what i'm reading: bread & roses: mills, migrants, and the struggle for the american dream

I'd be willing to bet my paycheque that Bruce Watson, author of Bread & Roses: Mills, Migrants, and the Struggle for the American Dream, did not want his book to have that title.

The 1912 millworker strike in the city of Lawrence, Massachusetts is now referred to as "the Bread & Roses strike" -- but it was never called that in its time. In fact, the misnomer became associated with the strike (despite what Wikipedia claims) only in the 1980s! 

Watson addresses this oddity in the book's introduction as well as in the epilogue. Having read his impeccably researched account of the strike -- and knowing what I do about publishers, and the compromises writers must make to be published -- I can all but guarantee this author did not want this title.* 

This book has been on my List since it came out in 2005, and I found a copy on my recent trip to Powell's in Portland. I'm so glad I did! It was riveting.

The story of the 1912 Lawrence textile worker strike is easy to love. 20,000 workers from all levels of mill work -- immigrants from 51 different countries who spoke at least 12 different languages -- had had enough.

They lived in abysmal conditions. Their work was dangerous, and the machines were constantly sped up, causing the inevitable, hideous accidents and deaths. 

They ranged from tall twelve-year-olds whose forged working papers claimed they were fourteen to men and women approaching fifty. Some were slightly older, but not many lasted that long in the mills. Inhaling fibers that floated through the dank, humid mill rooms, a third died within a decade on the job. Malnourished, they succumbed to tuberculosis, pneumonia, or anthrax, known as "the woolsorter's disease." They were crushed by machinery, mangled by looms and spinners. In a single five-year span, the Pacific Mill had a thousand accidents, two for every three days on the job. Those who avoided accident or disease just wore out like an old suit. Doctors and ministers in Lawrence lived an average of sixty-five years. Mill bosses could expect to live fifty-eight years. The typical mill worker died at thirty-nine. 

They had enough. They united. They walked out.

They stood strong against national and ethnic divisions that had been used to divide them.

They stood strong against hunger and the freezing New England winter, pooling resources to create a  soup kitchen -- something entirely new at the time.

The state militia was brought in, threatening the strikers with bayonets, beating them, and causing at least one death. The workers stood strong.

Their leaders were jailed. The workers stood strong. 

At one point they were offered a tiny raise. They had the courage to reject it, and stayed out, knowing that the owners were beginning to crack.

They created a democratic strike, making decisions cooperatively, and a joyous one, parading around the city, singing. 

They employed some brilliant tactics, sending their malnourished children to New York City and Boston to live with host families, for the children's health and safety -- and also for propaganda. Congressional hearings into conditions in the mills were held, and the muckraking press made sure that their stories of poverty and hardship were told.

Bread & Roses is a richly detailed book, but it's never boring and rarely bogged down. Watson created so much tension and suspense that I started to wonder, am I totally wrong about this? Did they not win?

But they did win. And what a win it was. 

The striking millworkers won major pay increases, with those at the bottom tier of the pay scale getting the largest percentage increase, as much as 20%. Beyond wages, they won at least a portion of every demand, compromising on amounts, but getting their foot in the door on entirely new concepts. 

And beyond that: they changed the labour landscape of an entire industry.

All along the rivers of New England, wherever mills had tapped the power of flowing water, fear of another Lawrence inspired sudden wage increases. On Saturday afternoon [only hours after a settlement was reached in Lawrence], mill owners meeting in Boston granted increases of 5 to 7 percent to 125,000 workers. The mill men caved in, one lamented, like "a row of bricks, one falling and knocking down all the others." Some boosted wages without even being asked, other to settle strikes in the making. All that coming week, the bricks fell. In North Adams, Massachusetts. In Greenville, New Hampshire. In Providence, Rhode Island. In Biddeford, Maine. They even knocked over the toughest textile town of all, Fall River, Massachusetts. By the time the last brick fell, some 300,000 workers had seen their wages rise thanks to the strikers in Lawrence. The raises would put ten to twelve million dollars into textile workers' pockets in the coming year, yet in mills that granted less than those in Lawrence, they would also stir a demand for parity, leading to copycat strikes.

This brought tears to my eyes. This is the dream: that workers rising will benefit all. And it was realized.

This was also an easy story for me to love, as it features the IWW (the organization that comes closest to representing my beliefs and worldview) and the radical luminaries Big Bill Haywood and Helen Gurley Flynn. There are cameos by Margaret Sanger, Ida Tarbell, and Emma Goldman. 

But although I love Haywood and "Gurley," as she was called, the activists I encountered for the first time in Bread & Roses were even more interesting. Joe Ettor, the IWW organizer, led the strike with an uncanny mix of toughness and empathy, democracy and strong leadership. I was in awe of him; his name should be a household word among students of labour history. Arturo Giovannitti -- worker, poet, editor, organizer -- was another fascinating and endearing figure. Both men were arrested, falsely accused of murder, and jailed. 

When at last the workers jammed the union hall to vote on the deal, the terms were read out in Arabic, Armenian, French, German, Greek, Italian, Latvian, Polish, and Yiddish. They sang songs of victory and solidarity for hours. They even voted to take a few days off before going back to work.

When it was all over, Haywood addressed the crowd.

You, the strikers of Lawrence, have won the most signal victory of any body of organized working men in the world. You have won the strike for yourselves and by your strike you have won an increase in wages for over 250,000 other textile workers in the vicinity, and that means in the aggregate millions of dollars a year. . . . You are the heart and soul of the working class. Single-handed you are helpless, but united you can win everything. You have won over the opposed power of the city, state, and national administrations, against the opposition of the combined forces of capitalism, in face of the armed forces. You have won by your solidarity and brains and muscle.

-------------------------

* A similar painful re-titling happened to my partner, about his book about the 1918 Red Sox. In fact many things about Bread and Roses reminds me of Allan's book.

"can you see the head?" : things i heard at the library: an occasional series, # 39

At the Port Hardy library, we serve many marginalized people. They are poor, street-involved, struggling with the intertwined impacts of intergenerational trauma, mental illness, and addiction. The most common impact we see is alcohol addiction. The reasons are no mystery: alcohol is cheap, legal, and readily available. 

I have no doubt that many other people in our community -- people we don't see at the library -- also struggle with alcoholism. The difference is they are able to do that behind closed doors. When you're unhoused, your struggles become public. (We also see many unhoused people who are sober.)

