in which i finally visit the seattle central library and am completely blown away

I mentioned here that I had two great opportunities, back to back, one for work and one for my union. The work trip was a Reconciliation Retreat.

For the BCGEU, I applied for and was selected to attend the Pacific Northwest Labor History Association's annual conference. (I was one of two BCGEU members who attended.) It was a fantastic conference. I plan to write a lot about it, but cannot do that just yet. 

Instead, I will pick some low-hanging fruit from the trip to capture here. One of those is the Seattle Central Library.

* * * * 

In Seattle, I met up with a longtime wmtc reader, the first time we had met in person. J is a kindred spirit, and he guided us on a very bookish tour of Seattle. We saw a beautiful Carnegie library, a university library that looks like a cathedral, and Ada's, an indie bookstore for techies, with an amazing cafe and just an awesome vibe. And possibly some other beauties that I may be forgetting. 

Seattle booklovers recently enjoyed this independent bookstore bingo.

This was all very good. And it was lovely to see some of Seattle, with all its cafes and food and skyline and water. 

But the Seattle Central Library is next-level. Library nirvana. 

Previous to this trip, I had been to Seattle twice -- once in 1996 on our way to Alaska (including a ballgame at the hideous old Kingdome), and again on a west-coast baseball trip in 2002, at what was then called Safeco Field. The mammoth Central Library, designed to much fanfare by Rem Koolhaas, opened in 2004. (When it comes to ballpark competition, no city will ever top Seattle for Most Improved.) 

Even though we're now on the west coast, Seattle hasn't yet figured into any of our travel plans. Plus I'm now a bit obsessed with Portland and plan to go whenever we can. But I will have to go back to Seattle to spend more time in this crazy wonderful library.

J said I was like a kid in a candy store. Perhaps a kid whose been deprived of sugar and all the candy is free. 

First of all, it's huge. Eleven stories, 363,000 square feet of space, and a gazillion windows. (Actually 10,000 windows.) 

And it has everything. 

The best dedicated youth space I have ever seen. 

A Children's Center that is separate, off to the side, so kids can make noise and be sheltered from adults. I was stunned by the size of both the space and the collection. All five of my library branches could fit in this Children's Center. 

Massive amounts of public space for reading, studying, relaxing, working. 

338 public computers. 338 public computers, yo!

An extensive research collection focusing on Seattle and the PNW. 

Information booklets so beautifully designed that every public library should learn from them.

So much natural light, and views, views, views. 

Just... so much. 

Many people hate the building's design and shape, but I really like it. The colour schemes are weird, and I don't understand The Red Floor at all, but I appreciate the boldness. It is anything but bland. 

If you're unfamiliar with the design, here's an image search. And another of the big, yellow escalator that was featured in every story when the library opened. 

I had a couple of very brief exchanges with some library workers. 

At the reference desk:

Me: "Is this a good place to work?"

They: "Uuuuyyyyeah... ummm... like any place, it has its pros and cons."

Me: "Are you union?"

They: "Yes, are you?"

Me: "Yes, I am."

They: "I think it's important."

Me: "Me, too."

In the Children's Centre, the librarian was practically glowing, a woman very obviously in love with her job. 

I took only a few pictures, and only with my cell phone. The pics are nothing special, but I had to have them.

Part of the teen space.

The sign shown in the photo above.

Dewey numbers on the Book Spiral

Here are a few other cell-phone pics from the rest of our day. 

The Suzzallo and Allen Libraries at the University of Washington, which locals call You-Dub.

The cafe at Ada's, with a great mobile and the beautiful logo. The full name of the store is Ada's Technical Books & Cafe -- named for Ada Lovelace, of course.

Sign at Ada's Cafe

"We filter coffee, not people."

the canoe family: reconciliation retreat

I'm in the middle of two amazing opportunities, one through my work, and one through my union. The work thing is complex -- and important.  

Decolonizing the library: walking in two worlds

Circle of Life, Trevor Hunt

I am part of a small team that is creating a framework of Reconciliation -- decolonizing our library system, and all the people who comprise it, from the Board and the executive management to the frontline workers and all the supporting departments. 

In 2019, BC became the first province to put the UN Declaration of the Rights of Indigenous People (UNDRIP) into law, with the Declaration of the Rights of Indigenous Peoples Act (DRIPA). We are very fortunate that the new leadership of our library system (more about that in the future) cares deeply about this responsibility, and is making it a priority. 

