’Time to drink up. I’m going home and listen to Biden’s State of the Nation speech to the US Congress’, Camp said., downing his pint.
‘I promised to cook dinner tonight. I’m planning an eggplant casserole with left over spaghetti sauce. It’s always a winner,’ I said.
‘You can cook and listen, can’t you?’
‘Like multi-tasking? I prefer to cook with music, maybe some Steel Pulse reggae or the latest Stones album.’
Camp gave me an exasperated look. ‘This is going to be an important speech, a make-or-break moment for Biden.’
I took his comments to heart and instead of music turned on the telly and listened and watched the speech. Even Clare paid attention. It was worth our time. I consider it one of Biden’s best speeches ever. He’s a man of integrity and honour, having served his country for over 4 decades as a senator, vice-president and president. He could easily fold his tents and head out to pasture but his rival and adversary compels him to stick around and hopefully thwart Trump, his boot lickers in congress and cultish followers. Can he convince the American people to turn away from hate, racism and extremism? After listening to Biden’s passionate address, I have some hope and optimism. If not, we are all in trouble, walking down a dark road towards fascism and the demise of democracy as we know it.
We’ve seen it before, the flag waving and simplistic symbolism, the bigger than life lawn signs and the arm bands, buttons and silly hats, the stadium rallies and frenzied mass chants. It doesn’t bode well for a peaceful and democratic election and I’m afraid it will be a civil war no matter which side wins. But as Camp said many times before: ‘The world needs Trump to lose in November.’
I’m tired of seeing Trump’s mug on the front page every day and his primitive and vitriolic outbursts. People are becoming used to hear and read about his latest lies and baseless accusations, his pompous claims to greatness and his chest thumping, self-congratulatory outbursts. There is a general fatigue and resignation taking hold of many people about some inevitable trainwreck in the near future. Unavoidable and disastrous. Nobody wants to talk about it, read about it and Trump’s possible taking the presidency back has the characteristic of a bad joke that nobody wants to repeat. It makes me mad and even invades my sleep. I wake up in the middle of the night thinking about the future a Trump presidency would entail. Yes, it’s only four years and we’ll get over it. The world will still rotate on its axle and the sun will still rise in the east. And yet I can’t shake the feeling that there will be more unnecessary tragedy on the southern US border, in Ukraine and Gaza unless some smart, educated and committed people take charge and address these humanitarian crises with a sober and intelligent approach. Not Trump and his cronies. Not the Republicans.
As a Swiss-Canadian I feel I have some objective distance to what’s playing out in America right now. I like to think that I can watch this political drama from afar but I also know that it’s outcome in November will affect the whole world and suddenly my distance shrinks to where we’re all caught up in the fight for the survival of a fair democracy that upholds equality, liberty and respect. Even here in Canada, the forces of righteousness and restrictive social behavior are gaining traction. I don’t really understand this movement to the right, this drifting towards limitations of freedoms our generation fought so hard for.: Woman’s choices over their own bodies, our open-doors immigration policies, our tolerance of other’s, our acceptance of majority votes, our ability to agree to disagree, our opposition to bullies and dictators, our willingness to include, not exclude minorities. All of these virtues are threatened and the future of our world and the welfare of our children are in peril. But after last night’s speech I am a little bit more hopeful that in the end, common sense, dignity and respect will win the day.
Joshua is an island boy, bread and brought up by his mom, his aunt and his grandma.Who knows where the dad was? Joshua didn’t and he never questioned it since most of his friends were in similar situations. Growing up with the women was all he knew and they were kind and caring, full of laughter and discipline. School was mostly Jesus religion and memorizing, not much free thinking or improvisation. It’s the way it still is around here.
The rest of the world was a long way across the turquoise waters and Joshua had only been to the mainland once. The mainland being the big island, not a different country or a long way away from home. It was just a two-hour ferry trip and Joshua loved it even though his aunt spent most of the journey barfing into a paper bag.
Joshua spent a lot of time by himself. Naturally shy and small in stature he didn’t much care for sports or fishing but he liked music. Reggae was his favorite and he knew every Bob Marley song. There was an old dusty guitar without strings in his aunt Lizzy’s house. ‘Been here for ever,’ she said. ‘Belonged to old man Tanto who moved away a long time ago. Lives in Brooklyn now. It’s yours.’ Since there were no strings on it and nobody pointed that out for a long time, Joshua used the guitar as a drum. It sounded pretty good and when Gina, a Canadian-Italian woman, heard him beating out a reggae rhythm on the old guitar body she introduced Joshua to Zola, an accomplished drummer on the big traditional island drum.
Zola has his own island story which is quite amazing. He was an obsessed diver and harpoon fisherman until one day he stayed down too long and came up too fast. He got the bends badly and he almost died and it left his legs paralysed. ‘He’ll never walk again,’ was the dire prognosis but the doctors didn’t know the determination of Zola who slowly over time got out of his wheel chair and first on crutches and then on a single walking stick forced himself to walk again. He also didn’t give up diving since in the water he was floated free of gravity’s restrictions. The story goes that he went down and his partner in the small boat waited and waited but when Zola who was long overdue to surface didn’t come up, his partner took off and returned home convinced that Zola had finally gone to Davie Jones’s locker. Zola meanwhile had drifted far from the boat and when he eventually surfaced after running out of oxygen the boat and his partner were gone. It took Zola two days to make it back home, swimming to a nearby island, then the next day all the way back to shore. That was his last dive and instead he took up drumming and became just as obsessed with drumming as he was with diving and underwater fishing. He had an exceptional teacher in Winston Fleary. There was no money in drumming but Zola was so good that he was invited to all the island music events and to this day can always be heard and seen playing with everybody.
So, Zola took on Joshua as his understudy and Joshua took to drumming like a fish to water. Gina helped with a Go-fund campaign which raised enough dollars amongst her Toronto friends to have built two more island big drums, one of which became Joshua’s. There was enough money left over to give both of them a small stipend because drumming was not really an income producing occupation.
Another perennial tourist, Markus, a German sound technician, took a shine to the two drummers and especially the young Joshua. He saw his stringless guitar which Joshua sometimes used as a percussion instrument and offered to have it strung. Markus thought it was a salvageable old Spanish guitar. When he showed Joshua the refurbished instrument and played a few licks for him, Joshua had an epiphany and couldn’t wait for Markus to teach him the fundamentals of guitar playing. Again, the young island lad displayed a natural talent for the instrument and he soon spent all his time strumming instead of drumming. Zola was not too happy about it but he had to support his protégé’s passion and before too long the two of them became a duo who played gigs all over the small island, making a bit of money and many free drinks in return. Of course, the two always played a mesmerizing drum solo halfway through their set of reggae and calypso music. There was only one more thing missing in this constellation.