Our staff call the police or ambulance at least three times each week, and we are only open five days. A week with five or six calls is not unknown. A week without any calls is unusual. Often people fall asleep and become unresponsive. Often people become abusive. Often... all kinds of things.

I personally am very calm and accepting of these occurrences, but many people find them triggering and extremely stressful. We document every incident, and I use that documentation to advocate for our staff.

It's in this context that I share this story, one both horrifying and amusing.

On this particular day, staff at the desk alerted me that there was a customer in the public washroom in obvious distress. We grabbed the phone and went together to the washroom; we could hear wails and moans coming from inside. 

I knocked on the door, "Are you OK in there? Do you need help?"

"Yes, yes, please!"

"Do you need medical attention?"

"Yes, help me!"

My co-worker called 911 and we went off to find the spare washroom key, since the public key was in the washroom with the wailing customer. Co-worker called 911 while I opened the bathroom door a bit. The customer was on the toilet with her pants around her ankles, moaning and crying. She said, "I have a kidney stone!"

While we waited for the ambulance, remaining on the phone with the dispatcher, the customer asked if she can speak to the 911 person. I gave her the phone. They were on the phone for what seemed like a very long time, maybe 5-7 minutes. 

The customer then hung up, and pushed past me, saying, "I'm having a baby right now. The baby is coming!" 

What the---?

I try to get the woman to stay in the washroom, but she won't go back, pushing both me and co-worker out of the way -- on her way out of the library. It is raining outside, she is half-dressed, and she says she's having a baby. 

I say, "Please stay inside where we can help you," but she swatted me out of the way. 

She walked outside, her clothes dragging behind her, walked to the parking area, and lay down on the asphalt, on her back, in the rain. 

As this was happening, the phone rings, and it's the 911 operator calling back. I tell her, "She's outside now. She says she's having a baby?"

The operator says, "Yes, she may be going into labour. Can you see the head?"

Can I see the head??? 

Do not tell me that a woman is actually going to have a baby in the parking lot in the rain. Co-worker and I looked at each other like, What the actual fuck?!

I went over to the woman, my heart pounding, thinking I would hold her hand or I don't know what. 

Meanwhile some community members who know the woman tell us that she is not pregnant, that she believes she is pregnant and often believes she is about to give birth. Clearly this is part of some mental illness. 

I could exhale.

As this was happening, the ambulance arrived. They took over and my staff and I went back inside to write our reports.

I am usually pretty cool about these incidents, but this one got me going.

Can you see the head??? That's one for the books.

something strange (but good) is going on with this blog

In early 2020, I lost a wmtc post that was important to me and had a lot of comments. 

Allan and I were able to re-post the post itself, but in the process, a huge chunk of the blog disappeared. Coincidentally, I had recently done a back-up using Blogger's export/import function -- the first time in years, which is awful and scary. 

However, the most recently exported file wouldn't upload. Blogger's import/export function was always problematic, and Allan and I (and several other bloggers) used the Blogger Help Community to bring this to Blogger's attention.

Eventually Blogger fixed the export/import issues. But I was still never able to upload that one backup file. 

The upshot of all this: thousands of comments on this blog between July 2006 and May 2019 were lost. I was gutted. 

A few weeks ago, for some reason I checked spam comments, something I hadn't done in a very long time. I was astonished to find 95 comments there -- all from 2006, by people who were regular readers and commenters at the time! Lost comments had returned!!! 

I was able to put the comments through, and they appear normally on those old posts.

Since then, I check spam comments daily or almost daily. The folder always contains old comments by known wmtc commenters, and I put them through. There have been about 250 so far.

This is a very welcome development!!

It's possible that Allan and I inadvertently hurt this process -- one we never could have anticipated -- as we were repairing damage to wmtc. Many URLs have changed. (That's why I updated many internal links.) Now I wonder if lost comments will appear for posts with changed URLs. If comments on those posts do come in, will they post when I moderate them?

Meanwhile the old comments continue to appear, and I continue to put them through. I have zero information on why this is happening. 

what i'm reading: my notorious life by kate manning (madame restell, fictional version, nonfiction to follow)

I read this book last year, and have been recommending it nonstop, so it's about time to commit it to wmtc.

My Notorious Life was an obvious book for me to love -- or to hate. 

Much historical fiction feels contrived to me. An author takes a period of history, writes a piece of fiction, often a romance or family saga, and grafts the two together. I often see the scaffolding too much. 

I'm particularly sensitive to this when the subject matter is important to me. This book qualified on so many levels -- women, abortion, New York City. If anything had felt inauthentic to me, I couldn't have read it. 

I am happy to report that I loved it. 

Kate Manning seamlessly blends a dramatic story with historical people and events. Based on the life of a woman  who was known as Madame Restell, My Notorious Life tells the story of a child of extreme poverty who rises to fame and fortune, and who may be thrown back into poverty, and into prison -- not without several twists and turns, the outcome of which is never certain. Manning's Madame Restell is a very compelling hero -- daring and courageous, and also deeply principled and compassionate. 

Manning brings the reader into late 19th Century New York City, a world of extreme income inequality, where women have little control over their reproductive lives. In other words, a world with all too many parallels to our own. But there are striking differences, too. We can see the progress our society has made -- and the consequences of that progress being reversed and undone. When women are unable to control their reproduction, they suffer, children suffer, and society suffers.

Manning also manages to pull off something that must be incredibly difficult, given how rarely it is achieved. She weaves all the issues -- poverty, class, the treatment of children, women's autonomy, pregnancy, childbirth, abortion -- into a dramatic story with a great plot and several subplots. There are no soapboxes, no billboards. The lessons are gleaned through story.

On our recent trip to Powell's City of Books in Portland, I stumbled on* a title that practically leapt out at me: Madame Restell: The Life, Death, and Resurrection of Old New York's Most Fabulous, Fearless, and Infamous Abortionist by Jennifer Wright. I immediately put a copy in my basket, wondering how I had not heard of it before -- not realizing that it was published only last month. I will be reading it and writing about it soon.

* I was hunting for Delusions of Gender: The Real Science Behind Sex Differences (2010) by Cordelia Fine. I found that book, Madame Restell, and The Story of Jane: The Legendary Underground Feminist Abortion Service (1995) by Laura Kaplan. I hope to read all three this year.

judy heumann, rest in power

Judith Heumann, one of the founders and primary movers of the disability rights movement, died recently at the too-young age of 75. 

