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Saturday 16 March 2024

Happy St. Paddy's Day - hippie tripping across Ireland in 1971

 



Chapter 25 - Ireland - from Eel Pie Island Dharma 


Driving back to London in a borrowed mini, wearing only light cotton shirts with the breeze whipping by, gave me a bad dose of flu.  Somehow Scotch John and I ended up living with a bunch of students in a commune / residence / crash pad in Kingston.  The flu was so bad I was knocked out for several days, and even had mild hallucinations.  One day I woke up feeling better, and as I hadn't eaten for several days I wandered out into the streets of Kingston.  I bought a carton of milk and wolfed it down.

I decided at that moment to hitchhike through Ireland, with fantasies of finding a croft cottage to use as a home base.  I hitchhiked to Liverpool, where I met a seedy character on a back street who wanted to trade his leather shoes for my runners.  I stumbled into the Liverpool ferry docks, and caught the all night ferry to Belfast.  There were some Irish nursing students on the trip, and I stayed up all night flirting with them. One of them gave me her school address, and told me to look her up.

We docked in Belfast in early dawn light, and I stumbled off groggy from lack of sleep into the war torn streets.  There were signs of the violence everywhere, although the shopkeeper in the little grocery where I bought some food was very friendly.

Belfast was no place for a longhaired pacifist, and quickly I hitched a ride with a respectable-looking young guy with short hair and a suit.  As we were pulling into the outskirts of Belfast, we got stuck in traffic behind a lorry load of British troops.  To torment us, they aimed their mounted machinegun at us.  Perhaps we looked like a mismatched couple of guys, but my feeling was that they were doing it for enjoyment rather than for their protection.

The young businessman was only going as far as Armagh, the notorious border county which had been the scene of many IRA and counter IRA bombings and shootings.  I was let out by a truck stop, and although it was early evening, I was exhausted from the ferry ride and the experiences of the war zone which is Belfast.

I crossed the road into the brush at the edge of the truck stop, and curled up to sleep about twenty feet from the road.  As I was dozing off, I noticed a sinister omen next to me, the skeleton of a bat hanging from a bush.  Despite the clinging bat skeleton, I fell into a sound sleep, only being awakened once when a truck motor started up.  Then in the dead of the night a screaming howl woke me up with the shivers!  It was like nothing I had ever heard.  It was longer and louder than a human scream, more painful and mournful and dangerous. All I could thinnk of was a Banshee!  I quivered in my sleeping bag, not daring to move, and not feeling secure hidden in the bushes with the hanging bat.  Thank God the scream didn't repeat, and I finally fell back asleep:

Bat skeleton
    hung on a shrub
        banshee scream!

The next day I got a lift to Sligo, which is on the west coast of Ireland.  My lift took me into a pub in the small town, and got me quite drunk on just a couple of pints of real Irish Guinness.  After saying goodbye to my benefactor, I wandered into the black night and fell asleep in a field.  Minutes later the Guiness curdled, and I puked my guts out.  I wasn't a pleasant sight to behold the next morning:

Rocky Irish field
waking to the smell of
 vomit and Guinness

I began walking the narrow road - it was almost more of a cart trail - which was the main highway connecting Sligo with Galway.  Past hilly little graveyards and quaint cottages beside trout streams.  Mile after mile I walked for days, with only a car passing every couple of hours.  In my deteriorating state, I didn't look like much of an attraction for good conversation to the few motorists, and so I walked four or five hours a day, and then slept besides the Sligo road at night.

Finally a car stopped for me.  Two sexy Danish hitchhikers had insisted that the young Irish lad driving stop for me, and they drove me into Galway.  The girls and I headed for the nearest pub, and had a pint.  All the locals gathered round, and several of them performed their pub tricks.  One played the flute, another sang, and one even danced for us. They were disappointed that we didn't have any special talents to show them, and they seemed sad that their exotic looking visitors weren't really very entertaining.

The girls and I headed for the outskirts of town, and I thought a very exciting evening was shaping up.  Unfortunately every male hitchhiker for miles around had the same idea, and we all crowded into their little tent like good brothers and sisters of the road, and nobody got lucky.

