The Brant Advocate, Issue 23, July 2013

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Immigration, Eagle Place and
the Boston Bruins.
by Phil Gillies
Walking Together.
Story by Lorrie Gallant / Photos by Paul Smith
The Truth About Growing
a Fetus.
by Laura Hill
What always makes me Smile?
by Zig Misiak
Delicate Strength: Life for
Women after Residential
Schooling.
by Layla Bozich
The Difficulty of Rest.
by Dave Carrol
No More: Engaging Young
Men and Boys to Prevent
Violence Against Women.
by Diana Boal
The pain of residential school has passed
through many generations and the healing
comes slowly. As these youth walked
together with residential school survivors,
they were inspired by their courage and
gained a new appreciation of their own
freedom to speak their language, celebrate
their culture and enjoy life.
~ Lorrie Gallant, Walking Together.
July 2013 www.brantadvocate.com Facebook: The Brant Advocate Twitter: @BrantAdvocate
Page 2
Im listening to a podcast right now. Its the BBCs
Film Review Show with Mark Kermode and Simon
Mayo--one of my favourites. This past April it was
downloaded 2.4 million times. Think about that. 2.4
million people took the time to download two people,
and the odd guest, sitting around talking about movies.
The show has good production values (it sounds nice),
and the hosts have this witty back and forth relation-
ship, not unlike a relaxed, British Siskel and Ebert
mixed in with some of the bickering of an old married
couple. They call it wittertainment, and it works.
2.4 million downloads reminds me that living in the
digital age isnt just about email, Facebook and Twitter.
There is a whole DIY digital world waiting out there.
Its one that I think is the right fit for Brantford too.
I love podcasts and have been an avid listener for years.
Podcasts are great for when youre on a long drive or
taking a walk, and they are especially great at making
mundane tasks like cleaning whiz by. Theres some-
thing so personal about it too. A good podcast gives
you the same feeling as sitting at a cafe and overhearing
the most interesting conversation two tables over. The
difference is that with a podcast theres no guilt or
worry youll be caught snooping.
In March of 2010, during my run for Brant MP, I did
my first podcast, sort of. It was a mini-cast using a pro-
gram called Audioboo. It was a neat little app on my
phone that I could use to make five minute podcasts.
Later, someone could download them off of iTunes and
hear that little interview, or more often than not I would
tuck it in my breast-pocket when I was doing a speech
or a debate and could then share that later with those
who couldnt make it to an event. Recording live music
or quick interviews with local people was fun. Syd
Bolton and Sean Allen have also created some pretty
fun Audioboos over the last few years that are worth a
listen.
In June of 2010, Kevin Smith recorded his Stocky
Night In Canada Two Smodcast at the Sanderson Cen-
tre. I couldnt be at the show but I got to hear it, and I
think I also got to hear some of my friends screaming
in the audience. It was the first time I had heard a big
podcast come out of Brantford. Id been listening to
podcasts for so long, but I just never thought of it as
something that could be connected with Brantford and
the surrounding area until I heard that podcast and re-
alized there would be people all over the world down-
loading this thing, hearing stories about our region.
I know that night inspired Robert Lavigne too. He and
I have discussed it, and he wrote a wonderful piece
about his experience at that show in our May, 2012 edi-
tion of The Brant Advocate. In its shortest form he
came to Brantford to see this Kevin Smith Podcast
being recorded, and never really left. Robert is also a
lover of podcasts and he hosts what is in my opinion
the best podcast in the region: The Social Business
Hangout. Hes got a world-wide audience, and most of
his guests are from this area because this community
has something to contribute to almost any conversation.
As of this article, Ive been able to find 83 episodes of
the Social Business Hangout and they are a blast to lis-
ten to.
Ive often wondered how it is that there arent 50 pod-
casts out there sharing the stories of Brantford and area
in a community saturated with so many papers, radio
stations and other media.
The Brant Advocate is proud to have dipped its toe into
the podcast wading pool. After a bit of a rocky start
back in December of 2011, weve found some consis-
tency and since this past May have been able to get
audio content out to you more regularly. And, you have
been listening! Weve been very happy with our stats
and growth on iTunes, and on our BrantAdvocate.com
homepage where people seem to enjoy catching these
episodes.
So far weve been able to provide exclusive musical
tracks (send us local music and wed be happy to share
it), catch the reaction of local people to big events and
give folks more insight into the stories weve published
and the writers who write them. Weve even had people
reading stories for the podcast, and are looking for
more who would like to contribute in this way.
When we launched our little not-a-newspaper nearly
two years ago, one of our taglines was, A Voice For
The Stories of Brant. The Brant Advocate podcast is
a step towards making that tagline quite literal. Its a
step toward a multi-media expansion of The Brant Ad-
vocate beyond the print edition and into podcasts, dig-
ital apps and beyond. Just wait until our next
announcement in August!
Brantford is in your Pocket
by Marc Laferriere, Twitter: @MarcLaferriere
Immigration, Eagle Place and the Boston Bruins
by Phil Gillies, Twitter: @PhilGillies
My family moved to Brantford from England when I
was seven years old. I knew a bit about Canada even
then--we had come over to stay in Cambridge when I
was four. But, we came back from the U.K. to live in
Brantford after my father got a job at the old Westing-
house plant on Greenwich Street.
It was the cold winter of 1961, when we first moved into
a short-term rental on Brant Ave, across from the Ross
Macdonald School. The CNR tracks were about seventy-
feet behind my bedroom. Every time a train went by it
sounded like it was coming right through the house!
You could wear blue
and white in Eagle
Place, but not orange
and black.
Several months later we moved to our new permanent
home on Cayuga Street. We moved into Eagle Place be-
cause several of my parents new friends lived there;
Scottish people who went to Alexandra Presbyterian
Church. We started going to that church and found a very
welcoming community there. Most of the congregation
back then was Scottish, and I was about 12 before I re-
alized you could sing a hymn without a Scottish brogue!
All things brrrright and beauuuutiful... Im an Angli-
can now, but Ill never forget the kindness and generosity
of those Scottish Presbyterians.
Which brings me to my first day of school. Like most
new immigrants, we didnt have a lot of money. People
from the church very kindly gave my mother a box of
hand-me-down clothing for my brother Richard and I.
We particularly needed winter clothing because our Eng-
lish wardrobe was not suited for the temperatures of a
Canadian winter. As we rummaged through the box to
find the best stuff, I was particularly taken with a black
and orange toque; black with an orange stripe through
the headband, to be exact. It was warm and smart look-
ing. Perfect, I thought, as I dressed for the first day of
school, proudly putting on my new toque.
And off we went to school. Everything started off pretty
well. A warm reception at Princess Elizabeth School
from our principal Mr. Axford (father of my lifelong
friend Doug Axford). My big brother went off to his
classroom, and I went off to mine. As I went down the
hallway (ever notice how big school hallways look when
youre a child, and how small they appear when youre
an adult) I noticed I was attracting a lot of pretty hostile
stares. Hmm, I thought. I guess they dont like new
kids around here. This could be a little rough.
I dont remember much about the first few lessons, but
Ill never forget the morning recess. As we all filed out
into the schoolyard, I was surrounded by a sizeable
group of boys.
Why are you wearing that hat?
I replied with an English accent. To keep my head
warm, and I like it.
It was not well-received. In fact, I got the snot beaten out
of me and returned to class with a bloody nose.
I had never heard of the Boston Bruins.
I learned a few things very quickly. One: I was wearing
a Boston Bruins toque. Two: Boston Bruins uniforms are
black and orange. Three: Eagle Place was Toronto Maple
Leafs territory. Four: Maple Leafs gear is blue and
white. Five: You could wear blue and white in Eagle
Place, but not orange and black.
I never wore the toque again. Pity, because I really liked
it.
Of everything I learned in grade three at Princess Eliza-
beth, this is the lesson that sticks with me 50 years later.
But, once I got past the hat thing, my brother and I made
plenty of friends pretty quickly and made the neighbour-
hood our own. We spent a lot of the remaining winter
tobogganing and sledding down the hill in Tutela Park.
There was no barrier in those days to stop you from
flying past the bottom of the hill right out onto Erie Ave,
which we sometimes did! I dont remember any colli-
sions on the road, but there were some close calls. And,
as the warmer weather set in there were backyard sleep-
outs in friends backyards, hot dog roasts and Saturday
hikes along the river. I stepped on a big snake once--
theres all kinds of wildlife along the Grand! I was too
young then to extend my adventures up the hill to down-
town. That came a few years later. Ill tell you all about
it next time!
90 Morton Ave East Brantford 519.757.1800 www.handcraftedwood.ca
SHOW US YOUR STUFF!!
We here at the Brant Advocate have had the distinct honour of publishing some amazing content in our time; stories that range from the intimate, to the hilarious to the heartfelt. We're constantly amazed by the beauty and diversity
citizens choose to fill our pages with, however there's one article missing... yours. We're constantly on the lookout for unique perspectives, interesting ideas, witty rants and colourful recounts. Speak a foreign language? We'd be
happy to publish an article in your native tongue. Do you have an interesting hobby or job? Why not write an educational piece and help us all learn a little? Is there an issue you're an expert on? Present an argument for us to think
about. We're always in search of something different. If you're interested in contributing, please email us at contact@brantadvocate.com. We can't wait to see your stuff!!
Page 3
YOUR ONTARIO PC CANDIDATE FOR BRANT
VISION
YOUR ONTARIO PC CANDIDATE FOR BRANT
VISIONEXPERIENCE
Authorized by the CFO for the Brant PC Association.
