is adaptable to the environment in which it occurs. You can start with new rules for local processors, because we can either make it easier for people to live in rural communities or we can relocate them all to urban centers and frack the countryside into oblivion.

I know which future I want for Nova Scotia.

As an aside, I noticed today Colwell's latest step as agricultural minister is to craft a law making it illegal to abandon animals, with a special focus on cats. As an animal lover, I applaud the sentiment, but aside from shameless vote buying what is this going to accomplish? Many cats and dogs are abandoned at or because of sexual maturity when there is no money to have them fixed/deal with offspring. What penalty will be imposed on someone with no money? Beyond farming it out to an agency, what plan is in place to enforce these new laws? How do you prove abandonment without proof of ownership? Cats aren't licensed. Will it be cheaper than subsidizing a spay and neuter program, one that would not penalize people for being poor?

The time to pander for votes and go for easy wins is somewhere in year three, not now.  Now is the time to fix things.

Agriculture minister does not understand agriculture

In a recent interview, Keith Colwell, Minister of Agriculture, stated that not only would small local meat processors be prohibited from butchering turkeys, but he may have no choice but to prohibit Nova Scotians from butchering their own meat birds. All birds would have to be processed at a provincial or federal facility.

Colwell's justification was dire: "Would you feed your family with something that is not inspected, no controls over bacteria and feel safe that you're feeding your family that and have someone get sick from it?"

His justification was also wrong. Farmers have been doing exactly that for a few centuries in this province. I encourage the minster to compare the instances of meat-born illnesses and deaths in the families of Canadian farmers who slaughter their own livestock or have it processed by local butchers with those of the big facilities. The current numbers to beat are 22 dead and 57 confirmed cases of Listeriosis for Maple Leaf in 2008. After that, look to the 2012 XL Foods E. coli contamination, which, while death free, resulted in the largest beef recall in Canadian history.

Provincial and federal abattoirs are high volume slaughterhouses. For the family that takes the time to raise their own meat birds, possibly free-range, organic fed, hormone free, it takes their hard work and slides it down the same production line as antibiotic- and hormone-laden factory farm birds. The family also has to truck live birds halfway across the province. The longer the drive, the more stress the birds experience, and while it is true they will be killed, as Temple Grandin said, We've got to give those animals a decent life and we've got to give them a painless death. We owe the animal respect.”

These families raising their own livestock have a vested interest in their food. It is not the same as popping into Superstore and picking up a stuffed Butterball. They fed, watered, and cared for these animals. They deserve the right to give their animals the best possible end and receive the best product in return. As a farmers' daughter who spent years in commercial kitchens, that end and that product isn't found in a high-volume slaughterhouse. That end and, most definitely, that product is found in the hands of an experienced and knowledgeable butcher, like Gordon Fraser.

Rise again, you muddy windy glorious festival

It's been a several years since Shawn and I joined the caravan to Canso for the Stan Rogers Folk Festival. Last year's festival was preempted by the Summer of No Fun House Renovation Project. The one before by work responsibilities. This year would have been the same, we were both too busy to go, had Tropical Storm Arthur not blown it down.

When I saw Stanfest was cancelled, I found myself at a loss for words; well, eloquent ones anyway, as evidenced by my Facebook post: "Holy sh*t! Stanfest is cancelled!" That we weren't going was disappointing, but it's like many things that you enjoy that take some effort. The longer you are away, the easier it is to come up with reasons why it's okay to stay away. There's the five hour drive, the last two on skinny roads packed with fat Winnebagoes. There's the weather, because there's always weather. There's tenting and mud, which blend together with every passing hour. 

There's port-a-potties after dark.

When I realized it meant no one was going, that's when I felt like I lost something. 

I wrote an article about the 2008 festival for Saltscapes Magazine, you can read it here. I never intended to write an article, I just wanted to go to the festival. Repeatedly, and with media passes. It worked perfectly till Heather, the Saltscapes editor, assigned me a deadline. I felt sick. At that time, I had never written creatively for anyone but myself. Worse than that, Stanfest is passionately loved by many, myself included. I didn't want to be the one to write a not-good-enough article.  Fortunately, Heather is a great editor. More fortunately, people liked it. To that end, as a writer, it helps immensely when your audience is already sitting squarely in the choir.