Shandelle’s mother was a soprano in the church choir and taught her daughter early on how to sing along with her. Shandelle knew all the gospel songs and hymns by the time she was a teenager. When she heard Zola and Joshua play at the local church picnic on a spring Sunday afternoon, she was smitten not just with the young man but by the rhythmic music of the duo. ‘I know many songs,’ she said shyly to Joshua during a break when she saw him getting some food at one of the stands. ‘
‘Oh yeah, and you can sing too?’ Joshua said with a grin.
‘I can sing with you if you like. I know reggae music.’
‘Ok, you’re on. You know Redemption song?’
‘Everybody know that song, mon.’
‘Let’s do it.’
When Shandelle sang a slow burning version of the iconic song, with Zola and Joshua accompanying her, the crowd gathered around and stopped what they were doing, caught up in the magic of the moment. That afternoon the three musicians formed the trio and called themselves. ‘Dreamcatchers’. Gina and Markus decided that this was the time to present the trio to the outside world. Markus recorded two songs with a mic and his computer and went to the mainland, i.e. the big island and played the two songs along with some photos of the trio to several resorts and clubs. In no time he had a few gigs in his back pocket and that’s how the ‘Dreamcatchers’ started their meteoric rise to the top, making the jump from the small Caribbean Island to Brooklyn, where they played in front of the vast diaspora of islanders.
We had a chance to see ‘Dreamcatcher’ last week, for a Valentine’s dance at the Mermaid, the island’s best hotel right on the beach. It was a surprise appearance, not scheduled or advertised but because all three were home for Carnival and some of the island’s other musicians played backup for the open mic. The guests arrived late, most of them jcb’s (just come back’s referring to locals who live and work off island, mostly in the US, Canada and England) They were all dressed in their fineries: sequins, jewelry and sculpted hair and glitzy long nails for the women and the men wore long pants, flowing shirts and shiny shoes. It felt like New Year’s Eve and the party went on until 3AM.
Gina and Markus were there as well, proud as peacocks of their progeny. When Zola, Joshua and Shandelle dedicated their ‘Island song’ to them, everybody rose and clapped and hollered, celebrating not just the two of them or the band but the fact that this symbiosis of locals and visitors, this fusion of local talent and foreign entrepreneurship brought about this very special achievement and success. We left shortly after we saw Gina dance with Joshua while Shandelle twirled a terrified Markus across the dance floor.
My friend told me this incredible kidnap story that sounds like a thriller plot. According to her this really happened, although I could not find any reference to this particular case on the internet. Since the story was incomplete, I filled in a lot of the blanks. It’s called artistic license or fiction. Not to be confused with real life. Or as Mark Twain said: don’t let the truth get in the way of a good story.
A young man, let’s call him Joey, in upstate New York who was with a small gang of misfits was a bystander in a liquor store heist by his friends. A struggle ensued and a store employee was killed. Afraid of being implicated, Joey ran to the home where his girlfriend, Naomi, was babysitting a small girl. Being just 18 himself and Naomi 16, they acted on impulse. Joey told her of the heist gone wrong and in order to evade the subsequent police hunt they decided to run at a moment’s notice. Joey thought it a good idea to take the toddler along and pretend they were a young family and were able to slip under the radar. They headed north and made it across the Canadian border as a young family. This was in 1999, before 9/11, when border security between the US and Canada was relatively lax.
Somehow the young make-believe family ended up in a small community in northern Alberta where Joey, who looked older than his years, took on several menial jobs over the years and eventually became the manager of a gas station that also had a gas bar and restaurant. He was able to keep the three of them financially afloat. Eventually they were able to buy a small bungalow in a cul-de-sac and proceeded to live a very quiet, middle-class life, respected by the neighbours and the community to which they now belonged. The young girl which they named Leslie went to school and grew up like any other child, firmly convinced that her two guardians, Joey and Naomi were her parents.
‘Farewell to the Boomers is the title of the new book by the German sociologist Heinz Bude. He’s a boomer himself and explores the present state and the legacy of the boomer generation. ‘Okay Boomer’ a New Zealand MP accused an older colleague in 2019, dismissing him as somebody past his due date and taking up space,’ Camp said.
‘We’re both boomers aren’t we,’ I pointed out and looked around the pub. ‘And we’re not alone.’
Camp gave me an exasperated look and kept on going. ‘Okay Boomer became a generational battle cry meaning: your time is up, move on over, make room, head out to pasture and all of that.’
‘Who are the Boomers? I know it’s short for baby boomer. Most of us are now in the process of retiring or are already out of the workforce.’
‘As the world seems to arm itself to the teeth and wars are being fought in many places it strikes me that these conflicts more often than not involve members of the same tribe, the same ethnicity and the same geography. I’m referring to the Bosnians vs the Serbs, the Chinese against Taiwanese, the Irish against the Irish, Somalis against Somalis, North Koreans against their southern brothers and sisters, Ethiopia vs Tigray, Russians vs their cousins, the Ukrainians, even the Palestinians against the Jews, members of the same gene pool, way back when they were all Canaanites. What’s with all that? Why do we fight our neighbours and brothers and sisters?’
‘Most the world’s conflicts are all based on cultural belief systems. Religions against each other. Like in Sri Lanka, where the Sinhalese Buddhists hate their cousins, the Tamil Tigers,’ Camp said. ‘Or the eternal schism between the Sunni’s and the Shia’s, hatred even within the same religion.’
‘Small tribes, small wars; big tribes, big wars,’ I said, quoting a well-worn cliché, and let’s not forget it’s always men against men while the women and children bear the brunt of the misery these wars create.’
‘Two weeks ago, we had the coldest week with persistent sub-zero temps, ever recorded in these latitudes. Minus 50 degrees in parts of Alberta. It almost broke their power grid. All e-cars were parked.’
‘Frozen Tesla’s everywhere,’ Camp said.
‘And now, this past week, atmospheric rivers lasting over a week with accumulated rainfall of almost 2ft, 220mm with the warm springlike weather melting the snow and raining on the mountains. What kind of winter is this?’