The journey of decolonizing

All the institutions that make up our modern North American world are the products of colonialism. 

Every institution -- educational, cultural, financial, judicial -- is built on colonial foundations, and work with colonial practices. In Canada these practices were, for a long time, hidden under myths of peacekeeping and multiculturalism. Canada appeared to be a benign and peace-loving nation, especially when compared with its blood-stained, racist neighbour to the south.

Now Canadians know better (or at least they should). When the truth about the so-called Residential Schools (i.e. concentration camps) came to light, those myths were stripped away. The brutality that was revealed was wholly at odds with Canadians' image of their country. 

The profound and sustained response by vast numbers of Canadians gives me hope. Now it falls to us to understand how colonization has harmed Indigenous peoples, and how systems continue to harm all of us. 

I say "all of us" because (as I've written about in many different contexts) exclusion and inequality harms both sides, the oppressor as well as the oppressed. Never to the same extent, of course. But a divided world benefits only the ruling class, and even that, not very well. 

When we begin to see the our world through a decolonizing lens -- when we make the structures visible -- we can gradually begin to remake them. And, whenever possible, we can intentionally embed Indigenous worldviews and ways of knowing into our systems.

This work will always be imperfect and always incomplete, but we cannot use that as an excuse for inaction. 

Our guides in this journey speak about “walking in two worlds". That describes the ultimate goal: to think, reflect, and incorporate Indigenous ways of being and knowing into our present systems.

That’s a lot of words, and if you don’t know what it means, you have a lot of company. Not so long ago, I didn’t know what it meant, either. Understanding has come to me gradually, over years, as I read, watch, listen, and explore. This week my understanding made a big leap forward.

Decolonizing our library

I have the amazing good fortune to be part of a team whose purpose is to guide the Vancouver Island Regional Library on this journey. Each person on the team lives and works in a different geographic region of the VIRL service area, which is associated with one or more Indigenous Nations, usually several Nations that make up a language group or family group. 

I should emphasize that hundreds of VIRL staff care deeply about Reconciliation. This team is just a fortunate few who are geographically diverse, passionate about this work, and were invited to participate.

VIRL has hired a consulting team to help guide the journey: Toro Marketing. Toro are two women with deep connections with several Indigenous communities, and a lot of experience in this work.

After a series of online meetings, it was decided that our team would meet in person to create the Reconciliation framework. When I confessed to another librarian on the team that I really had no idea what that meant – what we were actually going to do – I learned I was not the only one.

Going into this retreat, all we knew was: we are excited about this work; we believe in its importance; we are approaching it with openness, curiosity, and honesty. For me this means checking my cynicism and pessimism. I can acknowledge that sometimes I have those feelings, but I will consciously put them aside, and approach the work with optimism and hope.

The Wildwood retreat: day one

The retreat was held in an incredibly beautiful natural setting, in the Wildwood Ecoforest, outside the town of Ladysmith. We were guests of both Toro and members of the Stz’uminus and Snuneymuxw Coast Salish First Nations, including a hereditary chief.

On the first day, we sat on seats and benches around a fire, and mostly listened and observed. There was beautiful singing, and drumming, and stories – both individual stories of trauma and recovery, and discovering and claiming identity, and also sacred stories. Some of the people around the fire were related by blood and birth, others were people invited into the Nation -- adopted, so to speak.

While we listened, one young man was preparing salmon to be cooked in the traditional way on the fire. (My photos from another, similar salmon meal are here.)

Many of the stories were intensely moving. Many were fascinating and felt like a privileged glimpse into another world. 

The First Nations people among us all expressed thankfulness and gratitude towards us. It was a bit overwhelming. We all enjoy such privilege, and the original inhabitants of this land have lived through a genocide. Yet they are thanking us! I felt wholly undeserving of this; we all did. But it was clear that their thanks and respect were completely genuine. 

We enjoyed a lovely simple luncheon that some community members made, and we spent some time walking the beautiful land. 

Land-based learning. Life is a circle.

Indigenous ways of knowing and learning are always connected to the land. "The land" is what we non-Indigenous people call "nature". 

Indigenous beliefs teach that the land is alive – from the tops of the mountains to the bottom of the sea -- and that all life is interconnected. And if we can quiet our minds and approach the land with respect and openness, we will learn. Conversely, it is believed that many (or even most) of the world's problems derive for disconnection with the land, and from living wholly disconnected from the Earth.