The next morning we all started hitching.  I got a lift on the back of a motorbike for five or six miles, but it turned out to be my next to last lift in Ireland.  For days I walked the central road crossing back from Galway in the west to Dublin in the east.  At night I slept in ditches, except once outside a town halfway to Dublin I slept in a tent with some local schoolboys.

I wandered on along the lonely highway.  Althought it was a major road, there wasn't a lot of traffic.  The few pounds I had started with had run out, and I hadn't eaten a full meal in weeks.  Just as evening fell, I met a nice middle-aged lady who took me to her house and fed me dinner.  I think it was some sort of retribution on her husband - I probably got to eat his dinner while he was in a pub.  Luckily for me he didn't materialize, or my bones would probably be in an Irish graveyard.

I thanked her for the very welcome meal, and ambled to the outskirts of town to find my usual resting place in a ditch.  I chose a spot several hundred yards from a deserted-looking house, and fell asleep with a full stomach.  Around midnight I was awakened by the noises of a loud party from the house.  For a moment I even thought of joining the wild goings-on, but I was so stuffed I fell back asleep.

When I next awoke it was dawn.  I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, and peered through the thinning mist at the house where the rowdy party had taken place all night.  It was deserted!  No cars, no drunken bodies strewn on the lawn, nothing.  The house was as deserted-looking as when I had first seen it the evening before.  God knows what had transpired all night in the old house, or had it all been my imagination, the result of indigestion caused by my first real meal in weeks?



Chris circa 1970-71


Eel Pie Dharma is protected by international copyright laws. Individuals may print off a copy of this work for personal use only to facilitate easier reading.

Thursday 14 March 2024

The Dockside Bistro Campbellford - a restaurant review

 Photo

the corner table closest to the river is where I ate

With the ongoing genocide in Gaza, it’s hard to stomach life. But we need to eat, and we need distractions. The  poetry calling I’ve accepted, a people’s poet in the broadest sense, sure doesn’t pay and often makes me enemies of those in power, even petty power like local library boards. So often I've used my creative writing for non creative efforts, even the occasional restaurant review. In fact the most “pay” I’ve received for my writing was for a review for the Beaches community paper when I lived in Toronto. It was for The Caravan Treats, a small cafe which served delicious food. It was on The Danforth in a relatively downscale neighbourhood, but when the trendy Beachers read the review, Caravan Treats was swamped and firmly established as the unpretentious but delicious restaurant it was. The owner, Milana, thanked me with free meals for a full year. I ate there almost every night, and even took dates who also enjoyed Milana’s excellent Hungarian recipes. So with that memory, here is one of my  favourite area restaurants and a backroad trip.


Yesterday was so sunny and warm for March here on the edge of The Kawarthas that I fired up my old Miata and drove from Marmora to Campbellford for lunch at The Dockside Bistro. The owner couple, Sandy and Sarah Sanyal, are also from Toronto, and they provide food and service which is at least on a par with the food I ate when I lived in TO’s Little India. The building is a renovated stone church on the Trent River, and I was first to grab a table on the outdoor patio. Mallards were swimming towards me from downstream, and their slow approach amused me while I sipped my craft pale ale. Soon a couple also touring this beautiful spring-like day sat at the next table with their gorgeous golden retriever. They had called ahead to check that Dockside is dog friendly. They were from Newmarket, and had driven to Campbellford to cross the newish suspension bridge over The Trent River gorge to hike in Ferris Park on the outskirts of CFord. Their retriever was afraid to cross the high bridge, with its open mesh floor which gives a vey scary feeling of imminently plunging into the far below spring torrent. I remember having to carry my little dog Chase across the bridge, but larger dogs often balk and refuse to cross, so the couple had to go in the park from a different access. 

Buttered Chicken
full monty butter chicken


The man asked if I was a regular, and what would I recommend. The quick serve butter chicken was my choice, although the last visit I had the full butter chicken meal with all the side dishes, which was enough for two small eaters! Our meals arrived promptly, and chatting and dog petting had to wait for a while. The couple thanked me for the helpful choice in food, and after some more waterfowl watching, I headed home via the twisting Cordova Mines backroad. 