‘Do you really want me to answer that? No. I didn’t think so. Extreme weather patterns are the new normal. Get used to it.’
‘You’re right, no point complaining. Nobody is listening.’
‘’You’re retired so why are you hanging around this year?’ Camp wanted to know.
‘Something went wrong in the planning department,’ I admitted. ‘We did a road trip to California but next year, we will not be around for the deep freeze and biblical rains if I have a say in it. How about you Camp? When do you plan to retire?’
‘What is retirement? Just quitting the job and staying home? I happen to like my job and don’t see it as a burden. Also, the book store is not exactly a valuable corporation and the occasional paycheck comes in handy. I could not live off the government pensions and since I’m self-employed I get no pension from the bookstore.’
‘I guess you have to define retirement,’ I said. ‘Like you said, it’s doing what you like to do but without having to worry about money. In other words, it’s an affordability question. Many people would like to retire but can’t afford it. Not if they still carry a mortgage or have expenses that cannot be met with the meagre government pensions.’
‘Exactly. I’m lucky to love what I do and many who continue working into their dotage are happier for it. Look at Henry Kissinger, who worked until his death at 100, or Clint Eastwood or Joe Biden for that matter. Grand-grandpas all of them.’
‘The super-rich know that their wealth is unfair,’ says Mr. Marlene Engelhorn, a Viennese heiress who is giving away 25 million Euros to the general public by way of a committee of 50 selected citizens, without personal input in how it is distributed. She was spotted in Davos protesting at the World Economic Forum (WEF), with a sign that said: Tax the Rich,’ Camp said as I sat down. He was already halfway through his first pint. I guess this is a slow time of year at the book store.
‘It’s admirable and she certainly has a point but it’s quite unusual for the rich to demonstrate against themselves. What is her message?’
‘The WEF is basically an exclusive club of the super-rich and some government reps promising to make the world a better place. The reality of course is nothing like it. It’s mostly hobnobbing at seminars and dinner parties albeit without the Russians this year who were notorious for their lavish, bacchanalian parties.’
‘Nobody advocates for debt-relief for the poor countries nor does anybody offer a fairer tax system or a better wealth distribution,’ I said.
‘Giving away money is not a new idea but only 2 percent of the money spent on charitable purposes by foundations around the world goes to climate protection – that alone shows that there is little to be made of traditional patronage.’
‘And the rich get richer and the poor stay poor,’ I said.
‘The five wealthiest people in the world, all men by the way, have more than doubled their wealth since 2020 while at the same time, nearly five billion people, the poorest 60 percent became even poorer. That’s from a study by Oxfam, just published before the current WEF.’
‘Go figure. A better wealth distribution by way of taxation would be a welcome thing, bring the poor up while the wealthy remain just as rich. Maybe an inheritance tax over one million dollars would be a start.’
‘I agree with you but the argument against that is the inherited money has already been taxed as income.’
‘Bullshit. As Ms Engelhorn points out: It’s normal for money to be taxed several times. Income tax on your salary, purchase tax when you buy something, Goods and Service Tax everywhere, alcohol tax when you drink or buy alcohol. Why not inheritance Tax?’
We both emptied our pints and looked out at the monochromatic scenery behind a curtain of rain. Typical weather for this time of year on the Pacific West coast.
‘What do you think of the carbon tax Camp and why is it such a bone of contention? ‘
‘Like any government tax it is always opposed especially if people don’t understand it. The carbon tax is a price levied on emissions from fossil fuel sources, be it from coal, oil, natural gas or gasoline. The levy varies based on how much carbon dioxide a fuel releases when burned. Coal, for example, releases more carbon pollution than natural gas to produce the same amount of energy, so the tax is higher on coal than natural gas,’ Camp explained.
‘As I understand it, the Liberals under Trudeau, introduced the tax in 2019 and it is designed as a financial incentive for people and businesses to change their behaviour to burn less fossil fuels and transition to greener forms of energy, thus helping Canada lower its emissions.’
‘That’s about right and typically people oppose the costs of the carbon tax but forget the associated rebates, which are worth roughly $70 to $140 per month for a family of four, depending on where they live. That’s a nice chunk of change.’
‘Axing the carbon tax would also axe the rebates. How much money are we talking about here?’ I said, knowing that Camp had looked into this issue, unlike most of us who just hear the buzzwords, the bumper sticker and the complaints.’
‘Have you seen the latest campaign commercial released on X by Trump? It’s called: God Made Trump.’ I asked Camp as soon he sat down.
‘It’s frigging cold out there,’ he exclaimed, wrapping his arms around himself. ‘The arctic freeze is here.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘Yes, I’ve seen it. The one where he claims that God Almighty personally appointed him to come down to earth to save America.’
‘Yes, that one where he promised God and America that he would work 7 days a week, not only 6 like his boss, work until midnight every day, use his strong arms to wrestle the Deep State and then deliver his grand child?’
‘You don’t have to repeat it. It made me barf the first time. At first I thought it to be a farce, a comedy stunt but no, this is a genuine Trump narcissistic maniacal promo video. No doubt to be lampooned at nauseum by Saturday Night Live, Steve Colbert and every self-respecting Late Night Show comedian.’
‘Adding fuel to the fire, no doubt, more press, more exposure. Just exactly what he wants.’ I said.
Let me read you something that shows who is is. ‘He a liar and a cheat, says sports writer Rick Reilly. When he plays golf he takes ‘mulligans’ (extra strokes that aren’t counted in one’s score), throws opponent’s balls off the greens and into the bunkers, and kicks his own errant shots back onto the fairway so often that one of his caddies nicknamed him Pele, after the soccer star. Trump doesn’t just cheat at golf, Reilly concluded. He cheats like a three-card Monty dealer. He throws it, boots it and moves it. He lies about his lies. He fudges and foozles and fluffs.’
‘It’s harmless behavior on a golf course but not on the international stage as president of the USA,’ I said.
‘There are people who have dogs and then there are dogs who have people,’ I said to Camp who was already enjoying a pint of golden liquid in our usual spot by the harbour.
‘I know what you mean,’ Camp said. Dogs are a big responsibility. There are those who have dogs for companionship, some who have them to guard against bears and thieves and then there are those who have dogs, especially the small designer breeds, as accessories. I can never get over it when they drag the small animal on its 3-inch legs behind them.’
‘And then there are those who use dogs as deterrents. Some pit bulls are like loaded guns,’ I said.