Judith Heumann was a force of nature. She was the consummate activist -- a brilliant communicator, a charismatic organizer, and a warm, compassionate, attentive person. Judy was the kind of person that made you want to do more, to be better. 

She is one of the leads in "Crip Camp," the brilliant documentary about a summer camp experience that radicalized a group of young people with disabilities, and became an incubator of the disability rights movement. If you haven't seen it, I hope you will. 

At the very beginning of my foray into the disability rights movement, I attended an event where Judy was speaking. I don't remember much about it -- we're talking 35 years ago -- but I remember being riveted as Judy spoke. She gave me so much clarity about the intersection of feminism, human rights, and disability rights -- that indeed they were all the same thing. 

Here are some obits: The New York Times, NPR, The Guardian. Judith's own website is here.

The headline from the NPR obit is "Activist Judy Heumann led a reimagining of what it means to be disabled". 

what i'm reading: empire of pain: the secret history of the sackler family

Buried on page 364 of the hardcover edition of Empire of Pain: The Secret History of the Sackler Dynasty -- almost two-thirds into the book -- is one sentence that, for me, defines the most important piece of this urgent story. 

The opioid crisis is, among other things, a parable about the awesome capability of private industry to subvert public institutions.

Empire of Pain is about many things. It's the saga of a peculiar, insular, and enormously wealthy family. It's an exposé of extremely dangerous and widespread corruption in the medical profession. It's about greed -- rampant, predatory, insatiable greed. 

But if there's one thread -- one lesson -- running through every aspect of this book, it is exactly what that sentence states: how the rich and powerful can buy any public institution, and the tragic, criminal consequences of that corruption. Consequences that mostly go unpunished.

Every check on power, every watchdog agency, every hard-won safeguard -- fought for by people's movements and enshrined in law -- can be bought, their goals upended and perverted to the bidding of the ultra-rich.

There are many honest people working in every level of these institutions -- people who are passionate about what they do, who care deeply about justice, people who fully intend to faithfully carry out their duties. Prosecutors, agents, scientists, administrators who value and serve the public good. But all it takes is one former administrator who has been guaranteed a wealthy retirement, one corrupt official placed in a powerful position by the dynasty (more rightly called organized crime) -- one phone call -- and all their work is erased.

Can you imagine working on a case for five years -- five years of painstakingly hunting, tracking, and collecting evidence, five years of investigations and depositions, five years of building a case to demonstrate an irrefutable truth -- and it is all wiped out, by one phone call? 

That was inside the Department of Justice. On the outside, there are the activist families -- families who have endured brutal loss, and who use their pain to fuel a movement demanding change. What despair and frustration they must feel, when their work becomes almost irrelevant.

Families who have lost loved ones to opioid addiction are not very present in Empire of Pain; they are only glimpsed on the sidelines. That's not a criticism. There are many books about the victims of the opioid crisis, but this isn't one of them. This is about how the crisis came to be. 

How the elder Sackler learned his craft -- and made his first fortune -- by marketing "mother's little helper" -- Valium. 

How later Sacklers invented a drug that they knew was highly addictive, then dispatched an army of hardcore salespeople to seduce doctors with dangerous lies. 

How the Sacklers bought FDA approval, and how that falsified approval was used to scaffold ever-increasing dosages in an ever-expanding network of addiction and greed.

How august cultural institutions didn't ask questions as Sackler millions rolled in. 

How, no matter how widespread the wreckage and how profitable, it was never enough. And how the Sacklers refused to take even a shred of responsibility, and tried to publicly frame themselves as victims.

And because they have enormous wealth, they were able to game the system, sailing gently away on their billions. 

Is it any wonder that most people are cynical and apathetic? As a reviewer writes in The New York Times, "Simply put, this book will make your blood boil."

Last year, I wrote about Say Nothing: A True Story of Murder and Memory in Northern Ireland, another extraordinary work of nonfiction by the same author, Patrick Radden Keefe. I read Empire of Pain at the end of 2022 and beginning of 2023. 

Both books are true page-turners. While I'm sure most wmtc readers do not share my enduring fascination (slightly downgraded from a 10 years of obsession) with Ireland and Irish history, Empire of Pain is a book that everyone should read. The implications of this story extend far beyond the evil Sacklers, and into the systems that govern our lives.

a note about subscribing to wmtc by email

This is an note for wmtc readers who subscribe to the blog by email. 

Zoho, the service I am now using to handle the wmtc mailing list, allows three "campaigns" (sends) per month on their free level. This will sometimes be enough for one email per post, but sometimes it will not be. This means that subscribers may receive a "there are new posts" email referring to more than one post from the previous month.

I don't see any way around this. As I've mentioned many times, it seems ludicrous to pay a monthly fee to have my (free, ad-free) blog sent by email. So, please scroll down.

oregon family visit, part 6 and final (portland to port angeles to victoria)

On our way out of Portland, we stopped at the home of R, the well-known baseball writer who Allan had met at Powell's. By sheer coincidence, he had some research materials that he was looking to re-home -- on the exact topic Allan is currently working on! Amazing! This took us to a lovely-looking Portland neighbourhood called St Johns, across the St Johns Bridge. (No apostrophe. Must be related to Grants Pass, Oregon.)

This lawn sign was outside R's home.

When we stopped for gas, coffee, and tea, the counterperson asked me if I would like a free banana. I was like, "Sure, and... what?" 

He said: "When you buy a drink, you get a free banana. Coffee? Free banana. Energy drink? Free banana. Coke? Free banana. Hot chocolate? Free banana." He said about 10 of these. Responding to my surprise, he said, "Free is a taboo word these days." I said it was great to give away a healthy snack -- and it seemed like he had never thought of that (the healthy part).

I went back to the car with my coffee and banana, told Allan about the bananas, so he came out with his tea, banana, and a donut. Poor Allan never got to Voodoo Doughnut, his second favourite place in Portland, so a gas station donut would have to do. That's what happens when you spend your whole day buying books! Technically he could have gone to Voodoo after our dinner at St Jack -- their downtown location is open 24/7 -- but we ate a lot and the thought of donuts was unappealing, even to Allan.

The drive from Portland to Port Angeles is pretty interesting. Passing (what appears to be) giant pillars topped with folk art, which we see when driving for Oregon family visits, I finally looked them up: the Gospodor Monuments. Because this is America, where even driving hazards are praising Jesus.