Photo                

Saturday 9 March 2024

in memoriam Norma West Linder by her husband James Deahl

 Picture


March 8, 2024



Dear Chris,


         An obituary I wrote for my beloved Norma is in the new issue of Write. Norma was a member of The Writers’ Union of Canada for many decades, as I point out. (Probably most current members were born after Norma had joined.)


         I have no idea who may or may not read Write, so here is what I wrote:


Norma West Linder


       In memoriam



         Norma West Linder was born in Toronto on September 4, 1928, the year before the Great Depression. When the hard times came, her family moved to the tiny village of Mindemoya on Manitoulin Island, where she spent her childhood. Although her adult life would be centred in Toronto and Sarnia, Norma considered Manitoulin to be her spiritual home. She always was an Island Girl at heart, or a “Haw,” as folks from Manitoulin call themselves. Her early memories are captured in her memoir, Morels and Maple Syrup.


         During her long life, Norma published seven novels, sixteen poetry collections, countless short stories (collected in No Common Thread), two books for children, a biography of Ontario’s Lieutenant Governor Pauline McGibbon, and a one-act play. Her eighth novel, Michael Newman’s Summer of Seventy-eight, in press at the time of her passing, will be launched at her Celebration of Life. As a writer of fiction, Norma was inspired by the work of Margaret Laurence; her poetry was sparked by the books of Raymond Souster, who became a personal friend. Impressed by his plain-spoken poetic language, she made it her own.


         For many years, Norma was best known for her novels, three of which were simultaneously published in Britain, and her short stories, also internationally published. Her prose appeared in magazines like Chatelaine, and her short fiction was frequently anthologized. Also, she had the distinction of having had her third novel, Woman in a Blue Hat, banned in Moncton, and perhaps other areas of New Brunswick. (As she observed, it probably boosted sales!) Nonetheless, critical attention was increasingly drawn to her poetry after Adder’s-tongues: A Choice of Norma West Linder’s Poems, 1969 – 2011 appeared in 2012, and her poetry found a home in Canadian, American, and English journals. She also wrote columns for The Sarnia Observer and Trends. A long-time TWUC member, Norma joined in its formative days when Pierre Berton hosted occasional meetings in his home.


         Norma cherished the outdoor areas in and around Sarnia, such as the Mandaumin Woods, the Wawanosh Wetlands, and Highland Glen, and this love of nature, and the fragile beauty of the world around us, is captured in her poetry. In addition to her many books, Norma taught Creative Writing and English as a Second Language at Lambton College for two dozen years, her ESL students were often refugees from wars in Southeastern Asia. Norma was a caring and compassionate teacher; several of her students became friends. She was an avid swimmer, a Scrabble player who very seldom lost, and a killer ping-pong player (which she insisted was “table tennis”). I simply couldn’t defeat her, not even once. Norma West Linder died in Sarnia on August 26, 2023, just nine days before her ninety-fifth birthday. She leaves three children, two grandsons, three great-grandchildren, many published writers whom she mentored over the decades, and a host of devoted readers.



                        Published in: Write  -  Volume 51, Number 4, Winter 2024



         It was difficult to explain how truly special Norma was in less than 500 words. I did what I could. Strange how Fate operates. Norma died this past August and my grandson — Felix Girard — was born less than six months later. I wish Norma had lived long enough to see him.


Fraternally,


         . . . James



                   James Deahl



March 14, 2024



Dear Chris,


       Here is the information of Norma’s Celebration of Life. Despite being called the Sarnia Golf and Curling Club, it is actually in the Village of Point Edward, which is surrounded by Sarnia. It is located at the intersection of Christina Street & Errol Road. There is plenty of parking.




Norma West Linder

a Celebration of Life




Saturday, June 15, 2024




Sarnia Golf & Curling Club

500 Errol Road West

Point Edward, Ontario

N7V 1X7



SGCC shows off newly renovated course at weekend tournament


Norma was a source of joy and love in my life, and in the lives of many others. She is mourned by all who knew her. I attach the last photo of us. It was taken at a Christmas banquet just prior to the arrival of The Plague four years ago. Hard to believe that pretty girl beside me was 91 years old in 2019.