Last night, I experienced the abridged version of a Stanfest. Three glorious hours of song after song, storyteller after storyteller. I sang, I howled, I laughed, I clapped till my hands hurt, and I cried - Makalya Lynn - that's your fault. It was everyone I had seen before and wanted to see again, plus a few I hadn't, and now want to see again. 

 It felt like I was back in Canso, but warm and dry.

When it was over, I looked at Shawn and said that was amazing, but now I wanted the rest of it. One songwriters' circle was not enough. I wanted all of the songwriters' circles.

I also wanted to be in Canso. I wanted that separation from home and work and responsibility that comes with being at the edge of nowhere; and out of cell reception.

I wanted to be around the people of Canso. They are wonderful people. I'll never forget our first trip to the Co-op, we were on motorcycle and two of the staff came out to watch us load up the bike. They wanted to see how we were going to carry everything. It was a good demonstration, we are seasoned pros at bike transport. Or the teenage volunteer who knocked on our truck window at the bottom of the hill to the registration booth to ask for a lift up, because she wasn't "walking up that hill one more time today".

It is a big hill.

I wanted the weather (maybe not all of it), but enough to breed a sense of resilience. An "I'll take your thunderstorm, wind, and rain and still rock it out. I am prepared and I am here for the duration". Stanfest preparedness is something we learned over time; from rubber boots to French presses.

I wanted the campground. There's musicians, music lovers, and fun lovers everywhere. You're never bored in the acoustic campground.

To quote the late great Levon Helm, I wanted "the adult dose". 

Before I walked out of the Metro Centre, I committed. There will always be struggles with life and work and responsibilities, but that's just all the more reason to make time for the things in life that make you rejoice, like Stanfest.

I'll see you next year, Stanfest, you throw in the hell and high water, I'll bring the boots and tarp.

For Leo Kell

When I think of my father, I think of him as larger than life. He was a barrel chested man with massive shoulders and arms, baseball gloves for hands, and a booming voice. Thankfully for any boy I brought home, this was tempered by a big laugh and an even bigger smile. 

Not only was dad physically strong, he could do anything. He could build anything, drive anything, and fix anything. He could dig a basement foundation, back a dump truck with a 40 foot trailer up our long driveway, and help a cow calf all on the same day.

My father was resoundingly calm under fire. I remember one day he picked me up in town in a Mac dump truck with a sander attached and we sanded some logging roads on the way home. The Mac was of a vintage long before seat belts were mandatory, and as we slid backwards and sideways down the side of a mountain in that big rattly rig, I asked dad if I could get out and wait for him at the bottom. "Nope," he said, completely unconcerned by what I considered to be a perilous situation. "I might run over you."

When I was 16 and learning to drive, I almost put us over an embankment while looking for third gear. Dad called out my name, I yanked the wheel, tires screeched, the truck veered wildly with each over correction, and then dad grabbed the wheel and we came to a stop at the side of the road. We sat there for a few minutes and dad asked me if I was okay. I said I was gonna be and then I very carefully drove us the rest of the way home. I had been terrified, but as soon as dad took control I knew he would fix it. Mom told me a few days later dad said it was just luck the truck didn't roll over.

My father loved animals and kids. We had a house and a barn full of them and dad, as the guy who could drive everything, transported us and our animals all over hell and creation so we could show them. It was mostly horses and dogs, but there was the scattered year of bunnies and chickens, and the occasional heifer. As in all things, mom and dad were united in the instruction of their children. It didn't matter if we placed first or last, but we had to be good sportsmen, handling either situation graciously. Or, more motivationally put by dad: "Your mother and I took you here here so you can have fun, if you are not having fun, we can pack up and go home." Needless to say, we had fun.

My father practical, reasonable, and he gave good advice. He was full of adages and sayings and he wielded them with precision. Especially on teenagers whose hair-brained ideas and wants often required debunking. He had a phrase for every occasion, "Don't count your chickens, before they've hatched" was popular, as was "you're judged by the company you keep". "Never burn your bridges", was another favorite. It was also sound advice. Everyone in town knew and liked my father. I am still "Leo Kell's Daughter" when I meet people from home.