At roughly Olympia, you leave I-5 for the 101, and wind your way through Olympic National Forest to Port Angeles. It's a beautiful drive, through tiny remote villages, with beautiful views of water and dense forest. I was surprised to learn that the water is Hood Canal. Surprised, because I was looking for a human-made canal, but Hood Canal is clearly a natural body of water, and way too big to be an actual canal. It's a natural waterway -- a large fjord, one of the basins of Puget Sound, and part of the Salish Sea.

On the drive, we passed a hand-made sign for "Weatherin' Heights", a drive-in movie theatre, a giant sculpture of a moose made of car parts, an oyster farm, and the tiny hamlets of Potlatch, Quilcene, Hamma Hamma, Lilliwaup, Skokomish, Blyn, and Agnew, among others. We (finally) ate the delicious leftovers in our cooler, which included sandwiches of prime rib roast, bleu cheese from Rogue Valley Creamery, and albacore bruschetta from Gumba. Those are some serious leftovers!

We arrived in Port Angeles in perfect time to wait for our ferry, cross to Victoria, then wait a very long time to clear customs. You haven't lived until you've been trapped in a car with my partner complaining about having to wait. It's a good thing I like him so much.

The beautiful Coast Victoria had upgraded our room to an even more beautiful king suite with a water view. There was also a personal greeting card and some baked treats waiting for us in the room. The room was (is: I'm there now) so lovely, and all I wanted to do was get in my pajamas and enjoy it. We've been planning to eat sushi in Victoria -- literally talking about it for weeks -- so Allan picked it up and we ate, read, and relaxed in the lovely room.

The upgrade also includes breakfast -- not your typical free hotel breakfast, but a real meal in the Blue Crab -- so we're skipping our usual brunch at Jam Cafe. That would have been unthinkable, but after a week of nonstop eating, we can deal with it. 

Plans for today: driving, shopping in Campbell River, more driving, and... puppies!!!! We can't wait to see Cookie and Kai.

oregon family visit, part 5 (portland)

Our full day in Portland was almost entirely about books and food, with a little shopping-I-can't-do-at-home thrown in. I thought I was going to do a bit of tourism -- the Beverly Cleary Sculpture Garden was calling -- but I ran out of time and energy. As my mother used to say, spending money is exhausting!

We had an excellent breakfast at The Daily Feast (half of mine is waiting for me in the room fridge), then briefly split up. Allan met an acquaintance -- a well-known baseball writer who he has emailed with off and on over the years -- at the Powell's cafe, and I went off to buy shoes. 

Shoe-shopping is an issue for me. The last time I bought shoes for work or for going out was also the last time we were in New York, for Springstreen on Broadway in 2017. I order sneakers (exercise footwear) online, but I haven't been able to find my go-to shoe brand in Canada, and none of the big online shoe retailers ship to Canada. (If readers know otherwise, I'll be very happy to be wrong!)

I had the idea to look for shoes in Portland, and found that the big department store Nordstrom -- which recently made headlines in Canada for closing its Canadian locations -- carry Munro shoes. I reluctantly decided I needed to spend some time in Portland shopping. 

Nordstrom turned out to be very near our hotel, so after breakfast, Allan went off to Powell's and I went to Nordstrom. I got the full-on, personal-attention shoe salesman treatment, which was lovely, and came away with three pairs of shoes. With the exchange rate, the shoes cost as much as our hotel -- but they'll last a lot longer.

I popped back to the room to drop off my loot, and then: to Powell's with my list! Last time we were here (which was our first time in Portland), I somehow ended up without The List. I reconstructed some of it and bought several books, but this time I was prepared. 

I hunted down many titles, all nonfiction. With the exception of a few favourite authors, I get whatever fiction I read from the library, and older fiction I can get through interlibrary loans. I do read some e-books, but again, mostly fiction. My List is chock-full of nonfiction, and finding some of them used is perfect. 

Finding used nonfiction is also a way of winnowing down The List, as I find titles and decide I'm not going to read them. Usually that means the book is too specific -- the topic interests me in a general sense, but the book is on a level of detail beyond my interest. In my personal book-listing universe, this title then gets a strikethrough.

I had fun in Powell's, occasionally running into Allan, and also stopping for a coffee break. Allan and I cashed out together, and took books back to the car -- then Allan, predictably, went back for another round. I can spend a few hours there, but Allan can spend the whole day, and then some. 

I was about to walk back to the hotel when the name of a store intrigued me: Made Here. The store looks like a crafts fair -- tables showcasing the work of all different vendors -- but without the vendors themselves. Everything in the store is made either in Portland, Oregon, or the Pacific Northwest. The space is free to the creators, all items sold on consignment. That is very rare. And I learned that the store is the project of Michael Powell -- the husband of Emily Powell, who own's Powell's City of Books! What an amazing legacy they have created for this city! 

I bought a pair of earrings and had a nice walk back to the hotel. "I bought a pair of earrings" -- another sentence I can paste in to all travel stories, along with "there was a bookstore Allan wanted to check out" and "...while Allan was off buying books".

Eventually Allan managed to leave Powell's in time for our dinner reservations at St. Jack. On a tip from a food writer online, I had booked two seats at the chef's counter, supposedly to watch the goings-on in the open kitchen. French food in a relaxed atmosphere at a counter: that is our kind of place. As it turned out, the counter was not a big deal. The small kitchen was bustling with precision choreography, but we couldn't really see anything. However, it was nice to be away from the main dining room, which seemed very noisy, almost raucous. 

St. Jack was probably the first serious French food we've had since New York, and possibly one dinner in Toronto soon after we moved to Canada. We ordered a variety of small plates. Most were very good; two were a bit strange or perhaps just unexpected. It was certainly the most expensive meal we've had in a long time, but living where we spend so little on food and entertainment, the occasional splurge is no big deal.

oregon family visit, part 4 (ashland to portland)

We stopped briefly at my mom's place in the morning. Allan was interested in some old family photos -- from my mother's childhood, and from family before I was born. (Allan does the genealogy thing. I do not.) We managed to identify everyone: my great-grandparents (who were still alive when I was born, but only briefly), my grandmother's many siblings, all of whom I knew well, and most of whom Allan met and remembers.

Saying goodbye to my mom is always difficult now, although I don't show that until we've left. I'm incredibly lucky that she's alive and well, and I always wonder if this will be the last time I see her. She will be 92 this summer.