James Deahl

985 Maxwell Street

Suite 112

Sarnia, Ontario

N7S 4G2        


Phone: 519 - 704-0139




Friday 8 March 2024

"We ate the donkey's corn and barley."

 from my friend Judy Haiven's excellent blog:

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“We ate the donkey’s corn and barley.” Happy International Women’s Day

MARCH 8, 2024JUDYHAIVENThanks for reading Judy Haiven’s Newsletter! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

This is what one parent told the reporter from Al-Jazeera about how he fed his starving family, including four children.  But those days are long gone.  Now, the only thing available is grass. 

Said Faraj Abu Naji, of northern Gaza, “Planes are dropping aid on northern Gaza, and we have become like dogs, running after a bone.”

Last Saturday, the US airdropped its first load:  66 bundles, which is food for 38,000 meals. If the food actually lands in the hands of Gazas, only 2% of Gazans received for that day.  One airdrop is roughly the equivalent to one truckload. 

From IFL Science, here

Last airdrop was 38,000 meals

Before 7 Oct, more than 500 food trucks drove into Gaza every day – yesterday y there were 58. But over the last five months, on more than half the days there were no trucks at all.  

Starvation is something we don’t really get.  Yes, for years we have heard about starvation in parts of Africa. But officials tell us even in blighted areas of Central and West Africa, just 40-60% of the people will face possible starvation in the spring.   UNICEF and the UN claim that getting food to them is almost “manageable”.  

Some of us remember in 2006, a senior advisor to Prime Minister Ehud Olmert, said that Israeli wanted “to put the Palestinians on a diet, but not to make them die of hunger.” In 2012 it was revealed that as far back as 2008, Israeli authorities calculated  that Gazans needed only 2,279 calories a day to avoid malnutrition.  As a result, Israel then decided to limit the amount of food allowed into Gaza–  without causing outright starvation.

Palestinians in Gaza are facing a hunger crisis

All of Gaza’s 2.2 million people are unable to meet their food needs. Since December, nearly 200,000 additional people are experiencing catastrophic levels of hunger, a category that now includes more than a quarter of the population.

Half are starving, and another quarter are one step away from famine.  As one father asked, “What should we eat, should we eat grass?”  Grass is not good for humans as this article explains.
A family of 8 got one camp container (ration) of food which was not enough to feed them one meal. 

This is particularly shocking when we hear that 135,000 children in Gaza are under the age of two.  Officials for UNICEF say one in six children under age two has been starved, and the damage is irreversible.  Malnourishment means higher risk of heart disease in when they are in their  30s and 40s, higher risk of strokes, higher risk of cognitive impairment and liver disease. According to pediatricians, if under-twos are malnourished, they start to lose all their body fat, then their organs start to fail the kidneys, the liver, the brain, the heart—the brain and heart are last to go.  Then they starve to death.

This photo is from December, 2023; international aid agencies say Gaza is suffering from shortages of food [credit: Fatima Shbair/AP]

Dr Omar Abdel-Mannan is a British-Egyptian pediatric neurologist.  He and Gaza Medic Voices,   a group of doctors started to travel to  the West Bank to help victims of Israeli aggression twelve years go. In the last few years, they have been helping save lives in Gaza.  What Dr Abdel-Mannan noted is that children’s deaths are not so related to injuries from missiles, drones and blasts.  Children’s “deaths are completely preventable and are from diarrhea, gastroenteritis, chest infections, and pneumonia.  Their immune systems are so weak they can’t cope.”

Even when they can get a bit of food in the drops, after a child’s body has been in starvation mode for weeks, there is a high risk for “refeeding syndrome,”   if the child eats too much, too fast. “There are dangerous shifts in fluids, electrolytes which can result in heart failure, lung, liver and brain damage that result in coma and death,” according to Dr Abdel-Mannam. He insists that giving dropped food aid to children with no management plan with a doctor or dietician can cause more harm than good.  