He was tough as nails. Dad had survived falling off a roof, countless work injuries, several car accidents - including one where a dozer fell off a flat-bed and sheered off the driver's side panels of his truck like a can of sardines. Dad had the presence of mind to undo his seatbelt, scooch over, and keep steering as so not to plunge down the 40 foot embankment on his side of the road. One day I caught him bandaging a woefully smashed thumb with half of a maxi-pad. With a wife, three daughters and a son away, dad lived in a house of women.

He also survived decades of polycystic kidney disease, which causes years of intermittent pain, high blood pressure, and eventual renal failure. There were a few emergency trips to Halifax where it seemed unclear whether he was going to make it back home. My Aunt Terri, dad's sister, gave him a kidney as the 1980s came to a close. Thank you forever, Terri. I was 14 at the time and he and mom were in Halifax forever after the surgery. In hindsight, I think it was closer to a month, but I was a kid and wanted her parents home.

Dad passed away on a Saturday in August 2000, exactly one week after my brother's wedding. After nearly a lifetime of worrying about his kidneys, his big heart unexpectedly gave out. The wedding had been a joyous affair with all of us home and all of us happy. Circumstances were exactly opposite the following weekend. I have been extremely fortunate to never experienced before or since, the depth of pain felt that weekend. Especially by my mother, for whom dad was half of her.

But I try to be my father's daughter. My dad always said there were worse things of dying, and he certainly survived enough trials over his 57 years to know what he couldn't bear. On his last weekend of life he was with his wife of almost 35 years, surrounded by his children and their significant others, his parents, siblings, relatives and friends. We laughed, we ate - dad loved to eat - we danced, we ate some more and we had a fabulous time. Dad used to say everyone had a number, and when their number came up, that was it. I think dad's number was called a bunch of times, he just managed to talk his way out of it long enough to see his family settled and together one last time.

Rebuttal to the "Grow some balls" solution to bullying

This isn't really a blog post, per say, it's a rebuttal to an ill-reasoned argument that the anti-bullying campaigns have had almost no effect on teen suicide rates over the last 30 years.

Using Canadian statistics, from 1980 to 2008, the rate of male child and teen suicides (10-19) decreased yearly from a high of 249 in 1980 to 156 in 2008. That's almost 100 less dead boys. Even after factoring in differences in birthrates, this is still a significant win. Unfortunately, girls are seeing the opposite. In 1980, 50 female children and teens (10-19) committed suicide. Those numbers have increased yearly with 77 dead girls in 2008. *

When it comes to teen suicide, things are not "pretty much exactly the same" as they were 30 years ago. Statistically, there are significantly fewer dead boys and significantly more dead girls.

Now I'm not going to strictly attribute the decrease in boys to all of them watching Karate Kid and becoming martial arts masters, the beat the bully fantasy, any more than I would attribute it strictly to anti-bullying campaigns. Complex social issues, like suicide, are rarely ever pared down to one cause, unfortunately.

For the decrease in boys, it could be a lot of things. Better mental health diagnoses and treatment, greater acceptance of homosexuality, stronger emphasis on open communication. Hell, it's a lot less socially acceptable to get drunk and beat your kids and spouse than it was 30 years ago too, so lives at home may be better.

As for the increase in the girls, we need to find out why we have more dead girls. Period. Fobbing off the issue with a bullshit "grow some balls" attitude ain't the way to solve it. Rehtaeh Parsons was a teen who killed herself last year after being bullied relentlessly by boys who allegedly sexually assaulted her earlier at a house party. Using your two proffered solutions for bullying, Parson's could have A) severely beaten those (much bigger and stronger) boys, or, B) become their BFFs.

Now ask yourself this, if you were Parson's dad, which of your two options would you tell her to use?

* Suicide among children and adolescents in Canada: trends and sex differences, 1980-2008.  http://www.cmaj.ca/content/early/2012/04/02/cmaj.111867.full.pdf+html

A post for mothers

Mother's Day was yesterday, and as usual, I'm day late, but hopefully not a dollar shy.

I'm at an age where most of my friends have reproduced or are currently reproducing. There's a lot of little ones on the go. I am most proud of the parents I know, because they are excellent parents. And parenting is really hard work, that's why I have dogs.

Now all of my parent friends will tell me that the hard work is more than offset by the love of being a parent. I know this has to be true. When I was thinking about what to write about mothers and children, my thoughts turned to all the ways mothers make you feel wonderful, and as a child, you in turn, give them a reason to favour tubal ligation.