‘Some dog owners lavish so much emotional capital onto their pets as if they were people, and instead of proper training they yell at them as if the dogs could understand.
Pets can fill an emotional void, maybe even in lieu of a child, but they can be valuable companions for lonely and elderly people. Dogs get their owners out walking and dog people have an affinity with other dog owners and thus have an unlimited amount of dog lore to talk about. There are so many dogs these days, in high-rise apartments and small flats, left alone all day or fostered out to doggie daycare. It’s a massive industry from petfood to vets.’
‘Let me consult Siri,’ I offered. ‘There are approximately 8 million cats and 6 million dogs in Canada. Approximately 35% of Canadian households have a dog and 38% have a cat. (source: Ipsos Reid). From 2020-2022, the Canadian dog and cat populations continued to grow, increasing from 7.7 million to 7.9 million for dogs, and from 8.1 million to 8.5 million for cats. Pet food sales in the US increased by 10 percent in 2020 to a total of US$ 42 billion for the year (according to American Pet Products Association, APPA), and Canada exported $ 1.1 billion worth of pet food in 2020,’ I quoted.
‘I’m in the wrong business,’ Camp said, ‘And more people seem to have acquired a dog during the pandemic. I’m wondering if they kept them once we could travel again.’
‘As inflation puts cost pressures on pet owners and many return to in-person work, people are surrendering their pandemic pets, overwhelming animal shelters across the country, according to a CBC report. The L.A. Times just ran an article about overcrowding shelters and the L.A, City Counsel moved to halt new permits for dog breeding.’
‘Yes, people got lonely and worked from home. Ergo, get a dog. And thanks to us carnivores who eat all the meat, the pets get all the innards, bones, blood and viscera. Nothing gets wasted. It’s all protein.’
‘Interesting point,’ I said.
‘Did you ever have a dog?’
‘No, but when I was a kid, I fantasised about a Lassie dog and when we were in New Zealand I looked after a Weimaraner for a few months. It was a very needy dog with unbounded nervous energy and it hated poodles but we definitely took a liking to each other. But with our travel and work lives we could never see the room for a dog.’
‘Same here,’ Camp said. I often thought about having a dog, one that would obediently lay at my feet in the book store and walk me home at the end of the day but I decided against it because it entailed to much responsibility for my liking.’
I asked Vicky, our server, if she had a pet when she brought our fresh pints around.
‘I have a stuffed dog, Fluffy, that’s been with me since early childhood. It’s very cuddly and no bother at all and doesn’t mind staying home alone.’
‘As the year draws to a close and we are celebrating it’s also a time to reflect. Are our celebrations joyful or hedonistic, should we cry instead of laugh. Should we celebrate our lucky selves or should we bemoan the fate of those less fortunate?’ I asked Camp as I took my seat and Vicky served us wearing a rakish white Santa hat.
‘Maybe we can do both. Compartmentalize is my key word for the year,’ Camp said.
‘Was it a good year? Will the next year be better?’
Camp was pensively looking out the window at the grey waters of Howe Sound. ‘What’s there to look forward to in the next year?’ he shrugged his bony shoulders, shaking his unruly mane of curly grey? ‘Best not to think too far ahead and concentrate on the here and now.’
I’m not sure if he was being facetious or serious. I call myself a realist which is often mixed up with a pessimist or a cynic. ‘I will try to keep my focus on the things I can influence and maybe even change or at least comment on and maybe be heard. Shut out the noise from the rest of the world and concentrate on what’s going on in my life. Is that being selfish or obtuse? Is that kind of ostrich behaviour good for my health? Maybe but it is what people around me – Clare, you and assorted friends – recommend?’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ was Camp’s response.
Personally, my last year was a success. I travelled, sailed, biked and hiked; I stayed healthy and enjoyed hanging out with friends and family. Life is good and I do my very best to continue on in the same mode for next year.
On the downside I lost some important people in my life: one a long-time friend who exited with dignity, courage and humour despite the collapse of his nervous system that left him paralyzed but cognizant. As Al said when we said good-by to him: It was nice knowing you. Two others were not close friends but outstanding individuals who I interacted with over a number of years, who encouraged and supported me in my writing attempts and who shared their own thoughts and time. They both passed suddenly, taken out of this life without any indication that their time was up. Both were healthy to within a week or ten days of their passing and had already made plans for next year’s travel and beyond. I will miss Bev and Jaime.
On the upside we welcomed two new members to our family, both girls, Lou and Mara, born to nieces and nephews in Switzerland and it strikes me as profound that those babies will be in my age group when the present century draws to a close. What adventures and challenges await them is an exciting and intriguing mystery. It seems like a long time looking ahead but looking back is a different vista altogether. While the future stretches out infinite ahead of us, the past is now compressed into memories and stories, repeated over and over until present company stifles a yawn. ‘Thanks Camp.’.
‘Any predictions for the new year?’ Camp asked.
‘Let me consult my crystal ball,’ I said, staring into my empty pint. ‘Trump will choke on a cheeseburger, Trudeau will come out as gay and the Ukrainians, Israelis and Palestinians will be supported in managing their own countries.’
‘Sounds more like a Santa wishlist than predictions.’
‘Maybe but here is a small fact. Fresh off the press. The world population grew by 75 million in 2023 and will pass 8 billion people on New Year’s Day, according to the U.S. Census Bureau.’
Camp pondered this and let it sink in.
‘All I know is that time is fleeting and you better drink up. Here come the refills.’
‘The best of the season to you and your families,’ Vicky toasted us while setting down the last two foaming mugs of golden goodness in front of us.
‘What are you two up to for Christmas?’ I asked Camp. ‘Is there going to be turkey and jingle bells? Is Sophie coming home?’
‘Sophie isn’t coming to the coast from Montreal. Too much stress and too expensive to travel at this time of year.’
‘I could ask Clare if she would like to get together, maybe cook a bird and have a few drinks and laughs.’
‘Let me tell you a little Christmas story that happened many moons ago,’ Camp said. ‘It still makes me cringe and is one of the reasons I don’t really subscribe to turkey and all the hoopla. It was a time when I was friends with Cassandra. Before your time buddy.’
‘Now I’m intrigued. I thought you’re the consummate bachelor before you met Muriel.’
‘I was not a monk.’
‘Would you like to host this year’s Christmas dinner at your place?’ Cassandra’s mom asked us, looking at me. ‘It would be so much more convenient for everybody and it would be a neutral place.’
‘Neutral?’