The World Health Organization (WHO) fears that the 10 child starvation deaths in hospitals in the last days are just the tip of the iceberg.

Dr Abdel-Mannan notes , “The Americans drop aid like a stunt – they give Israel billions in military aid” and drop a fraction of money into food drops.  “It is dystopian” and beggars belief.  Just to get the food aid, Palestinians are shot at by occupiers.  

He said, “As an occupying force, Israel is responsible for food, water, health care and education.  But Israel is exterminating them.” 

Doctors who work with Dr Abdel-Mannan have said it’s dehumanizing for Gazans to pick up bread from the ocean.  Doctors noted, “We don’t want food or water from the West; we don’t want your prayers, your thoughts, your pity.  We just want a ceasefire. We want to stop being bombed and live like human beings.”  Dropping food packages adds insult to injury. 

Happy International Women’s Day

ITEM:  On 29 Feb, US Defence Secretary Lloyd Austin confirmed that 25,000 women and children in Gaza have been killed by Israel since 7 Oct. . 

ITEM:  On 29 Feb, Austin said that the US has sent 21,000 preciion-guided munitions to Israel. This was in violation of International Law. 

ITEM:  On 29 Feb, Austin confirmed, “We provide munitions to allies and partners that they’ll use them in a responsible way.” 

The Take on Al Jazeera has an excellent 19 minute podcast on starvation in Gaza here.

Image at the top: Parcels of food airdropped in South Sudan. Photo from the World Food Program, credit Peter Smerdon.

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Wednesday 6 March 2024

The Buddhist Monastery

Following is one of my favourite chapters from my memoir/haibun Eel Pie Island Dharma. It's about the fall of 1969, after I'd resisted the draft for the Vietnam War and escaped to England. It was first self-published in 1990 with Unfinished Monument Press, then professionally republished in 2012 with Hidden Brook Press (thanks publisher Tai Grove). Thanks also to fellow Eel Pie Island communard Weed who kindly posted this online circa 2003. I believe it's one of the earliest English language book length haibun.   

EEL PIE DHARMA - a memoir / haibun -  © 1990 Chris Faiers



Chapter 11 - The Buddhist Monastery

Mark Valiant at first seemed an unlikely person to have a deeply religious side.  He was an ex-cop, and the story goes that as he was becoming more and more sympathetic towards the youth rebellion, one day he took the plunge, and took it in a big way.  Mark took a strong dose of STP, a psychedelic even more hallucinatory than LSD.  He tripped for three days, and after that experience he was a changed man.  He quit the police, grew a beard and took to hanging around L'Auberge Cafe.

Mark was one of the regulars in Martha's crowd, sort of an older brother for Martha and a surrogate son for the Holmes.  He had been the unofficial "elder" who took charge when Martha's parents left on their holiday to Ibiza, the one I ruined with the flooding bathtub.

A couple of times Mark led Sunday expeditions to a Buddhist monastery several miles away.  It was always exciting to get up early for a change, and to watch London slowly coming to life from the top deck of a double-decker bus.

A path led down a lane to the monastery and the temple beside it.  The service consisted of all present sitting in meditation in the comfortable chapel for about a half hour or forty-five minutes.  It was very relaxing, and the meditations were led by a monk, who sat in front.  The layout of the chapel and pews wasn't that dissimilar from a Christian service - with the notable difference that no words were spoken, no hymns sung.  It was up to each of us to make our peace with the world.

One morning a cat found its way into the chapel, and halfway through meditation it let out a yowl, and decided it wanted to go elsewhere.  It was amusing to see the startled look on all our faces at this unexpected interruption, but the monk calmly got up and let the cat out to wander off, and we resumed meditating.

My impression of these mornings is of a tranquil blue atmosphere.  There was a subtle presence of blue energy always present after we had begun meditating, and my feeling was that the monk was pleased with the aura, which I'm sure he was very aware of.