I settled on the middle-of-the-night bathroom run. The middle-of-the-night run happens long after your parents have tucked you into bed and gone to bed themselves. While you felt fine at bedtime, now it's the middle of the night and the contents of your stomach have reformulated from harmless bedtime snack to toxic upwardly projectile substance.

I don't know about you as a child, but I don't ever remember making it all the way to the toilet. No, I remember making it to the bathroom door and in a spray reminiscent of the Exorcist, coating everything lower than three and a half feet in vomit. This is of course, very upsetting, so cue the waterworks.

Your mother, awakened by your frantic dash, gets there just in time for the aftermath if she's lucky, and by lucky, I mean spared watching you coat the baseboards with partially digested Cheerios, because you were never making it to the toilet, even if she was there.

No, she is presented with a hot, sweaty, bawling child standing in a pool of stinky puke. For the child, the cavalry has arrived. Your mom cleans you up, puts you in fresh pajamas, and tucks you back into bed. It's the best feeling in the world: you are safe, cherished, and loved. Then she goes to the bathroom to clean up ground zero, after which, she can hopefully fall asleep for a few hours before you wake up and continue puking. Or feel perfectly fine. Kids are tricky like that.

So my belated wish for Mother's Day is that all of you mothers feel safe, cherished, and loved, the same way you make your kids feel when you clean them up and tuck them back in bed after a middle-of-the-night run.

PS Other animal species are known to eat their young when under stress. Thanks for taking the high road.

Dear Service Canada

Dear Service Canada,

 

As I continue to wade through the disability application process on behalf of my sibling, I once again have to commend you on your ability to continue to "kick it old school" in providing services to the disabled.  

In an age where technology, especially computers and the internet, has done so much to make the world accessible for disabled people, it is almost laudable that you continue to see them in terms of bathroom size, elevators, and door widths. To that end, I am confident that every building in which a Service Canada office resides is fully compliant with government regulations for public buildings.

"But what about the website?" you might ask. Yes, you do have a website. It's 2014. Everybody has a website. "But all the forms are on there". Yes they are, and herein lies your problem. And by problem, I mean ignorance of the first order.

Your forms are in field-less, non-accessible portable document format, otherwise known as a PDF. It is the 21st century equivalent of a printed piece of paper.

Bravo, you've posted paper to the internet.

Here's a few things these PDF forms could do if you folks could pull your fully able heads out of your fully able asses:

Not only can they be programmed to read aloud, but all those boxes and lines can be programmed to populate by speech. Imagine that, a person who's vision impaired (I hear that's a disability), could still fill out the forms by themselves rather than rely on someone to do it for them. Likewise for someone who can't use their hands. There is more to technology than Teledec and Teleprinters. Speaking of which, the prefix "tele"means "telephony". If that term sounds antiquated to you, it's because it is.

I'm not sure if anyone has told you this before, but disabled people treasure independence as much as the able bodied. However, unlike the able-bodied, they've had to surrender up much of their independence to their disability. As such, it is important to give them every opportunity to exercise independence. Even if it's filling out a form. 

Electronic signature software exists and its popularity and use is growing exponentially. You know what would be cooler for a person whose disability prevents them from marking anything more meaningful than an X because they can't grasp a pen? An electronic signature, which requires one working finger and lets them type their own name. It would also be helpful for the folks who are helping those folks, because if you haven't seen a map recently, not everyone in Canada lives in the same town.

 

Speaking of the helper folks, providing a form that the helper, the disabled person and their doctor could all sign would be a hell of a lot easier and cheaper than obtaining a power of attorney from a lawyer. There is a reason these forms are filled out in the first place. It's called being unable to work because of "severe and prolonged" medical conditions, your words not mine. No work means no pay and lawyers are expensive.

But for the most disabled, all of this is moot. With rare exception, there is no WiFi in hospitals for patients and tray tables don't come with built in inkjet printers. They don't just need help, they need all the help.

As a society, we fail if we don't help those among us who need it the most, and on this, we, and by we I mean you, Service Canada, are failing.

Signed,

Peggy, an able-bodied person who learned from her beautiful and inspiring sister about what it's like to be disabled.