While reading the Brantford newspapers from a century
ago Wayne Hunter, a local historian, ran across the story
of the apprehension of a group of roughly one hundred
Turkish foundry workers regarded as enemy aliens.
Great Britain had just declared War on the Ottoman Em-
pire, and on a cold, dark night in November 1914, these
men were forced out of their boarding houses and put
into wagons by the City Police. After a night in the Jail,
they were marched to the newly built armoury and held
for a few days. They were then marched at bayonet
point to the newly built Train Station and shipped to
Toronto. The Stanley Barracks were full of earlier in-
ternees, and the Turks were sent on to Fort Henry in
Kingston. Early in the spring of 1915, the Turks were
sent to Kapuskasing to build the concentration camp,
inside of which they were to be interned.
After a year and a half of incarceration, these men were
paroled to work at industrial plants in Southern Ontario.
Wartime contracts had lifted the economic depression
that had hit at the beginning of the War and workers
were once again in short supply. However, very few
ended up back in Brantford, possibly due to a deliberate
policy of scattering these men into different cities. In
the late 1920s, Turkey went out of its way to repatriate
its foreign colonies, sending ships to North America to
bring its citizens home. Roughly 80 per cent of these
men accepted the offer. The first Turkish communities
became a forgotten memory, and the modern Turkish
communities date their inception to the post World War
Two era.
It appears as
though we have
discovered one of,
if not the earliest
Muslim communities
in Canada.
In 2009, while I was studying this incident, I crossed
paths with the Canadian First World War Internment
Recognition Fund through Lubomyr Luciuk at the
Royal Military College. The Fund was, coincidentally,
just open to requests; I was encouraged to apply and
was awarded a grant to research the internment of the
Turks. The First World War Internment has always been
obscure. Eight thousand people had been held as enemy
aliens, six thousand of them Ukrainians, and near the
bottom of the list, two hundred Turks. When I started
asking questions about Brantfords Turks at the Fund, I
generated a lot of excitement. Nobody there knew
where any of the Turkish internees had come from until
I inquired. After the Second World War, the Canadian
government destroyed the records of both the First and
Second World War internments. The press release to an-
nounce the first round of grants was picked up on by a
graduate student in Ankara, Turkey. She wrote me that
her research was on a Turkish community in Peabody,
Massachusetts that seems to have been related to Brant-
fords Turks. It was a research marriage made in heaven.
Through her, I was able to circulate a tentative list of
some of the names of the interned, and an identification
was made of the ethnic and religious affiliation of these
men. Since then, armed with a nearly complete listing
of the internees, a list has been generated of roughly a
hundred men with Kurdish names whose internment
identification numbers were sequential. These men just
have to be Brantfords Turks. The ethnic and sectarian
determinations, consequently, have
been made even stronger. This
information opened up a
backstory for the
workers. That was
quite exciting.
In the mid
1890s,
Har r y
Co c k -
shutt was
on a world
tour selling
his familys
plows to an interna-
tional market. While in
Istambul [as it was spelled
then] he visited with a family of
missionaries from Woodstock, Ontario.
They were involved with a community of Armenian
workers, said to be sojourners: single men who lived in
boarding houses and who sent their wages home to their
villages in the Anatolian Mountains. Mr. Cockshutt in-
vited some of these men to Brantford, where they could
find good-paying jobs in the Citys foundries. By the
time of the Fifth Census, 1911, Brantford had the high-
est percentage of foreign [non-English speaking] resi-
dents in all of Canada, almost all sojourners from a
variety of countries. Brantford was then the Armenian
capital of Canada. Along with the Armenians, who were
Christians, was a smattering of Muslims who were their
neighbours in Anatolia. These were Kurdish people,
members of a heretical sect known as Alevis. The Alevis
believed in astrology, herbalism and re-incarnation.
Their women took an active role in their religious serv-
ices and didnt cover their heads. And, they had a close
relationship with the Armenians, sometimes acting as
godparents to each others children. It was said that the
distance between Alevis and Armenians is not more
thick than the membrane of an onion. These men cer-
tainly traveled the same routes as the Armenians and,
once in Brantford, lived in boarding houses with Ar-
menian landlords. This arrangement seems to have held
until the start of the Great War. When War was declared,
all European contracts were canceled and Brantfords
factories laid off many of their employees. Also, the
mail service between North America and Europe
stopped running. Consequently, the foreign workers
were not only without incomes, but they were not able
to communicate their plight
to the folks at
home and
were not
able to
access
t he
money
they had
sent overseas.
Some of these
men were literally
starving in their boarding
houses. The consensus of the factory
owners seems to have been that if these men were to be
interned, they would have a roof over their heads and
food to eat. The problem was, that internment was re-
served for men who presented a risk to Canada, and was
not supposed to be imposed on those who were merely
unemployed. Someone, we dont know who, solved this
problem by circulating an anonymous letter to the Chief
of Police and the Mayor, that the Turks were planning
to blow up the nearly completed new Post Office. The
construction company hired guards to protect the build-
ing, and the Turkish community was rounded up. Brant-
ford citizens slept well in their beds.
Early in the spring of
1915, the Turks were sent
to Kapuskasing to build
the concentration camp,
inside of which they were
to be interned.
The physical evidence of the existence of the Turkish
colony in Brantford also came from an old newspaper
clipping. In 1912, a young man died as the result of an
industrial accident. He was buried in Section J of the
Mount Hope Cemetery, also known as The Turkish
Lot. His funeral was well covered by the local papers.
As the first Muslim burial in town, it was quite a cu-
riosity. Earlier in 1912, three men from the Turkish
colony managed to purchase this Lot and it appears
that the men could buy the right to be buried there if
something were to happen to them. There are now six-
teen burials in the Lot, including, apparently, two cou-
ples. Twelve of the burials occurred between 1912 and
1918, and the couples were interred in 1939, and
1941/1963.
Recently, this story, after
years of quiet,
has come
back to life
with a
vengeance. The
Canadian corre-
spondent of a Turkish
news agency contacted
me. We met at the
Cemetery with a
group of Brant-
ford folks with
an interest in
the episode,
and con-
tacts were made. Not
long after, we were invited to
breakfast with the Turkish Consul-General of
Toronto. After another tour of the Cemetery, we
met with Mayor Friel and an arrangement was made
to restore the Lot, install a stone with the names of the
interred, and to interpret the story with a plaque. This
is tentatively scheduled for completion before early Au-
gust 2013, in time for a proposed visit to Brantford by
the Turkish Ambassador to Canada.
Also, plans are underway to make a Canadian/Turkish
video co-production of this early Turkish emigration to
North America, including the Ontario and Massachu-
setts colonies and the First World War Internment. The
current Turkish community in Canada has no memory
of the fact that there was an early Muslim presence here
before the Great War. The Turkish Society of Canada
has met with a group in Brantford and is very interested
in interpreting this story with us.
Some of these men were
literally starving in their
boarding houses.
It certainly appears as though we have discovered one
of, if not the, earliest Muslim communities in Canada.
There were definitely solitary Syrian peddlers on the
prairies around the turn of the century, and a smattering
of other Ottoman citizens in various centres, but Brant-
ford seems to have had a true colony here around 1908,
when emigration from the Ottoman Empire was first
loosened up. Also, we havent found any evidence of a
Muslim burial ground that predates Brantfords Turkish
Lot. In many ways, Brantford could claim to have in-
vented multiculturalism, although no one seems to have
made this assertion before.
The Turkish Lot: The Birth & Death of an Early Muslim Community in Brantford
by Bill Darfler, email: wmdarfler@gmail.com
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Page 4
The Truth About Growing A Fetus
by Laura Hill, Facebook: Laura Hill
Right now, if you were to walk into my house you would
think that I was re-enacting some kind of Western shootout
with myself because the only way to comfortably walk is
with my legs bowed like a rhinestone cowboy, while grip-
ping my vagina in pain. I look insane.
Yesterday at work, I noticed some pain occurring in my
pelvic region, but I chose to ignore it because Im shy and
Im not about to start declaring that my pubic bone hurts
at the very public desk that I work at. By the time I got
home it was worse, and after dinner I called my mother in
a frenzy because I couldnt walk. She calmed me down,
which was nice, but that ended the minute I got off the
phone with her. By the end of the night I couldnt roll over
or even adjust my legs without wincing. It was a real treat.
Fast forward to today, and I had to summon my caring and
sweet partner home for a few minutes so he could witness
what I can only presume was a really attractive and en-
dearing meltdown. We called my midwife and she ex-
plained to me what was going on, which is basically this:
my pelvic bone has separated too far and if I dont stop
trying to do all the things, it will get worse and I might
end up in bed for the rest of the summer.
I am writing about this because no one ever told me that
this could happen during pregnancy. No one told me a lot
of things, and Ive had to navigate through a ton of sur-
prises while trying to remain relatively tight-lipped about
them because I dont want to sound like an ungrateful
jackass. I am blessed with this baby, and even though I
was experiencing a ton of pain last night one of the things
I mentioned to my partner was that despite all the discom-
forts, I will miss the times when my baby was so close to
me that I could feel her fluttering from within me. I am a
nest, and she is my tiny blue bird, chirping and whittling
away the hours with sighs and hiccups. This part is beau-
tiful, the most beautiful, and there isnt a moment of it that
I would wish away from my life.