‘Well, yes. Sandy, Cassandra’s sister, doesn’t want to have Chuck’s parents over. The mother just rides her ragged and the father drinks and gets obnoxious.’
Really. Sounds like pleasant company and why would I want to have those people over for Christmas dinner? Doesn’t sound like fun, more like a ritual sacrifice. I didn’t say that aloud. Instead I suggested: ‘Why don’t we all just go to the pub. That’s pretty neutral.’
Cassandra’s mom shook her head. ‘You know it would be such a favour and everyone would pitch in and help you cook the turkey and prepare the dinner.’
Cassandra looked at her mom skeptically, craning her neck skywards and slowly rubbing it, a pose she assumed when she worked out a problem. ‘You know mom, this isn’t going to go over very easy. Some major convincing needs to happen. Nothing short of flattery and bribery.’
I held my tongue and sipped the expensive wine her mom had brought over but not without a certain degree of anticipation. There would be a price to pay.
‘You’re such a good cook and pleasant host and you’re so good at it. It wouldn’t even be a big event. Just like a fun party.’
‘Dinner for ten?’ I said. Six of whom I don’t know or even like. Some party. ‘More wine please.’
‘Honey…’ My ears perked up, my sphincter clenched and I basically tensed up. Whenever Cassandra used that term of endearment, I knew I was being trapped and coerced. ‘Honey, do it for me and the family.’
How could I say no. I’m such a jovial host, such an outstanding cook and such a sucker for manipulative females. ‘All right, I’ll do it.’
‘You’re such a good sport,’ the mom said. ‘Pass me the rest of that wine will you.’
Since I was in charge of cooking the turkey, Cassandra volunteered to make her favorite desert, Pavlova, a recipe from her days in New Zealand. The secret was to let the merengue cool in the oven over night and I was forbidden – on the penalty of instant death – to open the oven door. I had only turkey on my mind and when I got up on Christmas morning, the first thing I did was preheat the oven and then went to have a shower.
I was not prepared for the blood curdling scream that came from the kitchen. I almost choked on my toothbrush but at the very instant the penny dropped and I rushed upstairs, three steps at a time, to undo the damage. But it was too late. I’ve never seen Cassandra in such a state of agitation, she was visibly trembling with anger and disappointment, all directed at me. ‘How could you, after I told you over and over not to open the oven.’
‘I didn’t open it,” I stammered, I just eh…wanted to pre-heat.’
‘You’ve ruined the merengue. Look! It’s collapsed and there is a big crack.’
‘Nothing that can’t be fixed with plenty of whipped cream, nobody will notice, believe me.’
Cassandra gave me a killer stare but eventually settled down to a seething agitated state and carried her precious, damaged Pavlova away from me, the vicious dessert killer.
The turkey was in the oven, doing what it was supposed to and the jams, Brussel sprouts and mashed potatoes were on the stove and Cassandra was once again fussing with the Christmas tree which I bought from the scouts for twenty bucks. The table was set with festive napkins, candles and party gags, the doorways festooned with cedar and holly branches, Christmas music in the background, cracking logs in the fire place and the succulent aromas from the kitchen wafting through the house. The guests arrived and behaved predictably. Chuck lamented the weather and the state of the world; Sandy’s dark dress was inappropriate and Chuck’s dad had obviously started to celebrate early and was well into his cups. Cassandra’s mom beamed and was enjoying the banter. Even the injured Pavlova looked perfect, decorated with loads of whipped cream, kiwis and strawberries.
‘Wow Camp,’ I had no idea. ‘We don’t have to do a turkey or a pavlova. How about a Swiss fondue and pineapple with tequila for dessert?’
‘Does it feel like the world is in precarious shape, politically, economically and morally?’ I asked Camp, still trying to digest the morning news of slaughter, mayhem, lies and politics.
‘You really need a break from the endless news cycle of misery. Look at the beauty around you, cherish the people you know, have a laugh, listen to some music.’
‘I know you’re right Camp but this war in the middle east wakes me up, the spectre of another Trump presidency makes me break out in a rash and Putin’s war of attrition, sacrificing thousands of lives for his hubris is making me ill. Those are just the top three on a long list of wrongs.’
‘We both know that your feelings about all this will not change anything in the world out there but may very well impact your health, your relationships with people and your state of mind. You’re turning into a cantankerous pessimist; worse than just a cynic like me.’
‘You’re right. All this bad news is affecting my mind. The world needs a reset so everybody can start again. We cannot go around in an endless cycle of blood feuds, revenge and punitive bloodshed fuelled by hate and disinformation. Most of all, the present generation cannot pay for the sins of their forefathers and we cannot use history as a motivator for future policies and behaviour. To re-live the past and saddle the present and next generation with the guilt of their fathers is unfair and a burden nobody should carry.’
This post I published a few years back but this time of year I’m always reminded of how old customs change and history is revised. One of the mythical figures at this time of year is Santa who today is a silly old man with a beard who holds no authority and cannot put kids on his knees any longer. How different it was when I was a kid back in Switzerland. Here it goes:
I like walking to the pub, along the beach into the village, before it gets dark. This time of year, the town is festooned with ornate seasonal lighting and quirky front yard scenes of blowup reindeer and chubby Santas. I needed to tell Camp about my dramatic childhood Santa experience.
“I do like the colourful lights and whimsical fairy tale displays,” Campbell said as I sat down at our usual table. “It brightens up the dark dreary days.”
“Do you know what day it was yesterday?” I asked Camp, after ordering two frosty mugs from Vicky, who wore a cute Santa hat with a white tassel.
“The 6th of December,” he answered with a curious look.
“Exactly, it was Saint Nicholas Day, commonly known around here as Santa Claus or simply Santa. Where I grew up Santa was a vastly different version than the one Coca Cola and Disney invented.”
“Oh yeah, how so?” Camp asked.
“Santa was a personage that struck fear and terror into the hearts of kids. I used to hide in the farthest corner under the bed in complete dread of the loathsome Santa. He would come into the homes of people where the parents had arranged the visit, dressed in red or blue with a kind of tiara like the pope on his bearded head and usually accompanied by two black robed and hooded servants or helpers. Nasty characters. Santa carried the dreaded black book with all your sins noted in there; how you didn’t listen to your parents, how many times you beat up your sister and how you didn’t do your homework. He would know details of your misdeeds and then meted out appropriate punishments with a whip made out of twigs, according to the wishes of the parents who pre-arranged all that, but we frightened kids didn’t know that. I tell you Camp, Saint Nick’s day was the most dreaded day in all the year. I would get whipped and only then, after the punishment, would Santa’s sinister helpers dispense some goodies like nuts and chocolates.”