(I’m saying this very poorly. My understanding of this grows all the time, but not to the extent that I can easily explain it.)

There are hundreds, thousands of Indigenous nations, each with its own language, traditions, culture, and histories. Yet there are some commonalities among all Indigenous cultures of the Americas, and throughout the world. One such commonality is a worldview of connectedness -- a respect for all beings (including things we may not regard as beings, such as rocks, water, air, and mountains), and the belief that all beings are connected with each other, and all are sacred. 

Indigenous belief systems see humans' place on the land (in nature) differently than western and Judeo-Christian culture. Living creatures are not divided into a hierarchy, with humans on top. Humans are not superior, and do not have “dominion over” other life. Rather, life is a circle, or a web. All are connected, all our related. This worldview is found in every known current and past Indigenous culture.

Brushing ceremony

Towards the end of the day, we participated in a Coast Salish brushing ceremony. 

Every Indigenous nation has some type of cleansing ritual (some of which have been appropriated into New Age and other spiritual practices). Many people are familiar with smudging, which may involve the ritual burning of sage or sweetgrass. 

Stz’uminus and Snuneymuxw people perform brushing, using the tree that is central to their lives -- the cedar.

People sang, drummed, and chanted, as each of us took a turn standing and having our bodies, head to toe, brushed with cedar fronds. It was very intense, and also very calming and relaxing, at the same time. You can see videos of some cedar brushing ceremonies here. 

This first day, we just listened. We did introduce ourselves and shared briefly where we live and work, and a bit about our motivations for this work. But mostly we listened.

The library people all stayed in a hotel in Nanaimo, and were shuttled back and forth by a local person with a transportation business -- Janie's Got a Bus. At the close of the day, we walked back through the woods, met our shuttle, and went to our hotel, exhausted.

The Wildwood retreat: day two

The following day we spent working in the lodge. 

The lodge is one of those gorgeous buildings that I think of as "rustic elegance," all hewn wood and stone, huge windows overlooking the forest and river, natural light pouring in.  

We sat in a circle -- the executive director, librarians, managers, and a library assistant -- and the consultants guided us through a process of creating a framework. 

Here is one of the tools we used. This was created by Laura Tait, an Indigenous educator, for use in schools. We are adapting it to the library system.

Many questions, some answers, and a very, very long timeline

There were many decisions to be made and points to be discussed. 

Where are we individually, and where is the organization as a whole? Do we assess those at the same time on two parallel courses, or do we assess each separately? How and when do we bring along all the other employees of the organization? How can we incorporate decolonization into every facet of the organization – into finance, purchasing, hiring practices, facilities maintenance? What would true decolonization of public services look like?

How do we support people who are just beginning their journey -- and how do we approach people who want no part in this? What resources do we need to continue our journeys? 

Many questions, much discussion. Some consensus, some open questions. 

One thing we keep coming back to is approaching this work itself from a decolonizing lens, a meta discussion if you will. In our library work -- in most work in the so-called western world -- there are agendas, checklists, deadlines. We check off a task and move on to the next. Decolonizing means putting all that aside. Reconciliation is not a checklist to be conquered. It is ongoing work, work that never really ends. This work is all process. All journey. Never finished. 

It helps me to think of decolonizing the way I think about being a writer, or being a librarian, or trying to be a better version of myself. That work is never complete. It is always becoming. And the work is not linear. It doesn't happen in clearly defined steps. It often develops in ways we cannot anticipate.

So when we look at that rubric, above, we are likely in many places on that grid at the same time. And we'll each move through the grid at different paces and in different ways. But one thing we know: this work is not optional. This will be mandatory work for every library employee.

In the lodge, we had another simple and abundant lunch, and continued in the afternoon, deciding our next steps. Another walk through the woods to the shuttle, then dinner and drinks at a local pub. Then back to our hotel rooms.

The Wildwood retreat: day three and final

The third and final day, our two guides and the elder came to the hotel. 

We shared breakfast and a benediction, and we listened to more beautiful stories. Again, the Indigenous elder thanked us, telling us that working with us has helped him be in touch with his best self, and expressed gratitude for our journeys. All three spoke of this work as being grounded in love.

We took turns expressing our thanks and gratitude in return. We were all very emotional.