After the meditation session we would gather in the vestibule of the chapel, and drink tea and discuss religion.  Everyone present was offered an equal chance to speak, either to pose or to answer questions offered by the others present.  Not surprisingly, after the relaxing effects of the meditation, most of us didn't have much to say, the words would have just come between us and the immediacy of the experience of sitting calmly in the blue atmosphere of the chapel.

One Sunday morning in early winter, when I was making one of my last visits to the chapel with a couple of other Eel Piers, it began to snow.  Many years later I still clearly remember the experience of walking down the narrow lane, crunching the white powder under my scuffed boots, when this haiku popped into my mind:

walking to meditation
 though fresh snow




Eel Pie Dharma is protected by international copyright laws. Individuals may print off a copy of this work for personal use only to facilitate easier reading.


Eel Pie Dharma - contents   |   previous chapter (10)   |   next chapter (12)


Friday 1 March 2024

stop genocide of starving people of Gaza (Amnesty International Canadian Section)

 (I'm a long-time Amnesty supporter)

Urgent Call To Action: Stand With Gaza Now!View in browser.

Dear Christopher,

Just as we were about to share this message with you, we received heartbreaking news of many Palestinians in northern Gaza being killed or injured while trying to access food aid. This tragic event makes it clear that we need to act now, more than ever, to prevent this from happening again.

The situation in Gaza has reached a critical tipping point. As you may be aware, the people of Gaza are facing an unprecedented crisis. The impact of non-stop attacks and fighting has been catastrophic. Hospitals are on the verge of collapse, essential supplies are scarce, and millions face the grim prospect of famine and disease, especially children and pregnant women.



The International Court of Justice (ICJ) has recognized the severity of the situation, highlighting the real and imminent risk of genocide and ordered provisional measures. Despite this, the needed help and basic services are being blocked, leaving the people of Gaza in despair. 

Christopher, this is where we come in. Our collective voice has the power to influence change. We must demand that Israel complies with the ICJ’s orders to allow the free flow of aid into Gaza and to protect the civilians at risk of genocide.

Call on Israel to allow humanitarian aid into Gaza immediately!

 

 

With hope,

 

Hilary Homes
Crisis Response and Tactical Campaigner
Amnesty International Canada 

 

PS: About the image above: Volunteers distribute rations of red lentil soup to displaced Palestinians in Rafah in the southern Gaza Strip on February 18, 2024, amid the ongoing conflict between Israel and the militant group Hamas. After more than four months of war that has flattened huge swathes of the Strip, Gazans are inching closer towards famine, according to the UN's World Food Programme. (Photo by SAID KHATIB / AFP) (Photo by SAID KHATIB/AFP via Getty Images)

 

 
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Sunday 18 February 2024

If you loved "The Clan of the Cave Bear"

 You should read The Last Neanderthal by Claire Cameron. I suspect this wonderful story owes a large debt to Jean Auel’s 1980s series Earth' Children, which began with Clan. The book’s structure is interesting, with the modern day archeologist narrator imagining the story behind her find of a Neanderthal skeleton and a modern day human buried side by side. The burial looks intentional, and would help her prove the interrelationship between our early ancestors and ourselves. The archeologist’s reputation is also at stake regarding her find, and pardon the horrible pun, but proving her thesis will help make her professional bones. 


Maya Angelou’s quote “You can’t really know where you’re going until you know where you have been” is very applicable. From the prologue:

They were kind and clever. They had hands with opposable thumbs and a light dusting of hair on their backs.They had hearts that throbbed in their chests when they saw certain people, and this happened more than you might expect.  Their brains were larger than ours by about 10 percent. Many of us have inherited up to 4 percent of their DNA, and now that both genomes have been sequenced, we we know that theirs differs from ours by only about 0.12 percent.     

Claire Cameron very successfully interweaves the experiences of a modern day woman and that of a woman of forty thousand years ago. This tale isn’t as over the top as Clan, so in some ways it's more believable and credible. The modern day dialogue is so accurate that for an extended time one late night I forgot I was reading fiction.

Penguin Random House/Anchor Canada, 2017
275 pages

2017 Finalist Rogers Writers’ Trust 
A National Post Best Book of the Year
Canadian bestseller



The Last Neanderthal