“Sounds medieval,” Camp said, shaking his head.
“In Germany and Austria the evil Santa is called Krampus, a cloven hooved demon-like creature who snatches up the worst behaved children, stuffs them into a bag and then carries them off to his mountain lair. Our Santas in Switzerland would occasionally stuff kids into their bag with the threat to take them back to the Black Forest. Every year, kids would die of heart attacks.”
“You’re kidding?” Camp said, almost spilling his beer.
“Remember, this was the fifties and sixties and before anybody heard of the Coca Cola or Hollywood version of Santa. But here comes the good part: We took our revenge to the Santas when we were teenagers. Armed with slingshots and hiding behind snow banks or trees we would wait for the Santas to emerge from their cars. Ducking and dodging our onslaught they would run towards their appointments through a rain of pellets and horseshoe nails. Then we would again wait for their return and attack them again, cat calling and throwing rocks and pepper them with projectiles from our boyish weapons. Most of these Santas were guys who would make a bit of extra cash, some of them drifters and most likely not your best upstanding citizens, if you get my drift. As you can see my Santa experience is somewhat different from here. Every time I see a little boy or girl being forced screaming and crying onto some fat Santa’s lap at the mall I recall those days when we hunted them down.”
“Maybe you should go see somebody about this my friend,” Camp said, “this sounds like some nasty childhood trauma you’re dealing with. Santa psychosis. I can’t imagine. I’ll buy you a beer for that story. I’ll never look at Santa the same way. You managed to completely destroy a picture of perfect bliss and benign good will and replace it with what you call that guy? Krampus? Schmutzli?
We both solemnly looked at the rendition of a jolly red Santa pulled by a slew of cartoon reindeer across the pub’s front window. I do prefer the local version of the tubby gift bearing Santa sliding down a chimney for a welcome of warm milk or a beer to the one I grew up with.
Vicky brought us two foaming mugs and said: “These are on the house boys, compliments from Santa for our regular guests.”
We had a plan for the first day. We were going to make it to Port Townsend on the Olympia peninsula, just a day’s drive from home. Since it was the end of October, naturally it was a grey and rainy day. Our first stop was the Peace Arch border crossing. Was my pot bust from 1974 in Montreal going to affect my status? Were they going to confiscate our camper van, throw us out? We had our spiel rehearsed: No arguing and contradicting each other like the last time we crossed into the USA. As in:
Border guard: How long to you plan to stay in the USA?
Me: About a month
Betty: Maybe more like two months
Boarder guard: And where do you plan to travel to?
Me: San Diego, I have a cousin there.
Betty: We’re also planning to go to Mexico
Border guard: Maybe you two should talk. Have a nice trip.
We waited about an hour in line until we finally got to the checkpoint. The young border guard just wanted to know how long we planned to stay. I answered. Betty smiled. He wished us a good trip. We were in. Just like that. Travelling USA.
A couple of hours later we arrived at the Coupeville ferry terminal on Whitbey Island. The 20minute sailing deposited us in Port Townshend. The ferry itself was an ugly, bulky tub which made our old ferries look like cruise ships. The coast: US$ 14 including the van. The best and only deal, as we soon found out.
Port Townsend is a picturesque waterfront town featuring a historic main street with Art Deco buildings, once a thriving wild harbour scene overlooked by some pretty Victorian houses up the hillside. It reminded us a bit of Nelson in the Kootenays.
It happened to be Halloween and we passed some garishly decorated front yards, full of blow-up ghouls, tombstones and skeletons. We also found a great French restaurant – Alchemy – for dinner and here came our first surprise. $$$! Also, our small van, – a ROADTREK – coast us US$ 65 to park in the waterfront RV park. Petrol, which we thought was cheaper than at home came in at US$ 5.50 a gallon. Maybe a few pennies less than in Gibsons. Thinking the US is cheaper than Gibsons B.C was just an illusion. We found all the prices from restaurants to groceries are dollar for dollar and higher for many items. Considering that we paid Can$ 1.40 for every US greenback. That made prices almost one and a half time higher than home. This makes Vancouver and the Sunshine Coast a bargain for US tourists.
The Olympic peninsula is a large scenic park with hot springs in the middle of it and miles of rainforest hikes. We followed the road along the water up to Port Angeles and could see Vancouver Island across the Salish Sea. M.V. Coho and Clipper actually depart from here to Victoria. All along the scenic route we drove through a few reserve lands. Some featured Casinos which offered free camping. We opted instead for campgrounds with hookups, showers and toilets. Also, we passed by several unsightly roadside clearcuts; something you won’t see up north.
One overnight stop was at the Three Rivers campsite, a reserve town famous for the setting of 2008 movie Twilight. This wooded campground was close to Rialto Beach, a dramatic waterfront with a pebble beach and jagged outcroppings breaking the onslaught of the relentless Pacific. A great place for a lunch or sunsets. We grabbed our chairs and set up on the water’s edge, watching the endless waves roll in.
We followed the coastline around the peninsula and overnighted at Westport Winery, a Harvest Host. They offer free overnight parking and can be found all over the US and Canada. This winery featured a whimsical Mermaid Museum, a gourmet deli and a wine bar. We did all three.
One aspect of road travel is the everchanging scenery, like a non-stop 3D movie going by. Driving also meant constantly being aware of your surroundings, three mirrors and the front view, always checking and reacting to changing conditions. I like driving and mentioned to Betty that I could have been a long-haul trucker. She was not impressed.
We stopped in Newport to watch the odorous, barking sea lions and then had a clam chowder for lunch at Mo’s. We passed up on the sea caves, where an elevator brings you down into a large protected cave full of smelly, barking and rutting sea lions.
Our next overnight stop was the Blue Heron Cheese factory in Tillamook, also a Harvest Host. This town featured a large creamery with an output of thousands of pounds of cheddar cheese and ice cream. We did a self-guided tour which also showed us on large screens the happy cows, sleeping on foamies and walking into automated milk machines two or three times a day. They didn’t tell us what happens to these bovines once the milk dries up. Beef bouillon? Pet food? Shoe polish?