Two notes of interest

One of our guides said, "You will hear a word, one that is likely to make you uncomfortable. It’s a word we keep out of our schools and libraries: prayer. Here, we use the word prayer because it’s the closest word we can find for a concept that has no English word. These prayers have nothing to do with religion. This is absolutely not a religion. This is a way of seeing and knowing about life and all living things."

Again, I cannot do this justice. All I can say is that I am a hardcore atheist, but I am comfortable acknowledging and accepting the worldview I am being shown. It actually fits very nicely with my own belief systems. 

Then there is the name of our group. I have been calling us the Reconciliation Team. I like the word team, and use it often in both work and union. But I was the only one who liked the word!

Our three guides said we are family. 

Later, at the pub, I said, "I'm going out on a limb here, but am I the only one who is not comfortable calling us family?" And I was! The only one!

Someone went into an explanation of a broader concept of family. Well, yeah. I'm no stranger to that. But this group is not family in any sense. We have much respect and admiration and affection for each other. But family? To me that feels forced.

Others said that as we do this work together, we will become family. I'm not even sure about that. But I won't belabor the point. 

On our last day, during the closing ceremonies, someone in our group thought of our name: the VIRL Canoe Family. All VIRL branches are on or near water. All coastal Indigenous people use canoes. We are on a journey. It's brilliant. 

Pronunciation guide: First Voices

One last note here. If you are interested in learning how to pronounce words of a specific Indigenous language, YouTube and the internet in general are terrible. Often someone (maybe a bot) is just reading the word phonetically. 

Some of the sounds are very difficult for English speakers to learn. Others are fairly straightforward. But sounding out the word phonetically will not help.

The best resource for correct pronunciations is the First Voices Language Archives. The site links to 75 different language websites. If you're interested in learning, a good place to start is with a greeting, or a word of thanks and appreciation. Often one word will be used for all three. One of the first things I learned at the Port Hardy Library was Gilakas'la.

155,000 striking federal workers deserve our support -- and a fair wage increase

 

Right now, federal public service workers across Canada are on strike. With 155,000 workers out across the entire country, this is one of the largest strike in Canadian history. 

This means, inevitably, that there is a backlash of propaganda in the mainstream and social media portraying the workers as greedy, entitled, selfish -- and useless. 

The truth is exactly the opposite.

What are they asking for, and why?

According to a recent report by the Canadian Centre for Policy Alternatives, public sector workers' wages, adjusted for inflation, are at rates comparable to 2007. That's the equivalent of not getting a decent raise for sixteen years! 

That means that every year, these workers are falling further behind.

Through their union, the Public Service Alliance of Canada (PSAC), the workers are asking for 4.5% wage increase, each year for three years.

At a time when most employers in Canada are raising wages by anywhere from 4% to 5.4%, that's a reasonable ask. A major survey of 2023 employment shows salaries in different sectors going up from anywhere from 3.1% to 5.8%.

And as we all know, the Consumer Price Index, usually used as a measure of the cost of living, is the highest it has been in 40 years in Canada: 7.6%.

The constant interest rate hikes, which serve to fatten the already obese banking industry while squeezing the rest of us, means that Canadians are spending ever-increasing percentages of their earnings on shelter.

The constantly rising cost of food is the subject of countless stories and discussions, as owners and shareholders of Loblaw, Metro, Empire (which owns Sobey's), and others raking in record profits.

Our two most basic costs -- food and shelter -- are ballooning. Those of us with decent salaries feel the pinch, when after mortgage is paid and the grocery shopping is done, there is little left for leisure -- which in turn has a devastating domino effect on the local economy.

Those of us without decent salaries are suffering. Surveys show that parents are skipping meals so their children can eat. Spending 75% of their incomes on housing. Taking out second mortgages. 

No one should have to face this, but certainly no one with a job should! 

Workers who haven't seen a material gain (adjusted for inflation) in 16 years have a legitimate grievance. A 4.5% increase every year for three years is quite reasonable. 

Who are the striking workers? What do they do?

These facts are gleaned mostly from Press Progress, who based the research on the workers' expired collective agreements (which are all publicly available online), and on interviews.

• The largest group of striking PSAC workers are from the Programs and Administrative Services group. Of this group of about 90,000 members, 72% are women, and 61% earn less than $70,000.

