Protest

THOUSANDS GATHER TO PROTEST GLOBAL WARMING

I recently received this clever photo in my inbox.  Now I wonder if each of us spent as much time on making some small changes in our life that would alleviate global warming as we do on sending jokes making fun of it perhaps we could find a way to slow it down.

I guess there are still some who do not believe that there is a crisis. Those would be the people who also don't believe that keeping things out of land fill by trying to recycle where possible and composting food wastes will help the cause.

And they would rather allow a tap to drip for years wasting tons (yes tons)* of water instead of going out and buying a 20 cent washer to install.  Or using a clothes dryer rather than hanging their clothes in the fresh air and sunshine. Leaving lights and appliances such as TV's, computers, printers, radios on in rooms where there are no human inhabitants. I don't know but I guess these would be the same people who protest about the high cost of their hydro bills.

They might even be the same ones who still water their lawns. That would be to soak in the weed killing poisons they just applied.  The sooner to reach all our water supplies.

But ask the people in Bolivia who have seen a mountain top glacier shrink from miles wide and  hundreds of feet deep to a small patch of slush in only a few decades.  Boo hoo where will the tourists ski now?  In addition to causing the loss of tourist dollars this inconsiderate glacier is now threatening the water supply of many villages below.

My aunt used to say, "Nothing lasts forever"  and I guess that is what is happening here. We thought we would always have plenty of fresh water and whales and elephants and rhubarb without any thought as to our role as stewards.

Creationists believe we were given dominion over the animals. I won't get into a debate here about who or what may have been responsible for this gross error in judgment  but rather say, for those who believe that man is superior to the beasts of the field then with superiority comes responsibility for their welfare. 

Like spoiled children who are handed everything without having to lift a finger we have used it all up and looked for more. But what if one day the larder was bare?

Evolutionists could say that it is the natural order of things just ticking along.

I am not going to argue with either one. Because no matter who is right we have been far too casual about our natural resources for far too long. If we expected that someone else would come along and fix the mess we "stewards" made that someone must be busy because they have not appeared.

Now when the resources are almost gone we are still denying there is a problem.

If you care about this sort of thing check out this link for all kinds of information http://www.treehugger.com/

Wake up people!

Author's Note:

A reader has commented (see full text in comments below) that he does not believe that MAN (his emphasis) created this crisis. He seems to believe it to be a natural phenomenon.  Whoa! Is he blaming it on a WOMAN; Mother Nature perhaps? 

Unlike him arguing with mine, I will not argue with his position since being a woman I am naturally biased.

I do however stand firmly by my assertions that we are shirking our responsibility to use our resources with care.

Like Pete Seeger said:

One man's hands can't tear a prison down,

Two men's hands can't tear a prison down,

But if one and two and fifty make a million,

We'll see that day come round,

We'll see that day come round.


This "many hands" theory can apply to anything so take some action no matter how small or insignificant it may seem.  You may not save the world from global warming but you will save some resources and save yourself a few bucks in the bargain on those hydro bills.

*Let's take one tap that drips at a rate of 1 liter in 1 hour, that's 24 liters a day, 720 liters a month, and 8,760 liters a year, almost 9 tons of water.  And that is just ONE tap.

Poems and Stories from another life - Part V - Pase del Nino

CHRISTMAS BELOW THE EQUATOR
By E. J. Brunton

In Cuenca, Ecuador, on December 24th we always celebrated with an afternoon parade of the “Nino Viajero”, or, literally, the traveling Christ child. Children are adorned in expensive, hand-embroidered, faux pearl and jewel-encrusted costumes. For several hours the streets overflow with these mini-Madonnas and Christ child replicas.

Horses, mules and burros are decked out with silver and leather bridles, strings of cookies, candies, fruits, vegetables, bottles of sugar cane liquor, and packs of cigarettes. Often the patient animals are ridden by whole roasted pigs or turkeys with paper money stuffed in their mouths. More often the rider is a local roasted delicacy known in Quichua as “cuye”. We Canadians know it as that cuddly household pet, the guinea pig, Recent entries to the scene are imported canned or bottled goods which are also strung on the
animals as a sign of significant wealth.

Each year a family will elect to decorate their horse for the event. The following year an uncle or cousin will take on the challenge and must always try to double or outdo what his predecessor has done. I imagine that explains why 16 wheeler trucks are beginning to replace the noble horse in recent years. Horses would stagger under the burden of such wealth.

Indigenous children in native costume perform a dance not unlike the English maypole dance. Each dancer, holding a colorful ribbon, weaves his way through intricate steps while winding and then unwinding the ribbons as he retraces his steps. Accompanying the dancers are groups playing the “rondador” (pan flute) cow hide drums, strings of shells, “bocina” (a several yards long instrument made partially from cow horn), and tiny ukulele-like instruments formed from entire armadillo hides called “charangos”.

Village bands from outlying areas playing tubas, drums and trumpets consume quantities of contraband cane liquor as they compete with ghetto blasters clutched by the little Christ Child and Virgin Mary look-a-likes. Ironically the song was often Madonna’s “Like a Virgin.” No one seems to mind the cacophony.