The thing that I have a problem with is there seems to be
an air of shame around the less beautiful aspects of preg-
nancy. There are common things that we know about the
morning sickness, the weight gain. But there are other
things. Stuff like your pubic bone separating too much and
hurting so bad you cant walk. Stuff like your hips giving
out while youre walking down a flight of stairs, out of
nowhere and without warning. Stuff like not being able to
breathe after climbing a single flight of stairs. Stuff like
that. And stuff thats probably way worse that I havent
experienced. There isnt a problem with experiencing dis-
comfort for the sake of your little unborn baby. What is
problematic to me is the lack of discussion around the re-
alness of pregnancy. Why arent we normalizing the parts
that arent cute or beautiful? Why arent we sharing more?
Sometimes I feel like women can get caught up in a little
macho-ism of our own when it comes to pregnancy, child-
birth and our children. It does not help other women or
yourself to cast a facade of being Super Pregnant Lady, or
Super Mom. To only ever share the victories and not the
defeats. Brokenness is beautiful. Being vulnerable is what
makes us human and relatable. It is in the sharing of our
less-than-wonderful moments that we learn from one an-
other.
This is why I choose to openly share the unbeautiful real-
ity of my Symphysis Pubis Dysfunction. Its uncomfort-
able to discuss the negatives at times because it feels like
complaining, and no one wants to be that guy. Im sharing
this not to complain, but to say that I made an error that is
easily avoidable. Over the past few weeks I was up at 5
a.m. hanging clothes on the line, making breakfasts for
my still-sleeping partner, getting out and
tilling/weeding/planting the garden, going off to work
where I stand on my feet 95 per cent of the time, coming
home and cooking dinner, and on my days off of work I
was mass cleaning my home. It made me feel good be-
cause I felt like I was proving something to myself, some-
thing about selflessness and a good work ethic. My back
was very sore throughout these activities, and I didnt lis-
ten to my body when it told me to stop. I tried to master
it. Now I am writing this article in bed, in a lot of pain,
and feeling like a bit of a loser. I tried to be Super Pregnant
Lady, and I failed. And this is because absolutely no one
can be Super Pregnant Lady. If anyone claims they are,
then I would urge you to get your photo taken with that
person because she is a mythological creature that should
be documented, like Bigfoot.
There is nothing wrong with trying to do a good job, but
trying to be perfect is a farce. Our imperfections are what
make us real, and trying to snuff them out will only result
in discomfort, whether its physical like mine, or emo-
tional.
So, although pregnancy is a blessing and can be power-
fully beautiful, it also has its ugly bits and theyre just as
real and important as anything else. This is mostly a re-
minder to myself, but also to anyone reading this who
might be struggling with the same thing. Its okay to acci-
dentally eat chocolate cake for second lunch and ugly cry
once in awhile. Lets admit that more often.
This Feels Like Home
by Andrew Macklin, Twitter: @AMacklin
Getting to travel the globe is a luxury that few people are
ever fortunate enough to do. Many people save up for
major holidays, one every handful of years, in order to see
the sights in a foreign land, lie on a beach on a faraway
island or see an event that many watch in awe on televi-
sion.
This is something I had rarely enjoyed until last year. Prior
to taking my current job, I could count the number of air-
ports I had been to on a single hand. I had flown, as a
teenager, over to the British Isles to take part in one of
BCIs rugby tours. I had also been to a wedding in New-
foundland several years ago. But, before this job, that was
the extent of my travel. And as much as I longed to see
lands far away, I had never had much of a chance to spend
money on travel.
Since taking this job last March, travel has become a reg-
ular occurrence. In the last 15 months or so, I have found
myself in six provinces, three states in the U.S. and two
European countries. Where I had previously seen the in-
side of a grand total of four airports, I have seen over 20
since taking this new position. Yes, travel has become a
luxury that a new job has certainly afforded me. And for
that, I feel incredibly fortunate.
As I write this, it is the morning of June 10, and I am sit-
ting in Stockholm Arlanda airport waiting for a flight to
Helsinki, Finland before coming back to Canada. I came
to Sweden six days ago to cover a trade show in Jonkop-
ing, and gave myself an extra day and a half to tour Stock-
holm.
"You see, the excitement of
travelling is a wonderful distraction
and can provide the opportunity
to see places that few you know
may ever see. But it is only that,
a distraction."
A few minutes ago, the woman at the Starbucks counter
complimented me on the big smile I had on my face and
she asked why I was smiling so much? Im going home
to Canada, I said, and I am very happy to be heading
home.
It seems strange to say in some ways. Twenty-four hours
ago, I was wandering the streets of Stockholm marveling
at the incredible architecture of buildings that have been
standing hundreds of years longer than anything in
Canada. I was admiring the remnants of the great Vasa
ship, which sunk near Stockholm in the 1620s and is now
preserved in its own national museum.
The day before that, I had stood with thousands of people
outside of the royal palace, catching a glimpse of the new
royal couple. The royal wedding was taking place, and
part of the city had shut down as people lined the streets
to watch their princess proudly go by with her new hus-
band. It was a site reminiscent of a major parade on a na-
tional holiday, and yet, that had passed a few days earlier
with little to no pomp and circumstance. This royal wed-
ding was the national celebration, despite the presence of
many others, like myself, from countries around the world.
But, when the sights had been seen and it was time to turn
in after a long few days of working and sightseeing, I be-
came quite anxious to come home.
You see, the excitement of travelling is a wonderful dis-
traction and can provide the opportunity to see places that
few you know may ever see. But it is only that, a distrac-
tion. All of the rudimentary things that get done on a trip
like this take on a sometimes uncomfortable flavor.
Sure, I sat on patios and had drinks, but it wasnt with my
usual crew of friends that make going for drinks that much
more enjoyable. And going for walks are always good ex-
ercise, but it didnt have the familiar bent of holding on to
a dog leash or the hand of a loved one. And going to sleep
is a less relaxing experience when the pillows and mattress
just dont have the same feel as the ones in the loft back
home.
There are also the more materialistic disadvantages, like
the limited wardrobe, the over-inflated beer prices, the
lack of a car and the handful of other creature comforts
that make home, well, home.
There are so many things to enjoy about travel. Travelling
makes the rat race go away for hours, days or weeks at a
time. But, it also lacks those few important things that
each of us hold close, the things that make home the place
that we want to return to.
So, enjoy the marvels of travelling when the privilege af-
fords you that ability. But never forget that home is where
you belong. We are lucky to live in a country like Canada,
in a province like Ontario and, for me, a town like Paris
where the comforts of home are waiting for my safe and
happy arrival. And if you have forgotten what those things
are, those things that make you happy to come home, per-
haps its time for you to scrape some pennies together and
take a trip. Home will always be those things, and people,
you miss most.
What always makes me Smile?
by Zig Misiak, Facebook: Zig Misiak
What makes you feel really good when you see it? What
belongs to every single person, without any exceptions,
that lives in Brantford? What is something that we often
take for granted, yet it expresses one of the best parts of
us and our city?
Brantford Parks and Recreation, thats the answer.
Every summer I come across the teams wearing their or-
ange and yellow vests, heads down, moving ever so metic-
ulously over their assignments in our parks and our
gardens; and I smile. Even my kids make comments about
the beauty that they create and maintain.
Many decades ago we had one of the most beautiful and
artsy cities in the country. Well, we have spiraled down-
wards somewhat, but one thing that I believe has never,
or hardly at all, wavered is our commitment to our
leisure areas. They belong to all of us.
The Grand River is the spine of our community. Its the
life-blood sustaining us and everything in it, above it and
around it. Just think of that for a moment. We are so for-
tunate to have this great river as a part of us, and we as a
part of it. Up and down its length all the communities have
an obligation to care for it. So goes the river, so we all go.
There are those that choose to plunder, disfigure and de-
stroy the little beauty that we have and then there are those
like the Grand River Environmental Group that volunteer
their time to pick up garbage dropped by others. These
people are caring citizens. Entire families feel a sense of
obligation. These are citizens of our city. Oh, actually
those that choose to throw garbage are also citizens, arent
they? So, what makes the difference between the two?
Parks and Recreation are paid for what they do. Many
people are paid for what they do, obviously. But to do it
so well and above average is not just a job, but a commit-
ment of pride and love for where we all live.
Leading by good example, and punishing those that sim-
ply dont care and have given up on us, is the formula for
a city in its rebirth. Ive lived here for over 63 years. Its
my home and I will die here. Therefore, I want to ac-
knowledge those that make my city and your city a
good place to live. Those that care for us now and our chil-
dren. Respect to those that make Brantford a good place.
We have made mistakes. Our council has made mistakes.
Ive lived here for over
63 years. Its my home
and I will die here.
Look at those beautiful little gardens as food for the soul.
Whatever state of mind you are in, whatever income
bracket you belong to and whatever age you are--whether
you like Brantford or not--I challenge you.
The challenge is for you to walk by a park, or into one,
and absorb the visual beauty and the perfume of nature.
Sit there for a while. Just focus on everything thats around
you. You will feel a sense of relief from this crazy world.
Actually, its not an escape but a step in the right direction
of how Mother Earth intended us to feel and be.
Take a moment and send a note to our Parks and Recre-
ation people. Say hi and thanks to our gardeners, and
Carpe Diem (look it up). Oh yes, hold those accountable
that are ruining our backyards by either helping them re-
connect, or make them fix what they destroy. After all,
they were happy, joy loving kids once upon a time.
Page 5
YOGA
Tuesday mornings, July 2nd to
August 20th, 7:15 - 8:15am.