We had an easy drive to Portland, stopping for a round of In-N-Out on the way. We're staying at the lovely AC Hotel Portland, part of the Marriott chain. I notice that hotels all do the "housekeeping on demand" thing now. This one doesn't even pretend it's because it's greener. Something to note, folks: housekeeping staff are scheduled and paid as required. Requesting housekeeping daily helps workers and their families survive. And who doesn't enjoy coming back to a hotel room with a freshly-made bed and a spotless washroom? Isn't that half the fun of hotels? You can always hang up your towels to save water and electricity.

Last night we had dinner reservations at a place recommended by one of M&M's friends: Gumba. It's a hip but relaxed space in the Alberta Arts District -- and they started out as a food truck, winning the city-wide Best Food Cart award in 2017, which in this town is really saying something. The dinner was easily the best meal of the trip so far -- and we've eaten well every day. We have a reservation at a different place tonight, but I kind of want to eat at Gumba again. (It was also very reasonable: two small plates and one (shared) large plate, plus two glasses of wine, for less than $90 before tip. That was a nice bonus.)

Today we have the full day in Portland. You know where we're headed first!

oregon family visit, part 3

On Saturday, we had a lazy day at the M&M homestead. The big outing of the day was to Harry & David, the specialty food store, where we all spent too much money and bought too much food. That night, our nephew and grand-niece, now 7 years old, joined us for dinner, prepared by our hosts plus David. (My nephew's partner, Sophia's stepmom, was out of town.) My mom was there, too, of course.

It's always wonderful to spend time with Sophia. I wish I saw her more, but at least we've seen each other enough that she knows me. Sophia is hugely into imaginative play, and she basically led us through make-believe scenarios for the entire evening. 

Today, Sunday, we had brunch at my mother's retirement community. We said hi to several of her friends and met some new folks. One gentleman asked if we were the Canadians, and said he spent time in Canada during the Vietnam War. His brother had gone to jail rather than fight in Vietnam. We exchanged some thoughts on war, peace, profit, and loss. I love to be around people who will proudly tell you they were a draft resister.

Another woman, wearing a beautiful Celtic pendant and a red tuque that matched her red lipstick, told us about losing her home in the 2020 fire. She found a new place in this community for herself and her cats, Mr. Max and Mr. James Bond.

After a brief afternoon rest, we all had an early dinner at La Bricolla, my sister-in-law's current favourite local restaurant. Highly recommended if you're in Ashland. At night, we played a round of Qwirkle with M&M... and so concludes the family portion of the trip.

As I always say, I'm so grateful that I now love to spend time with family. I didn't always have that in my life, and I value it very highly now. I'm super lucky.

oregon family visit 2023, part 2

The lovely little town of Phoenix, Oregon -- down the road from M&M's house -- was completely destroyed in a wildfire in September 2020. One business that rebuilt is Puck's Donuts. 

While I was getting a mani-pedi -- something I always do when traveling now -- Allan and Marty picked up donuts and spent some time in a used bookstore -- something Allan always does when traveling now.

In the new Puck's there are photos of the old store during and after the fire.

Later in the day we drove north to Grants Pass and visited the farm of Rogue Creamery, a local cheese business. We tried several delicious varieties of bleu cheese, which all tasted radically different; some I would not even have identified as bleu. 

We saw around 200 cows chowing down on fresh organic hay, and one coming in for voluntary milking by a robot. 

The cows are all RFID-tagged, so if the cow is choosing to be milked only to get more treats (which are given with every milking), they can't access the milking room. But if it's been a while and she's full of milk, she can walk in to the stall and get relieved of her bounty. It was pretty interesting, and it certainly looks like the cows have a nice life. 

On the way back, we stopped at another used bookstore. Among the usual paperbacks and whatnot, there were a large number of right-wing titles. There were a few progressive books, too, but I was taken aback to see this on the wall. 

Let me assure you that this is not directional signposting. There were no "left wing" books down the step. The books on display closest to the entrance were all about Hitler and the Third Reich.

On the drive to the farm and back, we passed two Confederate flags, a "Nobody Cares, Work Harder" bumpersticker, a huge wood COVID HOAX sign and more than one LET'S GO BRANDON. Given all this, it's obvious that sign was intentional. Of course Oregon is home to Portland, organic food co-ops, and all kinds of tolerance. But Oregon is also famous for militias and other wingnuttery.

In the evening, we met some of M&M's dear friends for drinks, and got a tip about a restaurant in Portland. My brother picked up our mom, and my nephew who lives nearby joined us, and we had a terrific bistro-style dinner at Bar Julliet. 

More food and more family to follow. 

oregon family visit 2023, part 1 (port hardy to port angeles to ashland)

Allan and I are in southern Oregon for a family visit. Last year I visited on my own, and Allan stayed home with the pups. Right now we have reliable dog care, but it's a temporary situation, so I figured we should jump on the opportunity while we could. 

We drove here, a lovely two-day road trip. Day one is Port Hardy to Victoria, then a ferry from Victoria to Port Angeles, Washington. We stayed over in Port Angeles, had a good diner dinner and breakfast, then drove on Highway 101, winding through portions of Olympic National Forest. It was a beautiful drive, through dense forest and tiny hamlets and many Indigenous territories.

At the Twin Totems Convenience in Skokomish, we found a treasure trove of retro candy and snacks, a walk down memory lane -- Good & Plenty, Mike and Ike, Pop Rocks, Hostess Cupcakes, Milk Duds, Watchamacallits, and etc. (These are things I mostly know from summer camp, as I was not allowed to eat candy!) They also carry every new variation on the current candies, like dark chocolate and mint Kit Kats and fudge brownie M&Ms. (Who knew?) Allan was thrilled to finally find the mythical Zero Bar of his youth. We completely OD'd on sugar and I'm pretty sure we'll be doing the same on the way back.

From the 101, we picked up I-5 and drove the rest of the way through southern Washington State, then Oregon. North of Grants Pass, Allan suddenly yelled, "Oh My God!," scaring the daylights out of me. A while back, we had stopped at a rest stop to use the washroom and stretch our legs, then forgot to make a second stop for gas. The gas guage was on E and blinking. We had never seen that before! 

We pulled off at an exit, and while Allan went to ask at an old motel, I checked Google Maps for the nearest gas station. We got conflicting answers, and I decided to trust Google over some rando. We drove very slowly, with our hazard lights on, to the tiny village of Myrtle Creek, where we were very relieved and happy to fill the tank. Crisis averted, potential nightmare turns into funny story.