Thirsty watchers quaff from a smeary communal glass, some dubious home-made liquids, carried in grimy pails by the vendors. The lone glass is carefully swished out after each use in the one bucket of murky water which will have to last throughout the entire parade.

Snow cones are made by shaving a huge block of ice with hand operated contraptions painted in gaudy hues. This device, accompanied by the ice and the bottles of sugary, brightly colored syrup flavorings, ambulates atop a three-wheeled bicycle. Others hawk tempting slices of pineapple, papaya, mango, sticks of sugar cane or refreshing coconut water served right in the shell.

The mingled aromas of shish-ka-bob like “chusos”, fried “llapingachos”(potato cakes), deep-fried, thinly sliced “chifles” of plantain and mouth watering slices from a whole roasted pig with its eyes, ears, hooves and tail intact, mingle to tickle your palate. You can have these on a take out basis, wrapped up in an environmentally friendly leaf, or you can eat at the stand from another communal dish. May I recommend the leaf?

At the end of the parade rides the long anticipated guest of honor; the tiny wooden Christ child. He is dressed in a silken robe encrusted with jewels. Accompanying him is a marching military band and some cavalry. This little statue was taken to Italy over 60 years ago to be blessed by the Pope, thus gaining Him the name of the traveling Christ Child.

Making your way home you catch sight of some of the participants straggling away from the parade followed by bands of  laughing children who try to steal the candies and cookies which
adorn the exhausted horses. I hear that the food is handed out to the needy after the parade.

After all Christmas is for sharing in any part of the world.

Poems and Stories from another life - Part V - The Bridge

The Bridge
by E. J. Brunton originally published in the Napanee Guide and Helium


On Christmas Eve 1999 I sought some solace in the blue- domed Cathedral on the main square in Cuenca. Monsignor Luna Tobar was in fine form. His voice echoed off the gold-encrusted walls and sorrowful plaster saints. This would be the last mass I would attend here as I knew I must leave Ecuador.

Outside, the poor and the disenfranchised crowded the darkened square. A cold wind wrapped itself around the portals of the ancient Cathedral. During mass shabby old women and barefoot youngsters plucked at our sleeves for a handout. Many of the well-dressed pious shooed them away with looks of disgust. I was incensed. Then and there I vowed I would do something to help them.

Next morning I hauled out Grandma’s big kettle and threw in lots of vegetables and meat for a hearty soup. While this bubbled away I made a pile of sandwiches and then struck off with the fragrant feast in the trunk of my car.

I headed for the bridge where a friend who worked with street kids told me I would find plenty of homeless people to feed. She warned me that they sniffed glue and might get a bit rowdy.

As I drove slowly up I saw a few kids on the grass near the Tomebamba River. With a little apprehension, I hailed them and opened the trunk. The rich aroma of the hot soup drew about a dozen ragged dirty boys. They had battle scars that they had sewn up with needle and thread as they couldn’t afford a doctor.

“Feliz Navidad! Who’s hungry?” I asked unnecessarily.

The boys crowded round, looking at me with curiosity, as I began to ladle the soup into plastic cups and hand out sandwiches. They wolfed this down and politely asked,

“Please Senora. May I have another sandwich? More soup Please?”

After their small brown puppy was fed, the leader of the boys asked if he could invite some nearby street cleaners and a family of 5 who were begging up at the corner.

“Of course!” I said, as I laded out more of the thick rich soup.

Another car drew up and the boys ran over. The window was rolled down just enough for the driver to thrust out a round loaf of the traditional fruity Christmas bread before the car sped off.

We sat on the curb for awhile talking about their life under the bridge. They slept in cardboard boxes with more flattened boxes and newspapers as a cover. They slept close together for comfort and warmth. They sniffed glue to forget the cold and hunger, and the pain of being alone on the streets.
When we parted, one by one the ragged boys hugged me. One said, “Senora. I asked myself today who will ever think of us on Christmas? Then you came along. How can we ever repay you?”

“Dios se lo pague,” said another; God will pay you.

Crossing the bridge to reach those boys had made my problems seem so insignificant. Their grateful smiles as they waved goodbye were all the payment I would ever need.

Poems and Stories from another life - Part V Loaves and Fishes

LOAVES AND FISHES

by E. J Brunton, originally published in the Napanee Guide



“Do you think you could take more than two little girls?” Sister Maria Jose asked hopefully.

I looked at Julio and he shrugged, “I don’t see why not."

“Wonderful!” cried the nun and she flew out of the cold drafty room of the Orphanage before we could change our minds.


That was Christmas Eve, 1992 in Cuenca, Ecuador. But the story began a month earlier when I was seized by an urge to make sock dolls. After I had about thirty done I wondered what to do with them. I called my sister-in-law and asked her advice.

“Why don’t you give them to an orphanage?” was her practical reply.

So that was how it started. I called the Orphanage and offered the dolls. The nun said they would be greatly appreciated but could I bring them a few days before Christmas as most of the little girls were going home for the holidays?