OPEN CHESS
Tuesdays & Thursdays, July 2nd to
August 29th,12:00pm - 2:30pm.
Tournament Dates: July 28, August
25 presented by Brantford Chess
Club
TUNES IN THE PARK
Harmony Square each Friday from
July 5th through August 30th at
12:00pm - 1:00pm
CANADIAN
RAPTORS
CONSERVANCY
Brantford Public Library
Saturday July 6th 2:00pm -2:45pm
CHILDRENS
PROGRAMMING
Mondays, July 8th to August 26th,
12noon, presented by Harmony
School
DANCE LESSONS
Wednesdays, July 3rd to August 28th,
6pm, presented by Academy Of Dance
MUSIC IN
THE SQUARE
Friday nights, July & August, 7:30 -
9:30pm
TELEPHONE CITY
CAR SHOW
Sunday, July 21st, 9:00AM-4:00PM
Downtown Brantford & Harmony
Square
ELVIS IN
THE SQUARE
Friday, July 12th, Elvis vendors &
tribute artists!
MOVIES IN
THE SQUARE
Thursday nights, July & August,
at dusk
ZUMBA
Tuesday nights, July 4th to August
27th, at 7:00pm AND Wednesdays,
June 5th to July 31st, 12:00pm. Dont
forget your running shoes! presented
by Thinsations
VICTORIA PARK
HERITAGE WALK
Brantford Museum August 3rd at
10:30am
Twitter: downtownbrantfd
Facebook: DowntownBrantford
Good things come in small packages... but so does
dynamite, chuckles my great grandmother. At
approximately four feet and eleven inches tall, I figure
no one would know better than her. Recently having
celebrated her 104th birthday, shes had a rattling
effect on many lives, in a ton of different decades. Her
actions though, always start humbly. From crocheting
tiny joy bags for others in the community, to collecting
something as unassumingly compact as a pop can tab,
Lola Rutter can make even the mundane remarkable.
And, although it might seem a force of duty to idolize
anyone whos breezed past a century of life, my great
grandmothers admirers arent drawn to her because
of the number of years shes managed to live, but more
importantly what shes done with them.
I never bit off more than I could chew, Lola says,
grasping me with her slight hands.
Her daughter, my Great Aunt Sandra, shakes her head
in the background.
Even now, it seems as though my great grandmother
is always busy doing something: Needle work, writing
letters or tending to the people around her.
In the past, her days were consumed with working for
the local church, organizing events and caring for her
nine children. They confess that she was indefinitely
in search of ways to further any and every cause she
stumbled across, and not in a hardline, ultra-serious
way either. Lola has always been a giggler, laughing
at jokes that many of us dont even know are there.
Theres a vivaciousness she brings to everything.
She experienced
prohibition, the great
depression, two World Wars
and the release of Michael
Jacksons Thriller. She saw
hairstyles change, clothes
transform and landscapes
morph into what might have
been considered futuristic,
sci-fi dream worlds in her
youth.
In fact, as we sit for tea, my great grandmother bursts
into spontaneous laughter, and once again its infec-
tious. Many times Ive been seated by her side, and
found myself laughing for no discernable reason.
Today it happens again.
Im reminded that she smiles, come rain or shine. No
matter the job, Ive been plainly informed, shes al-
ways been this way. Even my uncle Michael, who
lived with her for a number of years in his youth, re-
calls with total wonderment that in all the time he
resided in her house, he never heard her complain--
never heard her say one nasty remark about anyone.
Today shes wearing a beautiful dress, her hair is done
up in tight blond curls and her walker, lovingly named
Jane, is off to one side. Sometimes she gets in the
way, Lola chuckles. The things shes seen throughout
her life seem unfathomable to me. She was born
shortly after the death of Queen Victoria, into a coun-
try only 37 years of age--that country being Canada.
She experienced prohibition, the great depression, two
World Wars and the release of Michael Jacksons
Thriller. She saw hairstyles change, clothes transform
and landscapes morph into what might have been con-
sidered futuristic, sci-fi dream worlds in her youth.
Growing up in St. Williams she made friends with car-
avan dwelling gypsies, and tells stories of the rubber
man, who lived in ditches and could contort his body
in circus like shows. Some of her experiences are as
close to mystical as I could ever imagine, and yet,
none of these events describe or define her.
Here are the things I know she loves: Her family, the
city of Brantford and Jesus Christ. The only exception
to this sacred trinity is pop can tabs, and the more the
better. Of course, it isnt the physical pop can tab shes
enamoured with (although looking at the bags and
boxes of them around her apartment, one might think
otherwise), no its what they can do for others. For
decades, shes been collecting and donating them to
charitable causes, an action thats led to thousands of
dollars (recently $2,400) being donated to the Ronald
McDonald House, and more will go to Camp Bucko--
instituted for severely burned children--the charity she
will be raising money for until September. Her son,
Stan--as part of the You Did It, club--and many other
family members and friends have caught the fever too,
regularly adding to her collection.
Its a hobby thats caused her to be dubbed the Pop Tab
Queen in some of the towns she grew up near, St.
Williams and Port Rowan for example. For her 100th
birthday thats the one and only gift she requested;
mounds and mounds of pop can tabs. Hords of people
showed up at the hall and formed an orderly line to greet
her. She hugged them, recalled a short story or two and
quickly amassed a heaping pile of pop can tabs. Grin-
ning from ear to ear, it was exactly what shed wanted.
This was the real riddle. This
was the real mystery. Why
would a woman of so many
accomplishments only want to
talk about pop can tabs?
Stories like this not only fascinate me, but they also
perplex me. Why someone would dedicate over
twenty years of their life to collecting pop can tabs for
the less fortunate can certainly be attributed to dedi-
cation. Asking for nothing but pop can tabs for ones
100th birthday, now thats kindness. Impressing upon
me, in an interview about her life, the grave impor-
tance of carrying on the project, well what exactly
does that say about a person?
Sitting at that kitchen table, I press again and again.
What was it like raising nine children? Tell me about
the olden days in St. Williams? How did you like or-
ganizing for the local church? Each and every time the
subject turns back to pop can tabs--those shiny devils.
Theyre environmentally friendly, she tells me, talk-
ing about the number of people who pick up cans off
the street because of her. Asking about past friends and
family, she brings up Mr. and Mrs. Renwick, mention-
ing how Mr. Renwicks passing had ushered her into
a more active role. She had been bringing him her pop
can tabs for years--deriving her initial passion for the
project from his heart for philanthropy in this unique
way--and was delighted that his wife continued his tra-
dition. Even now, beside her sitting on the floor, is a
ten gallon jug filled to the brim with pop can tabs. She
keeps looking over at them lovingly. This was the real
riddle. This was the real mystery. Why would a
woman of so many accomplishments only want to talk
about pop can tabs?
The answer, of course, was hard won and difficult to
swallow. My great grandmother, it seems, has always
known how to serve. Her time raising her children was
done, and so she could move on. The olden days in St.
Williams had passed, so they bore no need to speak on
about. Even her days organizing the church were long
over and therefore moot. Her pop can tabs though, and
also the charities she donated to, well they are still in
need of help and probably will be long into the future.
At 104 she sees that time is a luxury only God can
give. Until the city takes up her cause, she knows that
her service here isnt over.
My great grandmother has always been a selfless
woman. Lola Rutter is funny, and kind and some
might even say godly. Before we leave, each and every
visit, she comments that if she doesnt see us around
on the earth in the next little bit, shell see us in
heaven. She means it with all the sincerity and reas-
surance in her body. Her life is one thats been well
spent, taking care of others. Today, as I walk down my
street picking up old cans and cranking off their tabs,
making that signature click, I think about her and how
in some small way shes taught me to serve. I can only
hope that through this article a bit of her magic has
shone through, and that you too are inspired.
How to Serve
by Leisha Senko, Twitter: @LeishaSenko
Page 6
Delicate Strength: Life for women after Residential Schooling
by Layla Bozich, Twitter: @laylabozich
In order to accurately depict the travesties students in
Brantford's residential school faced, journalist Layla
Bozich had the privlege of speaking with those at the
Woodland Cultural Center. The Advocate, and Layla,
would once again like to thank Woodland for giving so
much to this publication.
The Mohawk Institute was open for 140 years. Fear,
hopelessness, pain, hatred and hunger are etched into the
walls of the residential school located on Mohawk Street
in Brantford, Ontario. But to the eye of an outsider, all
that remains are giant oatmeal vats, peeling ceiling paint
and rust stains from old bathroom fixtures lining the
walls.
During the Mohawk Institutes operation, which ended
in 1970, young Indigenous girls were transformed into
obedient, domestic women. They were slaves to the
clothes that they sewed and the food that they cooked.
Their breasts were bound and they were shamed when
they began menstruating. In the rare book section of the
library in the Woodland Cultural Centre, formerly the
Mohawk Institute, rests a sewing table with the names
of the girls who worked on it written on its underside in
white chalk.
The girls heads were shaved for speaking their tradi-
tional language and in some cases of punishment, a girl
would kneel in front of the schools minister, her head
between his knees, and he would pull down her pants
and whip her. Children on their deathbeds were sent
home to die so that the school could refrain from being
seen for what it really was: a place of silent genocide.
The Mohawk Institute, aptly referred to as the Mush
Hole, gained its infamous nickname from the quality of
porridge it would feed its students. Most of the oatmeal
was rotten and, despite what the teachers said, it was not
made fresh that morning.
The residential school system thrived on a culture of fear.