When we made it to the Medford area, we met M&M, my brother and sister-in-law, for really good thin-crust pizza at Clyde's Corner, in the little town of Phoenix, then crashed early. 

The following day, we went to my mom's place, hanging out there and taking her for lunch at Brother's, my favourite Ashland restaurant. A wonderful surprise: she's doing better than I thought. My mom is 91 and has some dementia, but it seems much worse on our weekly phone calls than it does in person. Thanks to the constant, loving assistance from M&M, Connie able to live on her own and has a very good quality of life. 

That night we had dinner at Charm Thai Kitchen, also in the town of Phoenix. It's a tiny little unassuming place in a strip mall, and the food was great. Thai food is on the long list of foods we don't have in northern Vancouver Island, so this was truly a treat.

You may notice that my travel blogs are packed with names of restaurants. Eating well -- and diversely -- is very important to us these days. I love living in a small town and a remote region, but when we travel, we really want to eat!

things i heard at the library: an occasional series: # 38

I was covering the desk while staff was on break. A customer asked where he could find books on sex.

I asked whether this was for a young person or an adult. He said an adult.

I asked if was he looking for anything specific, such as safer sex, sexual health...?

He said he was looking for instructions and explanations. Basic information on what happens during sex.

I took his library card and put several books on hold. Most of the titles are aimed at young adults, but I think they will be appropriate for his needs.

The customer wasn't clear on the holds process, so I explained how he will be notified when the holds come in, where he'll find them, how he can check them out. 

He thanked me and was on his way.

I was impressed that this dude came to the library and was able to ask for help. Of course no one should be embarrassed about wanting books about sex, but many people would be, especially in a small community where anonymity is almost impossible.

I was also extremely glad I happened to be at the desk, rather than any of the frontline staff. I think they would have been all right, but I was able to give the customer privacy and to assess the titles quickly and likely more accurately. 

I don't do a lot of direct customer service anymore, but when I do, I get a great buzz.

things i heard at the library: an occasional series: # 37

I have an update on R, the customer who was the subject of the previous two TIHATL posts: #35, a customer who refuses to be helped, and #36, a customer who needs so much more than a library can provide. As a friend said on Facebook, librarians, like teachers, are left to deal with the results of failed social and economic policies.

Staff and I were all worried about R. The December holiday season was days away, which meant social services and health care would be more difficult to access. Many people living marginal existences die during that time of year. 

I visited an agency in town, one that serves as an umbrella organization for many services. They were very sympathetic and supportive, and directed me to the general mental health services for our region.

The mental health worker gave me two important suggestions. 

One, I learned that the local mental health centre has a two-hour drop-in time every day. They said the slots fill up quickly, so folks are advised to get there early. I confirmed the (unmarked) location and noted the times. 

Two, I learned that we can call the RCMP (i.e. the local police) and request an assessment. They will escort the person to the hospital, and speak to hospital staff to ensure that an appropriate assessment is done.

I don't know why I wasn't already aware of these options, but I was happy to add these new tools to my toolkit. My staff were so relieved, they were in tears. We agreed that one of us would walk R to mental health services (it's very nearby) and we would explain about the RCMP call.

I also learned that a doctor's prescription is required for the hospital or another agency to provide free adult diapers. One of our staff happened to have some that were purchased for a relative, but the wrong size, and they were happy to donate them. We put the package in a plain brown bag and determined that we would give it to R the next time we saw him.

Then we didn't see R again. 

Days and then weeks passed, and he didn't come in. We speculated that the workers in the Salvation Army, who runs the overnight shelter, connected R with help. But we couldn't know, and we couldn't ask (confidentiality). So we kept an eye out for him, and we worried.

Then, in mid-February, R appeared. He was clean, clean-shaven, and had gained some weight. He told us he had spent a month in the hospital in the neighbouring town. One of our staff discreetly gave him the brown bag containing the adult diapers and he was grateful and appreciative. 

Another customer brought in a warm winter jacket that he found in the thrift shop to give to R. 

R is still without housing. He still lacks a hearing aid. He is still frustrated and upset by technology. But he's alive. He's eating, he's bathing, he has medication. He says hello to us, and to other people he knows who are also in the library. I think he has hope.

what i'm reading: shuggie bain, brilliant and devastating fiction by douglas stuart

Any novel that wins the Booker Prize will be worth reading. Not all literary prizes reflect quality, but the Booker Prize carries a lot of weight. So when a debut novel wins a Booker, that is a singular achievement.

Shuggie Bain, by Douglas Stuart, was the recipient of the 2020 Booker Prize, and it is indeed a stunning debut. It's a devastating story of addiction and love, with characters and stories that will haunt you long after you turn the final page.

Shuggie Bain is the story of a boy who is bullied for being prissy and effeminate, and his mother, who is an alcoholic. It's about what extreme addiction, and the poverty that comes with it, does to a family. Above all, it's about the fierce, protective love of a child for their parent, a child trying to keep his own world afloat, to somehow love but still survive.

While I was devouring this book -- I couldn't put it down -- I kept thinking: this is Roddy Doyle meets Irvine Welsh. I mean that in the best possible way.

Stuart shares Doyle's razor-sharp understanding of human motivation, and his unerring eye for the details that bring the reader right inside the characters. His writing is cinematic and richly detailed, but never bogged down. The language, the pacing, and the tone all remind me of Roddy Doyle, who (as longtime wmtc readers may remember) is one of my very favourite authors.

But Doyle has never been this dark. An honest, unflinching look at addiction in the depths of the Glasgow underclass must owe a debt to Irvine Welsh. Welsh brought you fully and utterly into the world of the heroin addict, and Stuart does the same for the world of an advanced alcoholic.

I'm grateful that Stuart didn't adopt Welsh's vernacular style. I understand why Welsh and his cohorts wrote in their own dialect, but it made for difficult reading. Stuart uses some Glaswegian working-class slang without explanation, but it's easy enough to pick up the meaning through context.

In 2022, Stuart published Young Mungo, which follows a gay teen coming of age on the tough streets of Glasgow. I will definitely read it.

When Shuggie Bain was published, Stuart gave many interviews in which he disavowed the autobiographical nature of these novels. Later on, he embraced the truth that they are largely based on his own young life. I'm grateful he survived to tell the story. This interview in The Guardian is particularly good.

new email list manager: apologies if you receive duplicates as i switch from mailchimp to zoho

Mailchimp recently announced that it is changing its free plan, reducing the number of contacts and sends that can be managed for free. Because of this, wmtc will no longer qualify for the free level.