We followed the dramatic coast of Oregon, past miles of sandy beaches with rough seas coming in, steep rocky cliffs, a long stretch of large dunes and quaint little towns with names like ‘Cape of Foul Weather’. Indeed, the rain was driving sideways, windshield wipers on max. From Leggat we headed west and took the long, steep and windy connector to Hwy #1
The redwoods were one of our destinations on this trip and we weren’t disappointed. We stopped in Crescent City, just inside California and got some excellent tips from a park ranger. He directed us into a newly opened trail system in Jedediah Smith State Park off Walker Road. Grove of the Titans took our breath away. The gigantic trees, 1500 – 2500 years old are truly awesome. One of them was 22m in circumference and 7m diameter. They dwarfed our Cathedral Grove on Vancouver Island. These redwood trees were simply from another age, from long before the colonisers cut down 95% of them. It staggers the mind.
The Napa Valley was another of our destinations and we came into it from the West, over the Mayacamas Mountains. After the twisty, slow road we descended into Sonoma Valley which at this time of year was a carpet of gold and red which stretched out before us. Acres and acres of vines which continued into the neighbouring Napa Valley. It was a stunning sight. Vineyards filled the valley and up the slopes of the Sanoma Mountains to the east and the Mayacamas range to the west. We stopped in Calistoga which is like a small version of Whistler or Banff. The main throughfare is lined with fancy wine boutiques and expensive restaurants, spa hotels and resorts with hot springs. Wine tastings were $ 50 per person which didn’t really interest us but we did find a place which served us a glass of wine which didn’t force us into mortgaging the house. Napa Valley is about 40km long and 4km wide and lined with wineries and vineyards, some of them Italian, baroque castles and all of them with expensive, overpriced wines. Chateau Montelena won the historic Judgment of Paris wine competition for its 1973 Chardonnay and put Napa on the map of the world’s best wine regions. This story was made into the 2008 movie Bottle Shock starring the late Alan Rickman.
We camped at the State Park outside of Calistoga and were able to use the local shuttle bus for a dollar a ride. Since most visitors came to the valley for the wines, a shuttle service made sense.
Napa City with its 80’000 inhabitants was a disappointment. Again, a main street lined with name brand luxury stores, wine boutiques and art galleries appealing to a well-heeled crowd. Nowhere were there any cozy grottos or restaurants that served open, local wine as they do in the Bordeaux region or the Medoc or the hill towns of Italy and Spain. All the wine was expensive. No such thing as a cheap Napa wine.
We had to get around San Francisco since we had no desire to stop in the city. We’ve been here before and rode the F-line streetcar along Market Street to Fisherman’s wharf and had a serving of chowder in a famous sourdough bowl. We just wanted to get to the other side to Half Moon Bay. There was a disagreement between the two navigators. Mandy from the TomTom GPS and Betty sitting next to me with her map. I missed a couple of exits which flushed us past the city into an ever-growing river of cars down the multi lane #880 Freeway. Scanning 3 mirrors and the front windshield while listening to the calm and sexy voice of GPS Mandy telling me to stay left and the frustrated directions from Betty informing me that I missed yet another exit didn’t make for fun driving. Eventually I was able to get out of this nightmarish traffic hell and after driving for about 40km north we made it to our destination: Pelican Point, just west of Halfmoon Bay. The RV park cost us US$ 90 but it did offer laundry services and DVD rentals for $ 1. We watched Away, a 1989 Spielberg film with Holly Hunter, Richard Dreyfuss and a young and hilarious John Goodman. The Park was right next to a Ritz Carlton Hotel which towered on top of a cliff above the foaming and wild Pacific. It sat next to a ritzy Golf course but the clubhouse was open to anyone and served a decently priced pub menu. We dined beside the millionaire golfers, feeling a tad out of place.
Looking at the map we figured we’d make it to Morro Bay, our final destination, just a couple hours short of LA. We took the fastest route along #280 to #101 and #41 to the Morro Bay State Park by the lagoon, right next to the State Park golf course. We parked, plugged in and then walked along the boardwalk and enjoyed a spectacular sunset. We had a dinner of fajitas and enchiladas at the Bayview Café just next to the RV park. Dinner included a liter of open local wine from Paso Robles. We felt that we had arrived.
The next morning, we walked the boardwalk again along the estuary and saw a myriad of birds: flocks of cormorants, egrets, solitary herons and sandpipers and cruising above us falcons looking for easy prey. Even the odd monarch butterfly flitted by. We checked out the seaside village with all the galleries, tourist and surf shops, had the best roast beef sandwich at the Hofbrau waterfront café and watched the lazy sea-otters and sealions along the active harbour front. In the near distance loomed Morro Rock, a colossal plug left over from an ancient volcano and the defining landmark. We walked to the Inn on the Park which offered Happy Hour specials and spectacular views of the rock and sunsets on the bay. The weather was a balmy 20+ degrees. Life was good.
We needed our rear brakes fixed and were at the shop first thing on Monday morning. As promised, they got right to it and two hours and US$ 280 later, we had new rear brakes. We got another roast beef sandwich and parked by the beach next to the rock, watching the surfers and sea kayakers catching the waves.
Back at the campground we got our chairs and a drink and sat on the beach to watch the spectacular sunset show one more time. The next day we decided to start the long trek back up the coast heading for home. We stopped north of Hearst Castle (which we visited once before) to watch the young sea elephants resting on the same beach forever. We also stopped in Carmel by the Sea, a ritzy town full of high-end shops, expensive wine tasting rooms and classy villas lining the streets down to the expansive beach and adjacent park.
This time we opted to drive over the Golden Gate bridge and right through downtown San Francisco which proved easier than going around the city. We arrived at the Nelson winery, north of Hopland, our 3rd Harvest Host, just next to the #101. After some mandatory wine tasting we bought a bottle and camped under a massive oak tree next to the vineyard.
The next day we stopped for a seafood lunch at Crescent City and then made it to Gold Beach, Oregon where we stayed in the downtown RV park for the best deal yet. $ 40 for a full hook up and within walking distance to shops, restaurants and the beach. We meandered along the wild Oregon coast, marvelling at the dramatic scenery and made it to Gearhart just south of the Olympia Peninsula. One more pasta dinner in the van.
We were up early and made it to the border in good time and all the way to Horseshoe Bay where we got on the 4:20 ferry. We were happy to be home again after 5’000km and 3 weeks on the road.
‘How do people on fixed income deal with inflation these days?’ I asked Camp after he got comfortable with a pint in front of him.