Students were told that they would see the devil standing
behind them if they looked in the mirror. But, the devil
was the least of their worries.
You can only be told that youre a worthless piece of

garbage so long before you start to believe it. Robyn
Bourgeois, a Lubicon woman and a professor at Laurier
Brantford, is well versed in the hardships associated with
being an Indigenous woman in todays society.
As a crisis line worker during her undergraduate degree,
Bourgeois was warned that men are more prone to sui-
cide, and if they threaten to kill themselves, they most
likely mean it. If women call, she was told, they are just
seeking attention.
But when residential schools were teaching young In-
digenous girls that they are the living embodiment of sin,
suicide was a very real consideration when they left.
Women dealing with the pain of survival and ongoing
self-doubt are prone to slipping into addiction, violent
relationships and prostitution, says Bourgeois.
Without support readily available for the women who
survived residential school, it was easy for them to feel
worthless.
After being extensively abused physically, sexually and
mentally, young girls began to believe it was their own
fault and did not want to talk about it due to shame, says
Bourgeois. But without closure, the shame and guilt
began to affect women mentally and emotionally, and
some turned to substance abuse.
Students were told that they
would see the devil standing
behind them if they looked in the
mirror. But the devil was the
least of their worries.
Some Indigenous women believed the residential school
system was the open door to a white persons education,
filled with knowledge inaccessible to those who did not
attend, says Bourgeois. Yet these children lost everything
that defined them: their language, their dress, and their
beliefs. Those who attended the Mohawk Institute were
forced to study Anglican religion at the Mohawk Chapel.
Bourgeois recalls the story of her grandfather who at-
tended residential school and was taught to be ashamed
of his Native heritage. He lay on his deathbed with a
Roman Catholic cross above him, having a Catholic
mass, yet the brain cancer he suffered from forced him
to exclusively speak Cree.
Fiona Cook, the research and policy officer of the Native
Womens Association of Canada, led a study of the con-
nection between Indigenous girls and women serving
time in jail to the inter-generational impacts of residen-
tial schools. Cook wanted these girls and women to be
given a voice and she says many of them were in the
child welfare system or had a family member attend a
residential school.
For Cook, looking for an alternative to incarceration is
important. Federal statistics indicate that 44 per cent of
girls in youth custody are Aboriginal and 34 per cent of
women in prison are Aboriginal. Cook says investing in
better intervention and educational programs are neces-
sary for these women and girls to live outside of jail.
Most Indigenous communities are matrilineal, but in res-
idential school the children suffered from the colonial
mentality of the time that men were superior--a very dif-
ferent view than their own. In some cases, boys were re-
warded as property heads upon completion of residential
school and girls were encouraged to marry, leading to a
life of violence and devaluation due to the subservient
role placed on girls in residential school.
There was a huge impact [on] women [when they] were
no longer looked to as tradition carriers and teachers,
says Cook.
Yet for Sherlene Bomberry, a Cayuga woman and resi-
dential school survivor, safety is the first word that
comes to mind when thinking about her time spent at the
Mohawk Institute beginning in 1966. She was only ten
at the time, but her mothers abusive boyfriends led
Bomberry to find comfort at the residential school.
Bomberry was not aware of any abuse happening during
her time at the Mohawk Institute, likely due to the wean-
ing out of harsh punishment as the school drew nearer
to closing. Bomberry viewed her trips to the Mohawk
Chapel as an adventure because her family did not own
a car, so it was difficult for her to go anywhere.
Children on their deathbeds
were sent home to die so that the
school could refrain from being
seen for what it really was: a
place of silent genocide.
After her experience at residential school, Bomberry lost
her Native status when she married an Irish man, who
had no respect for her heritage. When she divorced she
began visiting Jan Longboats Earth Healing Herb Gar-
dens and Retreat Centre on Seneca Road at Six Nations
of the Grand River to begin healing from her experience
at residential school, which left her with a sense of
shame and guilt because her family was so separated.
She started going back to the reserve and also visited
Pine Tree Native Centre of Brant.
Wherever my spirit needed understanding was where I
was, she says.
Bomberry realized that it was up to her to break the cycle

of violence that she had experienced as a child. Her
mother, now in her early 80s, has just relearned how to
hug and express her love. During her own healing
process, Bomberry frequented a shelter on her reserve
called Ganhkwsr, which means Love Among Us
in the Cayuga language. The shelter focuses on holistic
healing and has an understanding of residential schools
and the oppression they caused, which helped Bomberry
through her recovery. She now works there full-time as
a shelter counsellor and offers casual support at Native
Horizons Treatment Centre.
Cook says there is no time frame on healing for residen-
tial school survivors. She has heard that survivors have
wished their counsellor was someone local from a simi-
lar cultural background who can connect to Indigenous
women on a personal level. She says some addiction pro-
grams require women to leave their hometown and travel
to a distant treatment centre where the recovery program
is short, which is not realistic. There also needs to be
more preventative treatment for the transmission of vio-
lence among intergenerational survivors, who have the
potential to fall prey to predators that could traffic them.
Bourgeois recommends that survivors receive individual
care and support while addressing the colonialism and
racism women who were in residential schools have suf-
fered. More awareness among the public, positive coping
methods and better addiction responses should also be
utilized.
The best resolution will ultimately come when we are
able to be self-determining sovereign nations because so
much of the pain that we continue to deal with is bound
up in that ongoing colonial relationship, says Bour-
geois.
The Mohawk Institute, whose basement air is heavy with
dust and sadness, now stands as a constant reminder of
the forward movement of Indigenous people. The Wood-
land Cultural Centre has proudly taken over the building
since its establishment in 1972, where a museum, lan-
guage and education departments and a library offer
knowledge to those who have suffered from, and those
who want to learn about residential school. Though the
women who survived the residential school experience
were impacted physically, sexually, emotionally and psy-
chologically, they remain strong and resilient with the
help of healing centres around the country. Through the
tears and pain these women have endured, it is now their
time to take these experiences and build a better future
for the women of their families.
Woodland Cultural Centre, formerly The Mohawk Institute Residential School, c.1972
Photographs taken beneath the sewing table in the library at Woodland Cultural Centre. Names, dates and inscriptions written in chalk over many decades by residential school students.
Page 7
Walking Together
by Lorrie Gallant, Facebook: Lorrie Gallant
In the language of the Six Nations of the Grand River Territory Ongwe-
heonweh means first, original or natural people. We have fought battles
that were not our own, we have suffered sickness and diseases that were
put on us, and despite the effort of others to take away our culture and
language--attempts to assimilate us--we are still here! We are survivors.
Walking Together, is the name of a project that brought 26 students from
the Aboriginal Beliefs, Values and Aspirations class and the Expressing
Aboriginal Cultures Art class of Hagersville Secondary School together
with former students of residential school. This intergenerational commu-
nity arts project was intended to remind the youth of an important part of
our First Nations history. To help these First Nations youth be empathetic
to the survivors of residential schools, they needed to understand what
the survivors endured.
The Project began with a presentation on the history of residential
schools. Students participated in workshops on information gathering, in-
terviewing and how to use digital photography to tell a story. Then, we left
the classroom to visit the Woodland Cultural Centre, the former Mohawk
Institute, for a tour. This tour was special because they were guided
through the residential school by former residential school students. With
cameras, notepads and sketchbooks in hand, the students walked side
by side with survivors and listened to the stories of each space of the
building where they stood. They heard a story of a child waiting by the
window for hours, wondering why his mother was not coming to get him.
Those hours turned into years, and she never came. Survivors became
transparent and shared sad stories of always being hungry, lonely and
crying many tears. We ended the day with a question and answer period,
where the students discovered that pain and sadness didnt end when
the survivors got to go home. They took it with them, and have spent their
whole lives carrying this heartbreaking legacy.
The students then returned to the classroom with new insight into what
the survivors had suffered, what some of their own grandparents had
gone through and how it still affects our community today. They began to
learn the art of mixed media and were given a creative place to put what
they had come to know, as seen through the eyes of the survivors.
The 24 inch by 36 inch white canvas lay before each student, waiting to
reveal this new knowledge. Hearing about residential school was one
thing, but spending a day with a survivor of the school made it real. Re-
alizing that these things had happened to some of their own family, to
people of this community--innocent little children who had done nothing
wrong--gave these students the images and words for their canvas.
The pain of residential school has passed through many generations and
the healing comes slowly. As these youth walked together with residential
school survivors, they were inspired by their courage and gained a new
appreciation of their own freedom to speak their language, celebrate their
culture and enjoy life.
Woodland Cultural Centre has become a reminder of that painful past,
and at the same time celebrates a beautiful, culturally rich way of life. Im
so thankful that the Six Nations Community Development Trust Fund is
aware of how the residential school has affected our community. Im grate-
ful to the First Nation artists whove helped give the students a voice to
those that needed to be heard, honoured the survivors and remembered
those little children that never made it home, and Hagersville secondary
school who trusted us with their students. These students respectfully
walked with the survivors, and cared about the message their art would
communicate. Most importantly, we need to say Nia:wen to the survivors
for being so honest, and willing to open wounds of painful memories to
help the students understand and appreciate their cultural freedom, hav-
ing the strength of spirit to let something shine through all the brokenness
and bring to light the pain and loss that came to them, but was never
asked for. Thats my definition of a survivor. We can now celebrate their
cultural inheritance.