As I said when I switched to Mailchimp two years ago:

I also don't want to pay for a service. I have many paid subscriptions; I don't expect to get everything for free. But since I do not (and never will) have ads on this blog, it doesn't generate income. I write for free and you read for free. All good. But I'm not going to pay so that people can read a free blog!

I did some research in my usual scattershot manner, and found Zoho. Zoho's free level can accommodate wmtc's subscriber list and has a good reputation for reliability.

It's possible that there may be some duplicate emails, as I end the Mailchimp sends and set up Zoho. Apologies in advance.

Pro tip: Forbes' listicles are proving to be very useful. I've used them for several things lately and they've been very good.

"you guys" revisited: further thoughts on the language police

If you know, you know.

In October 2020, I wrote a post about the expression you guys, and whether or not using guys as a gender-neutral term excludes transgender people:  "you guys": change language, do no harm, but can we please leave space for learning and growing?

In that post, I concluded that, although I didn't understand or agree with this language prohibition, being inclusive and sensitive to other people was more important than whether or not I agreed with the view. 

Now, more than two years later, I have a different take. I've returned to my first reaction: this is too much. This is not necessary. There is no need for this.

However, in some contexts, I continue to subsitute folks (which I hate) for guys. But not because I believe it's the right thing to do.

I see no uptake

In the time since I wrote that post, I've been listening carefully to language on series and movies I watch, in public settings, on social media -- everywhere that I can. I have observed that an overwhelming majority of people use you guys as gender-neutral and inclusive. 

In fact, everyone I've heard uses you guys this way -- except my work colleagues, who purposely do not use the word. This "everyone" most definitely includes LGBTQ+ people. People of all colours and from all communities use you guys to refer to groups of people of mixed genders.

The claim that you guys refers only to men just doesn't track. Of course the words guy or guys does refer to men in some contexts. But our understanding of language is always context dependent. We understand that we bake with flour and give a flower, even though to our ears, the words are identical. We know that we can book an appointment, read a book, or cook the books. That I can chair a meeting and sit on a chair. I could give hundreds of examples. We use identical and identical-sounding words with different meanings all the time. 

People also claim that you guys excludes transgender people, but I see no appreciable uptake of this concept, including from trans people that I know. Since you guys is gender neutral, there's no reason to assume it excludes people who are gender-queer, nonbinary, or expressing any manner of gender identity. Neutral is neutral. 

Some of my peers have said that they find the word age-inappropriate, for example, a server in a restaurant calling two older women you guys. I don't share this view, and I don't know why we would want more people to make judgements based on age. There's enough ageism in this world without asking for more. But the people who shared this preference with me do not hear you guys as sexist -- and most importantly, they are not asking others not to use the expression.

But here's the catch

However, in a work setting, I don't use you guys -- because it would be considered old and outdated language. Using you guys would signal that I am either ignorant, stubborn, or worse, transphobic. So I've taught myself not to use you guys. All this means is that I've capitulated to the language police. I haven't changed my view. I've merely conformed. 

I have found articles dating as far back as 2015 that argue for dropping you guys because it is sexist or excluding. These stories usually quote a transgender person saying they feel the expression excludes them. Since this idea hasn't gotten any appreciable uptake in eight years, I'm wondering how the writer got that quote -- how many people they went through before they found someone to confirm their view.

Someone somewhere is always offended by something. But who speaks for others? Whose point of view represents a population or a community? 

And is there no limit on the policing of language? Must we all follow every new rule with equal fervor, as if every language choice carries the same import? As if you guys is the N-word? Because here's the thing. If there is no limit, there is only blind adherence. There is no critical thinking. There is just this: a self-appointed arbiter of our language speaks, and everyone must follow. 

If there is no limit, there is only blind loyalty

In the past few months, I've had some in-depth conversations with two very close friends. We are all the same age (within two years), are all progressive, and all believe strongly in inclusion. We are all white, two of us are Jewish, and we are not all heterosexual. We have all, at times, been on the receiving end of sexism, homophobia, anti-Semitism, and/or ageism. And we all recognize our privilege in all its forms.

We also recognize the importance of inclusive language, and of using the term for a group or a peoples that does not cause offense. We are not people who insist on using outdated and offensive terms. We are people who understand the importance of language.

All three of us are at times frustrated or horrified by the use of language policing as a weapon, and have the persistent sense that language policing can go too far. 

I'm a big fan of linguist John McWhorter and his views on language. I've enjoyed several of his books (reviews here and here), and read his New York Times column sporadically (the way I read all columnists that I like). I don't agree with all of McWhorter's politics, and that shouldn't contradict or undermine anything I'm writing here. Also, McWhorter is Black.

I always appreciate McWhorter's nuanced view. Here's an example: 'BIPOC' Is Jargon. That's OK, and Normal People Don't Have to Say It. He's not saying the expression BIPOC is silly, nor is he saying we shouldn't use it, if it fits within our context. He explains why the word also can be seen as problematic, and believes that using it should not be a requirement. He cites Latinx as a similar expression.

Punishments are supposed to fit crimes

Last year, McWhorter wrote an excellent column about the over-reaction of the language police: One Graceless Tweet Does Not Warrant Cancellation. He wrote about a (formerly distinguished) professor of psychiatry who tweeted something he meant as a compliment but in fact was a racist remark. The professor apologized without reservation, and demonstrated that he learned from the experience. Even so, his livelihood was destroyed and his career was ruined.

McWhorter writes:

But must Lieberman's career be destroyed because of a tweet that pretty clearly reflects an ignorance of that history but that was, also, clearly well intended? We're often told in such cases that what matters is not the intent of the perpetrator but the impact on the recipient of the message. But impact has degrees, and we have to consider whether some are claiming vaster impact in certain cases than plausibility would suggest. Because we've reached the point that there's no room left to respond to Lieberman with nuance and prudence. To say: "We know you meant it as a compliment, but you should know that there are offensive connotations to using that word in reference to Black women, and an apology is owed." And then — crucially — to accept a sincere and full-throated apology when it is given, as it was here.