• These workers are data processors, bookkeepers, office equipment operators, secretaries, and court reporters. Several of these positions pay below $40,000, with some as low as $28,000! The classifications are highly outdated, and have not kept up with the private sector.

• Among the strikers are Department of Defense firefighters. They earn 20% less than municipal firefighters.

• Other positions include boiler plant operators, lighthouse keepers, power station operators, and aeronautics inspectors. There are specialists in drafting, engineering support, photography, and technical inspections.

These are highly specialized jobs that require a great deal of expertise. The same positions in the public sector pay substantially more. If government wages don't stay competitive, agencies won't be able to recruit the best talent -- which could have serious implications for the public.

Wages among PSAC workers have been lagging in the public sector for years, for decades. It's way past time that the federal government modernized these collective agreements and paid its workers a fair salary. 

"What about me? Where's my raise?" and other selfish, whiny responses

I have no doubt that millions of Canadians, both unionized and non-union, understand why strikes occur, and either support the PSAC workers or look on neutrally. 

The anti-strike rhetoric appears to come from two sources (with the usual disclaimers about generalizations).

One, rightwing pundits who hate the public sector and hate unions. There's no reasoning with the "starve the beast" crowd, the people who believe every service should generate a profit. However, it's always good to call out their hypocrisy. I'm sure they use public-sector services all the time. And I'm sure they expect those services to be fast, efficient, skilled, and up-to-date. 

The second source of anti-union rhetoric, from what I see and hear, is from non-union workers. I'm not getting a 4.5% raise, why should they?

I would ask them a few questions. If you could get a 4.5% raise, would you take it? 

Would you forgo a raise because someone else didn't get one?

If you had to stop work without pay for a while in order to get that 4.5% raise, would you do it? 

If you had this increase, would you think it was fair? 

I'd also remind them that when unionized workers get a better deal, wages in similar but non-unionized sectors also see increases. When employers are very anti-union, they will often cough up sizeable increases, as a presumed disincentive to organizing.

That's why people who live in communities with a higher concentration of union workers are better-off -- whether or not they belong to a union.

We union folks don't want to earn more than nonunion workers. We want all workers to be treated well and paid fairly, so that we can all enjoy a good life. 

We believe in solidarity, and that extends to all working people, those fortunate enough to belong to a union, and those who don't and can't. You might not support us, but we are fighting for you, all the time.

No one wants to strike. Being on strike is incredibly stressful, and a huge financial sacrifice. But when employers refuse to be reasonable, it's the only option.

what i'm reading: god's bits of wood + labour book club update

My BCGEU Vancouver Island Labour Book Club is happening! 25 people expressed interest, 18 people registered, and about 5-7 people have been attending. A few other folks are following the reading but not attending the discussions. I take all of this as wins. The fact that it's happening at all is a big win!

The first book we read was The Cold Millions by Jess Walter, which I had already read and wrote about here. 

The second selection was In Dubious Battle by John Steinbeck, which I had read a long time ago, and enjoyed re-reading.

Our third and most recent title was God's Bits of Wood by Ousmane Sebème. Not only was this a fantastic read -- it was something I never would have found, had I not been researching titles for this project. Huge win!

* * * *

God's Bits of Wood is a fictional account of a railroad strike that took place in Senegal, then a colony of France, in 1947-48. 

Labour activists often talk about how past workers struggled to win the rights we have today, and our obligation to honour and continue that work. I will often say, "People fought and died to make this possible." Nothing could illustrate this better than God's Bits of Wood. 

The railroad workers and their families lived in total poverty. The men were practically slaves, and the women were slaves to their men and children. They lived in tarpaper shacks without running water or electricity. They had formed a union, but the colonial system ensured it had no power. 

During the strike, the workers and their families suffered extreme hardships and deprivations. The bosses turned off their water. They cut off their food supply. They were attacked. People were killed. 

A strike is a transformative experience: it changes everything. And again, nothing illustrates this better than God's Bits of Wood. 

While the men were gathered at the railyards and in the union hall, the women were alone in the village. They begin to move out of their submissive roles, to harness their anger, and to take charge of their lives. First one woman takes action. Then another. Leaders emerge. They plan collective actions. Not all the actions are successful, and some have dire consequences. But bit by bit, day by day, their lives are utterly transformed. 

At one point, a group of teenagers invent a campaign of their own. Every night, they slip into the European quarter, and use their slingshots to cast stones at windows and lampposts. The whites are terrified -- not so much of the broken glass, but of the knowledge that natives have breached their compound. 