‘With difficulty is the simple answer but we both know that being squeezed financially has many ramifications. It can lead to anxiety, fighting, drinking, depression and worse. If you’re income is fixed and the bills double or triple the result is not good.’
‘As rents and mortgage rates double, food bills triple and incomes stay the same, it’s obvious what’s happening. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer.’
‘Rising income and wealth inequality are stoking social discontent and are a major driver of the increased political polarization and populist nationalism that are so evident today. Even if the grocery chains deny profiting from inflation, they’re profits rise simply because the prices are higher. If they make 5% on a $ 10 item before the pandemic, now they make the same 5% on the same item that now costs $ 20. Looks like their profits also doubled.’
‘While $ 10 of a fixed pension now only buys half of the same product as before Covid, which goes to show how depressing this inflation is for many seniors.’
‘Yes, I hear the same from my customers who are finding it more and more difficult to adjust to the rising cost of living, while their pensions stay the same. They have to change their daily routines in order to cope with the harsh reality and to make ends meet and many seniors are seeking help from charitable organisations. They can’t do the things they used to like going out for lunch with their friends or taking in a show or movie because they can’t afford it. Even visiting the grandkids in the city becomes an unwanted expense.’
‘A new report from Food Banks Canada found that this year’s food bank usage is at its highest since the survey started in 1989. Nearly two million visits to food banks in March 2023, up over 30% from the same time last year and over 200’000 of those visits were in British Columbia alone,’ I said.
‘You can blame the high house prices and soaring mortgage rates. Since 2020 nominal house prices have climbed by roughly 40% and fixed-rate mortgage rose from 3.1% to 7.3%, lifting the mortgage payments on a typical house by more than 50%.
‘Vancouver still leads the way as Canada’s most expensive city for renters, with the average one-bedroom unit listed at $2,872 and a two-bedroom at $3,777.’
‘Who can afford that? CMHC (Canada Mortgage and Housing Corporation) predicts that in the next 2 years an estimated 2.2 million households will be facing interest rate shock as they have to renew their mortgages, representing 45% of all outstanding mortgages in Canada. In the real world a $ 500’000 mortgage with a five-year fixed rate and a 25 year amortization will go from just under 2% to 5.5% and will represent about a $ 1’000 increase in monthly payments.’
‘Welcome to the future,’ I said.
Ask me how I feel about paying $ 10 for a pint of beer?’
It’s dark at 4:30. It’s November but our corner in the pub is warm and cozy. Camp was already in his chair. ‘I closed up early. No Christmas shoppers yet.’
‘According to recent polls, both Trudeau and Biden are dipping ever lower in public opinion and are blamed for everything that’s wrong: Inflation, the culture wars, the homeless and addiction problems, the high mortgage rates, the housing unaffordability which all fall under the economy umbrella. Name any problem and the incumbents are to blame,’ I said.
‘Yes, I’ve read the same column. Some of the criticism of Trudeau’s economic record is based on perceptions that don’t match reality. David Coletto, chairman of Abacus Data, points out that Canada’s 3.6 percent inflation rate is well below Germany or France and even the US. Similarly, Biden gets no credit for the significant jobs created under his watch. He is also perceived as too old to be president, even though the other contender is only 3 years younger.’
‘Which goes to show that perception is everything. If you’re framed as an old dottery grampa then it’s hard to change that frame.’
‘Inflation and high interest rates are bad for incumbents but the alternative is worse than Trudeau and Biden. We all know about the rabid megalomaniac in the US but Poilievre in Canada is not much better. The first is a nasty liar, cheat and racist, the latter is at best a windsock and at worst a disaster for Canada. He’s an opportunist who has never worked an honest day in his life but he is a savvy social media punter and knows how to attract followers. Not that he has any fresh ideas or visions, far from it. He mostly complains and points out the negatives.’
Camp was already waiting for me and as soon as I sat down, he read me this little speech: ‘Here is one for ages: When the main course for your life’s evening dinner is money and power with a side dish of old age, accompanied by a bottle of your enemy’s blood, what’s for dessert? A bit of hate with some old, ripe grievances? Maybe some hostile revenge with a spot of envy? And when you finally lay down your spinning head full of meds and bad memories what is missing?’.
‘Was that a quote or did you make it up after a bad day at the store?’
‘I had had it written down in my notes. Not sure but the essential question still remains.’
‘You mean what is missing in that cynic’s smorgasbord. Let me think. I would guess the meaning of it all.’
‘The meaning of life?’
‘If you like.’
‘I could go back to Carlyle or Goethe or Schopenhauer or Nietzsche or even Monty Python. They all had plenty to say and speculate about the meaning of life but the essence of life itself surely lies in the fact that we can celebrate it. With dance and art, stories, experiences and memories. The fact that we can overcome obstacles and suffering, illness and disease and live to tell the tale in many forms and mediums surely adds meaning to life.’
‘You’re in a philosophical mood today, Camp. What brought that on?’
‘So, what do you do Camp, if your sworn enemy’s only goal is your destruction. As in the Iranians and by extension Hamas’, Hezbollah’ and any other Jihad’s group’s stated goal. They want the whole state of Israel and its Jewish residents annihilated and their whole country wiped off the map and replaced. It’s what they publicly stated over and over and what prompted the horrendous latest attack on Israeli civilians. Let’s face it Camp it was murder. Indiscriminate, pre-mediated mass-murder of woman and children, concert goers and farmers.’
‘Are you finished? Was that your question? And now you expect me to have the answer? I tell you what you cannot do. You cannot round up a population, half of which consists of children, and hope to find and kill the perpetrators of this horrendous crime. I agree, Hamas should be rooted out, their armed wing destroyed but that will be very difficult, especially if they hide amongst the civilian population or in hospitals, schools and shelters. These holy warriors are fanatics and nothing will deter them from their stated goals, one of which is to die as a martyr in the Jihad and go straight to heaven, into the arms of 72 virgins. Here is a quote I found: Ibn Kathir in his Tafsir of Surah Al-Rahman (55), verse 72, quotes “the Prophet Muhammad saying: ‘The smallest reward for the people of Paradise is an abode where there are 80,000 servants and 72 wives, over which stands a dome decorated with pearls, aquamarine, and ruby.
‘How crazy is that. Which goes to show that religion is the root cause of all evil in the world, closely followed by money and greed. In other words, there are no easy answers but the slaughter has to end at some point. Will some sane people from both sides sit down together and hammer out a path forward? Or will history just keep repeating itself?’
Bruno's point of view 