For someone to instead, almost instantly, be suspended from one job, dismissed from another and resign from a third because of such a thing is a disproportion of punishment to crime. It is extreme and unnecessary and ultimately lacks reason. There's something amiss if we're now at the point that someone's career is to be permanently tarnished and perhaps ended based on a passing error, which started as a misguided attempt at praise and which has been profusely apologized for. We must assess what the actual purpose of this kind of language policing is. We must ask: What, in terms of combating racism, is accomplished? Will it result in better and more available psychiatric care — or medical care in general — for Black people? Will it make Columbia University, where I am a faculty member, a more open-minded place?

The question that I always get back to is: what purpose does this serve? Are we trying to educate? Are we trying to not cause offense? Or are we just trying to win? To assert power. To punish.

If the goal is education, I suggest that punitive education is never effective. Children who are punished for using "bad" language learn not to use it front of parents and teachers.

If we are seeking to punish, the punishment should fit the crime. 

Are we seeking redress for past crimes, perpetrated by a group to which this person belongs? Meaning: this professor is a white man, and white men have historically harmed Black women, so this white man must be severely punished for this ill-advised tweet? 

This is called scapegoating, and it is always wrong.

Too much policing tends to backfire

For many of us, there is cultural pressure to buy whatever the language police are selling. I will never forget the disgusted expressions directed at me when I mistakenly said "Bradley Manning," very shortly after the war resister changed their name to Chelsea. I had been saying "Bradley Manning" for years -- and although I knew Manning had come out as trans, my speech patterns hadn't fully caught up. 

When people are fired based on one remark, even after they have sincerely and profusely apologized, the right-wingers -- who howl about being cancelled (while broadcasting to an audience of millions), who claim to be persecuted (while stripping rights from those who disagree with them), who persecute a minority people simply for living their lives -- are strengthened. The unyielding and indiscriminate use of language policing only stregthens their cause.

It pains me when progressives mirror the right-wing. When we figurately kill everyone who doesn't speak the way we believe they should, we are behaving like the ignorant bigots do. It doesn't matter how pure our motives are.

rip russell banks: a belated tribute

I was very sorry to hear that Russell Banks, one of my favourite contemporary writers, died on January 7 of this year. 

There's a very short list of authors that are must-reads for me; I'll read anything they publish. Banks was on that list. 

Banks wrote about very ordinary people, always working-class, often marginalized and powerless. Although his egalitarian worldview was always obvious to me, he never used his characters as billboards or soapboxes. This excerpt from Banks' obituary in The New York Times is very apt.

In much of Mr. Banks’s writing, his concerns about race, class and power repeatedly surfaced, with particular attention given to the powerless and the overlooked, especially his outwardly unremarkable blue-collar characters.

“There’s an important tradition in American writing, going back to Mark Twain and forward to Raymond Carver and Grace Paley, whose work is generated by love of people who are scorned and derided,” Mr. Banks told The Guardian in 2000. “I have an almost simple-minded affection for them. My readers are not the same as my characters, as I’m very aware. So I’m glad when they feel that affection too.”

I was turned on to Russell Banks by one of my nephews, back in the 1990s: he told me about Rule of the Bone, Banks' take on the classic theme of a personal struggle between two father figures. I loved the authentic voice of the teenage narrator, and the pointed echoes to the ultimate alternative-father story, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. I read Rule of the Bone decades ago and can still recall scenes and images from it.

Banks' masterpiece is Cloudsplitter, his massive and powerful novel about the radical abolitionist John Brown. This book, along with the PBS "American Experience" documentary, in which Banks was featured, gave me an enduring fascination with Brown. (I was always sorry that I didn't know about the John Brown historic site, all the many times we drove upstate New York and to Vermont.) 

I also loved these books by Banks: Continental Drift (1985), Affliction (1989), and especially Lost Memory of Skin (2011). I haven't read all of Banks' novels, and haven't read any of his nonfiction, but I think I will eventually fill in the gaps. I'm sorry we won't have anything new from Banks. I hope he knew how much his readers loved him.

something new: labour book club

Through my union, I've started a labour book club. This is something I've wanted to do for years, and now it's gotten off the ground. I'm very pleased! 

Everything requires persistence, even quitting

I first thought of doing this pre-covid, and imagined that I might gather members of my union in my own area. Not members of my bargaining unit, who are all librarians -- and I'm the only member of the unit in my region -- but BCGEU members in any field.

I asked my bargaining unit chair how I might go about this, and she recommended suggesting to a committee that plans events for all the different locals representing workers in different industries. 

Then came covid, and suddenly we were all seeing other all the time on Zoom and Teams. I realized this made the labour book club idea much more attractive and much easier: offer it to everyone, and host it on Zoom.

The next time I asked about it, I learned that I would need to be on this committee. (I'll call it ccc.) And in order to be on ccc, I needed to be on my local executive. So I was elected Member At Large for the local, and became the local's representative on ccc.

Then, when I attended my first ccc meeting, I somehow let myself get elected chair! This was a big mistake. Not only was chairing ccc way more work than I wanted, but now I wouldn't have time for the book club -- the reason I did all this in the first place!

What followed was a lot of maneuvering and apologizing, some very supportive union people, some selfish and unsupportive union people, a few knots to untie, and several hoops to jump through. And now... ta-da! Someone else is chairing ccc and I am leading the book club. Yay!

But will anyone attend?

When I brought this idea to ccc, there was a very enthusiastic response. But still, you never know if an idea will actually work. A notice went out to all BCGEU members in our official area, which is all of Vancouver Island north of Victoria. I truly had no idea if anyone would sign up. I was hoping for five or six people.

To my astonishment, 21 people signed up, and 14 people attended the first meeting!

We've had our first meeting -- just informational, to meet and talk about how things will work. Members ranged from avid readers with a lot of book club experience, to one member who would like to start reading and thought this might be a path towards her new goal. A few librarians from my local joined, including two currently on maternity leave, but the majority were from other fields.

What we're reading

I have only two guidelines for this book club:

• Fiction only, which most people find more more accessible
• No pressure!

Our first title is The Cold Millions, by Jess Walter, which I wrote about here. 

Other potential titles include:

In Dubious Battle, John Steinbeck

For the Win, Cory Doctorow

In the Skin of a Lion, Michael Ondaatje

The Last Ballad, Wiley Cash

Sometimes a Great Notion, Ken Kesey

Gilded Mountain, Kate Manning

Work Song, Ivan Doig

Storming Heaven, Denise Giardina

Sea Glass, Anita Shreve

Damnation Spring, Ash Davidson

Know any other appropriate titles? Leave them in comments! 

Will people enjoy this? Will they continue to attend? We shall see!