Photography by Paul Smith, Photohouse Studio. www.photohouse.ca
Page 8
THE ROLE OF THE GOVERNMENT
IN INSURANCE REFORM
As usual when the question of a possible election arises the
cost of automobile insurance in the Province of Ontario is in
the news. Whenever automobile insurance is discussed the
most important thing is for everyone to remember that insur-
ance law is first and foremost consumer protection law. This
means that the government is supposed to make sure that the
Insurance Act serves the interests of the consumers - i.e. peo-
ple who pay the cost of insurance premiums and expect their
insurers to look after them when they are injured in motor
vehicle collisions.
Theoretically the role of the government is to balance the in-
terests of the insurers against the interests of consumers. The
government uses regulations to attempt to implement this bal-
ance and the regulations are enforced by independent dispute
resolution mechanisms - either through the Financial Services
Commission of Ontario (largely funded by the Insurance
companies) or through the courts (funded by the tax payers).
The Financial Services Commission of Ontario was intended
to provide a faster, cheaper alternative to the courts in an ef-
fort to ensure that claimants could resolve disputes with their
insurer's rapidly in order to facilitate timely access to treat-
ment and maximize full recovery from injuries sustained.
Due to backlogs and internal inconsistencies on how to in-
terpret their governing legislation FSCO has become less ef-
fective over time. Claimants have had to turn to the courts to
seek direction and in certain cases Charter protections which
are not available at FSCO.
While regulations provide protection to consumers imple-
menting regulations costs money. The more regulations that
there are the more expensive and unwieldy the system be-
comes and the less able it is to serve claimants and the inter-
ests it has been designed to protect. The foundation for the
current system is a series of forms which are unduly compli-
cated and not user friendly. Similarly the dispute resolution
process accessible through FSCO is heavily paper reliant and
processing applications for mediation is time consuming re-
sulting in significant delay in the scheduling of mediation
dates. FSCO has also interpreted their governing legislation
in a fashion that is inconsistent with consumer protection, i.e.
interpreting the 60 days in a fashion that effectively removed
any protection for consumers in terms of the length of time
between the filing of a mediation application and the sched-
uling of a mediation, and refusing to address disputes about
the applicability of the Minor Injury Guideline.
At a recent breakfast I had occasion to hear Jeff Yurek, MPP
for Elgin Middlesex address the issue of insurance reform.
He noted that in moving forward with reform, questions had
be to be asked about the role of FSCO and whether regula-
tions were hindering progress and competition in the industry.
He noted that questions needed to be asked about whether
the Minor Injury Guideline was serving consumers effec-
tively. Consideration had to be to be given as to how to bal-
ance what you need if you are injured in an accident against
what you pay for insurance. For insurance to be a good prod-
uct in Ontario it's not reasonable to expect that it will be cheap
or free.
In terms of insurance reform there are many options that
could be considered. Optional additional coverages are avail-
able now to customers that allow them to upgrade their cov-
erages without changing the base price of insurance. There
are two difficulties to this approach. First the additional cov-
erages are not being marketed to consumers and consumers
are largely unaware they could have purchased additional
coverages until they are in an accident. Further the availabil-
ity of additional optional coverages could lead to tiered ben-
efits and the question would remain in terms of consumer
protection what is the minimum amount of benefits that
would be an acceptable amount to provide to consumers who
pay insurance premiums in the event they are injured in a col-
lision. This is of course a question of public policy insomuch
as access to insurance benefits and defrays costs to the public
purse.
The other pressing issue is if and how the Minor Injury
Guideline be improved upon so that it will properly serve
persons who have suffered minor injuries and has the flexi-
bility to ensure that it is not compromising access to treatment
by unfairly minimizing injuries.
Lisa Morell Kelly
Morell Kelly Personal Injury Law
515 Park Road North
Brantford, Ontario N3R 7K8 (519) 720-0110
This whole stay at home mom thing is a whole other book.
Because I feel that I have become the most epic housewife,
save for the wife and house parts, I have given myself a new
title: Professional Apt-ma.
What is an Apt-ma, you ask? An apartment mama, of course.
Note the play on "apt." Clever, eh?
As an Apt-ma, my life is basically the opposite of my recent
student life... or is it?
Well, let's see. Old goals: conquer the world, be good at most
things, contribute to society and for the love of peanuts develop
some sense of how to make nice clothing choices.
Current goals: conquer the world, be good at most things, con-
tribute to society and for the love of acorns develop some sense
of how to make nice clothing choices.
Well, will you look at that!
So, I figure that conquering the world, becoming good at more
things and contributing to society all occur in stages. You can't
just take over the world with a YeeHaw or a RaRa. (Gosh, I
love rhymes). If you're smart like a Stormborn, well the girl
one at least, you'll increase your awesomeness as you go.
Marry into princesshood in a horse tribe, make friends with
slaves, get people to swear their lives over to you, and man,
when you throw a few mini dragons into the mix, you're ready
to go head-to-head with some bigger thugs.
Game of Thrones is an awesome show, be tee dubs, unless you
don't like gore, violence, magic or smutty stuff for your screen
entertainment. You're welcome, HBO. I accept donations, for
future reference.
So, since maternity leave tradition dictates that I can't blow
thousands on further upgrading my education, spend 98 per
cent of my days donating my time to extracurricular volun-
teerism or go gallivanting across under-appreciated continents,
in my apartment I stay for the most part.
If you have seen my Instagram, you know without a doubt that
I think my kid is THE greatest. I'm not writing about him today.
This one is about me, me, me.
Once Riley popped his little head out, I began my first task:
adding to my media knowledge repertoire. Compared to the
average Canadian 20-something, I know virtually nothing in
this area. So, I watched entire series after entire series. New
stuff, too. Unfortunately, I still never seem to catch people's
media references.
Next, out of necessity more than anything else, I began to de-
velop a number of strange skills, all of which developed from
being the primary caregiver to a medium, fussy infant.
First off, I have overcome my fear of childbirth. Rock on!
Yeah, that's right. I shoved a kid out. This makes me badass.
The rest of the items don't come even close to that level of awe-
some, but they are all getting shout outs. Since Riley, I can
now:
Talk Fast. With 18,345,234.3 things on my mind, when some-
one gives me conversational attention, out it all comes. Verbal
diarrhoea is a real thing.
Do ambidextrous stuff. When you have to switch baby hold-
ing duty from arm to arm, well, you don't have a choice but to
get better at using your... not dominant? What's the word? Baby
brain. Well, for me it's my left. I had the crappiest left hand co-
ordination ever. Now, it's far less useless. Score.
Name all the accessible routes. Strollering means no more of
my as-the-crow flies shortcuts that I loved so much. Stupid
stairs/curbs/fences/rivers.
Give a SOLID stink eye. Drive too close to me and my baby,
you might get lucky and even get the wtf arm gesture. Yeah,
I'm that girl now.
Drown out unwanted advice. And for goodness sake, don't
tell new moms/pregos your awful labour stories, and just in
general completely leave out the sick baby stuff. New moms
don't like it. We might never. I'm so sorry for your heartache,
but us first-timers are paranoid enough. If it was your child,
thats one thing. If it wasnt, please just dont.
Do at home stuff. Yo. I care about regular cleaning more than
I did before. I still hate sweeping/mopping/Windexing and all
that jazz, but I'm over my hate of washing dishes and taking
out the garbage. One step at a time I guess?
X off to do list items. Like baking. Like, last night, I baked
cinnamon buns from scratch, and they were delightful! Cream
cheese icing just made it. So delectable.
There are lots of things I can do for the community from home,
too! I've come to help dozens of people finish or revise their
resumes, for example. Perhaps this can become an official
business once my leave is over! I serve on committees, write
articles, attend church events and spend time with people I
haven't had time for in ages.
Now there are still some things on my to do list, of course.
Aside from how to coordinate smokin/pretty outfits, I need to
figure out how to walk.
Please, tell me someone else has experienced this post baby
dilemma. I don't remember how I used to move my legs. My
swagger is messed, inconsistent and awkward... Gah!
Some days I've got a Meredith Grey saunter, and other times I
catch myself trying to pull off some kind of Baywatch embar-
rassing-ness. Then, other times, my hips just don't line up and
my left goes further than my right, and I walk all facing side-
ways. Four months post-birthin' and I still haven't figured it
out.
Additionally, I've overcome my fear of wardrobe malfunctions.
Who knew that nursing would mean chronic bra issues, cock-
eyed shirts and even the occasional public leakage? Glorious
stuff, I tell ya, but it has made me stronger.
If youre asking me, which Id say you are if youre still read-
ing what I have to say at this point, Im nailing the whole con-
quering the world thing. This is my season of being an Apt-ma,
and by golly, I'm gonna nail it! One step at a time.
Oh, To Be An Apt-Ma
by Becca Vandekemp, Twitter: @beccavdk
Youre young. You cant make mistakes. He meant it in the
life is full of risks, so take some because its going to be okay
sort of way.
He was my favorite--everyones favorite really--university pro-
fessor. He was young, single and soulfully wise. I always
walked the line between being halfway in love with him and
thoroughly intimidated. I will forever be grateful for the things
he taught me: To dream, to honor, to work with excellence and
to love my neighbor as myself. Oh, and to not be afraid of mis-
takes.
I used to be paralyzed every time I needed to make a major
decision. I so wanted to make the right one. It was truly terri-
ble.
Youre young; you cant make mistakes.
This has gone round and round my head through the years.
Its an entirely comforting thought except on those days when
I wake up with a black pit in the bottom of my stomach, know-
ing I have made an irrevocable decision for the worse.