This goes on for many nights -- until one day, one of the worst of the colonizers pops out of a hiding place and fires his revolver. Two boys die.

This is a turning point. The women organize a march to the capital. The men organize to support them and keep them safe. 

The women walk for four days. They walk through heat, and thirst, and desperation. News of their march spreads, and they are welcomed into the capital as heroes.

The French give in. The workers win every demand.

The workers -- and more than that, the women -- changed their culture and their lives. 

This was an intense, gripping story. It wasn't always easy to read, because the workers' suffering is so intense, but I couldn't put it down.

 * * * *

Here are some passages from GBOW that I wrote in my notebook.

From an organizer:

For the first time in his life, an idea of his was going to play a part in the lives of thousands of others. It was not pride or vanity he was experiencing, but the astonishing discovery of his worth as a human being.

As the men discuss what to do about a scab. Many argue for beating or even killing him. One man says:

If you imitate the hirelings of your masters, you will become like them, hirelings and barbarians.  . . . You have shamed him before his friends, and before the world, and in doing that you have hurt him far more than you could by any bodily punishment. . . . I do not think that there is one among us who will be tempted to follow in his footsteps.

The company sees its once iron grip on the workers has turned to straw. The bosses are desperate to divide the workers and crush their solidarity. One worker, who struggles to see himself as a leader, remembers this:

One day Doudou had had an argument with Drame, the lynx-eyed deputy supervisor of the shop. 'Why should the white men have ten minutes off for their tea when we don't?' he had demanded. Drame had reported the words to Isnard, who immediately summoned Doudou and told him, in front of all the other men, 'Go and make yourself white and you can have ten minutes, too!' Doudou had controlled his anger, but the humiliation had never left him. He had never again spoken a word to the supervisor except when it was absolutely necessary.

Now the hated Isnard offers Doudou three million francs, for him alone, if he will tell his comrades to abandon their demands and return to work. That's when the union activists know that the company has cracked. Doudou says:

Three million francs is a lot of money for a Negro lathe operator, but even three million francs won't make me white. I would rather have the ten minutes for tea and remain a Negro.

The book was so vivid and gripping, I actually shouted out loud when I read this.

* * * *

Ousmane Sebème (1923-2007), who I had never heard of before this project, was a Senegalese author, playwright, and filmmaker. Often called "the father of African cinema," he was the first serious filmmaker from any African country.

Sebème worked as a fisherman, a bricklayer, a mechanic, a plumber, and other trades. He taught himself how to read and write. He was drafted into the French army, and served in World War II.

As a dockworker, Sebème discovered Marxist and Pan-African worldviews. When an injury prevented him from doing manual labour, Sebème decided to become a writer. He went on to write novels, plays, and films, and to practically invent African cinema.

There is a documentary about him, called "Sebème!", made in 2015. I will definitely look for it.

something strange going on with this blog: a sad update

I was so excited. 

I thought all the thousands of lost comments might be coming back.

Now I am let down all over again.

A few weeks ago, I noted that very old comments -- from 2005 and 2006 -- have been appearing in the spam queue of this blog. This gave me hope that the thousands of comments that were lost would be magically restored.

When a big chunk of wmtc was accidentally deleted, and Allan and I restored the posts by importing a Blogger XML file, the URLs of the posts changed. I didn't know if comments on posts with changed URLs would be published. If the URL has changed, would the relevant comments have a place to post?

I asked this question in the Blogger Help Community. Unfortunately, the Blogger Help Person never understood what I was asking. Granted, it is a strange concept, difficult to explain. But their comments made it clear that they were not reading what I wrote. Perhaps they were monitoring too many threads, and giving each only a cursory glance? 

Now I've been moderating comments from the spam queue (not the spam folder, as the BHP noted) for an additional three weeks, for a total of almost eight weeks. I am still moderating old comments daily, all from legit wmtc commenters. The majority are from July 2005 to June 2006; a few are from 2021. None are from July 2006 to February 2020, the time span of the lost comments. I assume that because the posts' URLs changed when we restored the posts, the comments have nowhere to go, so to speak.

If I was able to upload a specific XML file, I could narrow that to May 2019 to Feburary 2020. But I cannot import the file.

So, the situation has not changed. The comments are gone. I am finally beginning to accept it.

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!