“They go home for the holidays? I thought they were orphans,” I exclaimed.

The Sister continued by way of explanation, “Yes, their families are poor and so they give them to us to feed and clothe and educate until they are 12. Of course there are some that don’t have families and they will be staying here. You couldn’t take a couple of them for Christmas could you?”

I was staggered at the rapidity of what was happening here. How had a few innocent sock dolls suddenly morphed into real little dolls coming to spend the holidays with us?

At the agreed upon time we went to the orphanage to leave the dolls and to meet the little girls who would come home with us on Christmas Eve.

All of these Spanish Colonial buildings began to blur into one after awhile. They sullenly sat at the very edge of the narrow sidewalks, bordering the marble-cobbled streets.

Hermano Miguel, as the orphanage was called, was typical of these fortress like structures. Its four foot thick adobe walls had stood the test of tempests and earthquakes. The large wooden doors were studded with brass nails and deeply carved. A hole cut into the door at eye level was covered in a sturdy mesh screen so that you could communicate with the concierge. The whole was locked up with an ancient wrought iron lock accessible only with a 3 pound key.

The concierge let us in and showed us to a drafty room overlooking the pleasant courtyard. There were roses and trees and benches. Nestled carelessly amongst the flowers were ancient pre Colombian pots.

We sat for a few minutes as a cool breeze blew stiffly in the open windows chilling us to the bone. The room was dimly lit with a single naked bulb suspended from the 18 foot ceiling.

Soon Sister Maria Jose arrived. She was starched and sharply defined but she had a mischievous look that I liked immediately. She greeted us briskly and then rushed off to gather the children.

After meeting the children we went shopping in the open air markets for warm sweaters, underpants, socks, candy and toys. My generous neighbours and my sister-in-law donated their children’s outgrown clothes for the rest of the kids at the orphanage.

On Christmas Eve afternoon we returned to the orphanage to pick up our two little charges. I had been thinking how strange it was that no forms had been filled out and the nun had not even asked our names, where we lived, what we did, or come to inspect where the little girls would be staying.

How different it was from our paranoid, bubble-wrapped society and how dangerous it could have been. Never were we asked any of these questions in the months that ensued. It is easy to see why Latin America is one of the favorite spots to pick up street children for use and abuse in various horrible enterprises such as snuff films, in the organ trade, or smuggling drugs in their lifeless bodies.

Sister Maria Jose asked apologetically, “Do you think you could take more than two little girls?”

Before we had time to ask how many, she was gone and back in a flash with 6 little girls ranging in age from 4 years to 12 years old. They were freshly scrubbed and ready to go. Well, it would be crowded in our two guest beds but how could you choose which ones were to stay at the orphanage?

We took the girls out to the house that we were building in the country on a 5 acre lot that ran down to the river. The children gamboled about, climbing trees, picking avocados, oranges, lemons and capuli and teasing the dogs while we settled up the business of the Christmas baskets for the workers.

We had about six full-time men building the house and two ladies who were clearing the fields with hoes and old-fashioned sickles with cow-horn handles. The custom was to prepare a basket with cooking oil, sugar, rice, a live chicken, salt, a can or two of tuna, some dry noodles, a bottle of cane liquor and whatever else you could fit in.

Once the baskets were handed out, a drink shared and Christmas wishes exchanged. We prepared to leave. One of the ladies who had been clearing the field came rushing up. “No basket for us Don Julio? Not even a fruit bread? Since the ladies had only been working there for a couple of days we had forgotten about them.

We felt terrible so Julio said,” Jump on. I’ll give you Christmas dinner.” One of the ladies protested that she couldn’t go so Julio gave her some money. The other lady, Luisa, begged us to wait a moment while she ran home to clean up.

After about 15 minutes she returned. Following behind her were 6 small children ranging in age from a few months to 15 years old. The turkey we were having roasted at one of the local bakeries seemed to shrink in my mind. Could we possibly feed all these people? I should have asked Sister Maria Jose about how you did the loaves and fishes thing.

Julio was his usual calm self while I tried to squelch my mounting hysteria. Once home he picked up the phone to call our friend, the resourceful Manuel. Manuel loved a challenge and readily agreed to get some more food somewhere and I set about to prepare the vegetables that would go along with the turkey which Julio had gone to retrieve. My kitchen was thronged with excited children and Luisa was peeling potatoes in quantity.

I retired to a quiet corner with my own personal recipe for hysteria - a tumbler of neat rum . I counted our guests as I wondered how in the world we could come up with gifts not only for the orphans but also for the unexpected multitude. There would now be 16 people at the table or perched on the sofas and chairs. Suddenly I thought of the used clothing in my office. I wrapped up some of it for the unexpected orphans and gave the rest of it to Luisa.

Pandemonium was in full swing when Julio and Manuel arrived. Julio’s natural leadership skills got everyone organized with various tasks. The kids would set the table, Manuel would carve the turkey, I would just continue to drink. “Relax, you don’t have to do a thing,” he said refilling my glass.

Somehow dinner was served and everyone had their fill. It wasn’t loaves and fishes but it filled the bill.