To be honest, I wish we could all have a deck of I take it back
cards we could play at any given moment and erase the last
few hours or even day. I would like a double deck, please and
thank you.
It seems like every week I do or say something that should
have stayed un-done or un-said. #oops #willieverlearn?
Id like to imagine that if Im a mess, Im a beautiful mess.
But, I see this pipe dream for what it truly is.
I always thought I would be a kooky old lady. Id wear purple,
write poetry and host backyard tea parties at midnight. Id
dance in the moonlight, travel the world, speak my mind and
campaign for all the social justice issues I could find. Id have
a front porch where Id wave at everyone, wear big hats and
play rock music.
If I make all my mistakes, huge
and small, in this decade then by
the time Im a grandmother I can
be sedate. I can drink my tea each
afternoon at 4 p.m. and take
up crocheting.
I figured I could take all my stored-up risks after I was 70,
when I finally stopped caring. Id be rogue--a tart extraordi-
naire--and not look back. Hello world, nice to meet you.
But should I re-think my plan? I get so tired of being a messy
human.
If I make all my mistakes, huge and small, in this decade then
by the time Im a grandmother I can be sedate. I can drink my
tea each afternoon at 4 p.m. and take up crocheting.
Who needs wildness and risks anyway?
Who needs a world of changers and those who dare to be dif-
ferent, who think outside the box and ask the hard questions?
If we stay in our boxes and play it safe then we dont have to
worry about getting hurt.
I always thought perfection would be boring but who knows,
perhaps there is something to the simplicity of sameness, of
safeness, of never having the mind-blinding sorrow of regrets.
I can walk a straight line as well as anyone, mind my manners
and close my mouth. I can stop taking risks, dreaming and dar-
ing. There is too much space for tears and bruises along the
way anyway.
Aquiet world, an unruffled existence. Oh the possibilities!
My heart leaps at the thought, but then I pause. My heart stills
and I know I must be true to myself.
So I think I will take life as it comes, fully embrace the journey
and learn from my mistakes as I go, even when it is most
painful. It will inevitably be mucky, but it is the only real way
I can see.
So, I will wear my heart on my sleeve. I really cant help it.
Ill let the world see me as I truly am, a broken being and oh-
so-beautifully saved by grace.
All About Mistakes
by Layne Beckner Grime, Facebook: Layne Beckner Grime
The best laid plans, they say. Nothing could be further from
the truth as my career in fashion took an interesting, but re-
warding turn. Growing up in Toronto I had dreamt of a career
in fashion all of my life. I wanted to work for a fashion mag-
azine and travel the world, sitting in the front row at all the
shows. I was thrilled to be accepted to Ryerson and begin my
three year fashion program. I loved it! It was everything I had
dreamt of, and I began to see my future unfold. The program
included a variety of courses: advertising, design, graphic arts,
public relations, marketing and promotions. So many career
possibilities were exciting. I took my portfolio to the fashion
magazines in Toronto and was rejected because I did not have
a journalism degree. Broken hearted I had to move on.
So began a string of interesting positions in sales, public rela-
tions and consulting. Little did I realize this was the beginning
of my training for--as I call it--my calling. It was during this
time that I met my husband, a Brantford boy who loved
Toronto but still missed his hometown. Jim was asked to come
home and work for some friends. So, we packed up and I cried
and cried. I settled in and began domestic life. We had children,
a house, a dog and a garden, the whole nine yards. However,
it was not enough. So, I began my endless volunteer jobs. I
canvassed, taught art in the public school, supervised school
trips and ran junior golf at our course. I went back to work sell-
ing advertising in Brant. It was later while volunteering for the
Alzheimer Society of Brants golf tournament that I saw an
opportunity for a new career.
I would spend time surrounded
by both Alzheimer and Dementia
clients, and would be reminded of
why I go to work everyday.
I began to volunteer for the organization and learned about the
need to build awareness and raise funds for programs and ed-
ucation in Brant. My parents moved to Brantford and things
seemed to be falling into place. I accepted a position with the
Alzheimer Society of Niagara as the Foundation Director, but
when a position became available in Brant I jumped at the
chance to work in my own community. Finally, everything
seemed to be moving in the right direction. Then, sitting at my
desk one afternoon came the call about my mothers illness. It
meant my Dad would have to be moved to the John Noble
Home. My Dad, who had always been my biggest fan, my role
model and my soul mate. His life was about to change signif-
icantly. Now what? I loved my job and loved my parents! I
knew my Dad would want me to continue my work, give back,
raise funds and build awareness about Alzheimer and Demen-
tia.
It was suddenly announced we were moving the Alzheimer
office to the John Noble Home. What? Dad and I were going
to be right next door. It also meant that I would spend time sur-
rounded by both Alzheimer and Dementia clients, and would
be reminded of why I go to work everyday. So often we lose
our mission and vision, but I am constantly reminded of why
I have chosen this path. Or did I choose this path? I sat in my
office the other day and it suddenly dawned on me that all of
my education, training and connections are now being used
for the greater good. I need to build awareness and support for
Alzheimer and Dementia in Brant. If I have a bad day I walk
across the courtyard and visit my Dad. He just says, you are
what you are thinking about. I think I have found My Calling.
The best laid plan.
My Calling
by Angee Turnbull, Facebook: Angee Turnbull
Page 9
Strong Modern Leadership
Strong Mod
Twitter: @alexfelsky
www.facebook.com/brantndpalex
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Brantford Paris Burford St. George
whynotyouthcentres.com
519.759.2221
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I love Brantford. I love serving my city. But, the other day a
friend said to me, hey, we should hang out, and I offered him
an open one hour timeslot after my kids go to bed three weeks
from now. It was a bit shocking. And I think I--along with many
of us who work very hard for the things we care about--have a
lesson to learn, because I simply dont do rest well. And thats
not a good thing.
I am not a doctor. Although, in an ill-fated and short lived radio
gag, I did once refer to myself as The Dr. of Love on Christian
radio. That was until a "dear sister in the Lord" rebuked me for
misrepresenting my savior by misleadingly posing as someone
who actually earned a title when I was simply an arrogant,
young, smart-mouth sending the sheep astray through deception.
Darn close to a direct quote. Such a precious saint. Life can be...
exhausting.
I'm also not a psychologist, nor a sociologist. As a fairly all-in
person, I can find myself not that aware or concerned with
healthy cultural norms saying, "screw it all. I'm packing up the
family, growing a huge beard and we're moving into the wilder-
ness to live like hermits on a lake without human interaction,
ever again. But, Im realizing that its a healthy thing for us to
think about saying, about 14 per cent of the time. That's about
once a week.
Any more than 14 per cent? We'd get caught up in wonderland.
We likely wouldn't get anything done. Even worse, we might
indulge ourselves in actually doing it.
Any less than 14 per cent? We'd be sucked into a never-ending
vortex of concrete, capitalism, crassness and craziness. Our
brains would scramble enough to still never get anything done.
Even worse, we might indulge ourselves in actually forgetting
that the work world that we see around us is it.
Definitions of evacuation include the "discharge of waste mate-
rials" and "leaving a place in an orderly fashion." And every now
and again, I think that's a good thing. I think it's a good thing to
remember that working this hard here isn't our final destination
(or doom) in perpetuity! Imagine that? I LIKE working. I LOVE
seeing Brantford transformed, by God into good. But, it does
get tiring. And, we are designed to vigorously till the soil in our
city. But as a Christian, I dont believe this is our forever home,
and not taking a break to breathe and get long-range perspective
can pollute our thinking, drain our energy and even undercut the
quality of our work.
Your, "screw it all, I'm packing up the family, growing a huge
beard and we're moving into the wilderness to live like hermits
on a lake without human interaction, ever again," would likely
look differently than mine. Yours might be, I just want to drink
tea in sweat pants and read Jane Austin novels all day," or, I
just want to get on my motorcycle and drive all day. But, we
know in our hearts that if we did that forever, wed rot. But find-
ing rest in removal once a week is refreshing.
Christians call this The Sabbath. It's God's plan of a day of
rest once a week. 14 per cent of your time. It's the commandment
I like the least, because I struggle with rest. I don't like taking it
and I don't know how to DO it when I do! Complete abandon-
ment and hermit living is where my wonky mind gets to without
a healthy discipline of rest. I'd actually hate it. We're not designed
to live as a recluse. What we really need are regular, healthy,
short-term mental evacuations and then a reinvigorated reentry
into our task.
When we don't do it well it affects: Body. Bad sleep and physical
vulnerability. Soul. Alertness, general awareness and freshness
of the mind. Spirit. The vibrancy and acuteness of ours dreams,
and our ability to use not just our natural eyes to them.
1 Thessalonians 5:23-24 says, "May God himself, the God who
makes everything holy and whole, make you holy and whole,
put you together--spirit, soul, and body--and keep you fit for the
coming of our Master, Jesus Christ. The One who called you is
completely dependable. If he said it, hell do it!"
City Leaders, let me encourage you today. We have to CHOOSE
to rest. Put your iPhone down and stop taking emails every day.
Not every day can be work. We cant spend life in a permanent
mental vacation, but there are perils of never getting out for a
breath of fresh air too. Honestly, I don't much like the habitual
ramifications that might come from delving into The Sabbath
because I know I have changes to make, but I do like the prom-
ised results.
The Difficulty of Rest
by Dave Carrol, Twitter: @davecarrol
It was the kind of weather that must have inspired Winnie the
Pooh and the Blustery Day. I could barely keep my balance as I
carried my display out of the Laurier Building and ventured onto
Market Street. My curls were blowing in my face. I mustered all
my energy to look composed as I made my way to my car. Push-
ing my curls out of my face, I noticed a man sitting on a bench
beside the library watching me struggle with my display box. I
only noticed him because he spoke to me.
He said, Your work weighs more than my life
I looked down at my box and back at him, and asked him to repeat
himself.
Pointing to the box he said, your work weighs more than my
life.
I carried my box over to him and sat down on it.
Does you hair do that on its own?
I laughed because my hair does not belong to me. It has always
had a life of its own. My lions mane on humid days, beautiful
ringlets when I have nowhere to go and limp waves when I want
a raging sea. Oh yes, these are natural. They live and breathe on
their own, and the wind is really messing with them today
He smiled at my embarrassment and then began reciting a Ten-
nyson poem about finding beauty in what is wild. I was mesmer-
ized. The poetry reading did not stop there. He went on, reciting
Lord Byron and Wordsworth. He told me all about the life of John
Clare and how he wrote his poems while institutionalized, which
lead to a story about his own life.
The onset of his mental health issues began while he was in uni-
versity, leading to his eventual homelessness; being labelled with
a mental health diagnosis.
For an hour we sat together, and he shared stories and poems. It
was difficult but the conversation had to come to a close. I needed
to go back to the Sexual Assault Centre but he wanted me to know
before I left that we should all live by the teachings of Jesus: love
one another and look out for each other. I am not sure why I felt
compelled to share that story. It was not a life defining moment. I
was already doing anti-poverty and community work. Perhaps its
for that reason I needed to get it out of me. Maybe its because I
have been thinking alot lately about how busy, clouded and full
our lives have become, leaving little time to experience sponta-
neous beauty.
Alot of us are really good at scheduling however frequent or rare
holidays, but I think the opportunities for random appreciation of
beauty have become endangered, eroding the richness of our lives.
We have more, but I think we feel less. It makes me sad.
I try to take time to literally smell the flowers, but its a struggle
when I have three jobs. I try to practise mindfulness. When I walk
my dog I listen to the songbirds and try to identify them by their
song. My mind eventually pulls to the eternal to do list running in
my mind. I think that story, from all those years ago, resurfaces in
my mind whenever I am feeling pressured.
I love my job. I love my Taylor the Turtle. I do not like the eco-
nomics of this society that necessitates me having three jobs. I re-
sent the push I feel to move towards more financially sound
employment, and to finally use my professional credentials and
education. It breaks my heart.
I am thankful that I have the education and the experiences to
move myself within the labour market, but I am bitter that my cur-
rent work is not valued more in this society. I made a promise to
myself in university that I would use my privilege as a tool to cre-
ate social change. What I did not fully comprehend at that time is
that capitalism is a powerful force--insurance, fuel and what seems
like an endless black hole. I live pretty simply in a cottage. My
only real indulgence is travel. As much as I revere Che and
Ghandi, I am not willing to be a martyr, which then leaves me
feeling guilty for not fully utilizing my skill set. I am not prepared
to sell out either. I try to find a balance between true self and the
real world self. I am a driven person with goals and aspirations,
some of which are materialistic, but I am also someone who is
lead by feelings and energy.
The other day I finished reading a fictionalized account of the
roundup of Jewish children by the French police on behalf of the
Nazis in 1942. The book was jarring. It took me back to when I
went to school in Poland for a summer and lived only a five
minute drive from Majdanek, a Nazi death camp from 1941-44.
It completely freaked me out to think that thousands of people
came to their death on the same rail line that I traveled on during
the weekend to go to Warszawa or Gdansk. It rattled me even
more to think about what if scenarios. What if my family did
not leave when they did? Would I be here or would the possibility
of me have been extinguished by the Nazis?
On my way to school I had to walk through the Stare Miasto, right
past the castle where the Nazis tortured hundreds of people. Every
day I was forced to recognize lost opportunity, the drive of hatred,
and in contrast the power of human resilience. The Stare Miasto
is only sixty-years-old but looks five hundred because after the
Nazis levelled it the Poles rebuilt it in the immediate post war
years to look exactly the same. This was not only an act of defi-
ance, but also one of beauty in opposition to years of death and
occupation.
My life before Poland was working multiple jobs at once, being
heavily involved in the labour and womens movements and going
to university full time. I was constantly thinking, moving and just
occupied in all my senses. These old memories etched in to the
buildings and streets forced me to reevaluate my life and my pri-
orities. I stopped wearing a watch. I promised myself to do what
I could to travel. I promised myself to remember that any act of
kindness has power and to not become overwhelmed by the im-
mensity of issues in the world.
Breathe in the summer flowers. Feel the earth between your toes.
Listen to the conversations of the birds. Watch the clouds and find
the stories within them. Taste all the amazing fruits of the summer.
That is everyones summer homework which only takes moments
of each day and will you leave you open to invitations to sit and
listen to beauty, to smile, to share or to be silent.
If I have learned anything in 35 years, it is that everything always
comes back to turtles. Slow down. Take time for yourself. Be gen-
tle but resilient. Work hard. Swim, sunbathe. Hang out in the sun
with friends. Be a Turtle.
Be A Turtle
by Carrie Sinkowski
Most people have heard about domestic violence. However,
domestic violence is only a part of an overarching violence to-
wards women and girls: Physical, sexual and psychological vi-
olence that occurs in the family, including battering, sexual abuse
of female children in the household, dowry-related violence,
marital rape, female genital mutilation and other traditional prac-
tices harmful to women, non-spousal violence and violence re-
lated to exploitation; Physical, sexual and psychological violence
that occurs within the general community, including rape, sexual
abuse, sexual harassment and intimidation at work, in educa-
tional institutions and elsewhere; trafficking in women, and
forced prostitution; Physical, sexual and psychological violence
perpetrated or condoned by the State, wherever it occurs.
I think people dont like to look at, or think about violence
against women and girls because its uncomfortable to acknowl-
edge that our nice western society is actually not so nice for
half the population, simply because theyre not men. Its about
power and privilege, not brains and ability. When I tell people
what I do and a discussion ensues, invariably I hear: why does-
nt she just leave him? or, she must have done something, or,
well, its none of my business. I cant think of anything that is
further from the truth.
Let me be clear: interpersonal violence doesnt always involve
a man abusing a woman. It happens in same-sex couples, it hap-
pens when an adult child abuses an aging parent and it also hap-
pens when a woman abuses her male partner. However, an
overwhelming number of cases involve a man abusing a
woman. Furthermore, both the extent of injuries suffered and
the occurrence of homicide are also much greater with the fe-
male partner being the victim.
I have learned more than I ever wanted to know about the hor-
rible things people who say they love each other can do to one
another. Im not a social worker, Im a project man-
ager and I can honestly say that I was one of those
people who
thought that
this kind of vi-
olence was
s o me t h i n g
that happened
s ome whe r e
else, to someone
else--that it wasnt any of my
business. Instead I have seen
that it happens everywhere
and can and does happen to
anyone. In fact, it happens so
frequently that we as a society
dont really pay attention
to it at all. And thats
a BIG problem, but
its not a problem we
are unable to solve.
Here in Brantford and Brant
County, we are incredibly
fortunate to have so many
agencies and individuals whose purpose
is to end violence against women and
girls, and to help those affected by family
and gender based violence. Its not just the people who work
at the agencies either, but also great private individuals who
understand that violence against women and girls is the com-
munitys business. My name is
Diana Boal, and I was hired
five years ago to work for
these agencies collectively
under the umbrella of the
B.R.A.V.E. Committee
Brants Response Against Vi-
olence Everywhere.
The knowledge and expertise
around the B.R.A.V.E. table is
extensive and impressive, yet
still this terrible problem ex-
ists, and the most frightening
factor is that dating violence
against girls and young
women from 16-24 years of
age have the fastest rising re-
ported occurrence of interper-
sonal violence. With this is
mind, B.R.A.V.E applied for
and was given a grant from the
office of Status of Women
Canada in order to engage young men and
boys in ending violence against women. I
firmly believe that this is the best approach
because society (community) does very lit-
tle to engage men and youth in ending the
problem. Too many men and boys feel like
theyre always being blamed and not being
asked to help solve the problem. Its not
men against women; it is men and women
against violence. Its a community that is
saying NO MORE.
No More
by Diana Boal, Facebook: Diana Boal
Page 10
At the beginning of time, when people came to be on
earth, there was a world high above where we now stand.
This land was so high that it was not visible from the
earth. It is not known how long the Skyworld was there,
nor how it got there. It has always been accepted that the
Skyworld always was. Perhaps this is the start of how
the Haudenosaunee showed respect for the teachings of
the ancestors. Trusting perhaps mixed with some wonder
but with no question, has been a long tradition.
In the Skyworld, there stood a tree that grew at the very
center of this celestial world. On this tree grew every
fruit. The sky people were given permission to eat freely
from the tree. They were also warned not bring harm to
this tree, which was a great source of nurturance for the
people. They were also warned that they were not to
touch the roots in case it would cause harm to the tree.
In the Skyworld lived a young chief and his wife. The
chiefs wife was pregnant and as with many expectant
women she began to have strange cravings. She had
cravings for certain kinds of plants, and certain kinds of
meats. She sometimes insisted on very specific blends
of plants for seasonings or teas. She often sent her hus-
band on many journeys to help fulfill her cravings.
Her husband was a humble person. He was rather kind
and gentle, and easily taken advantage of, especially by
her. He would go without argument or question, and try
with much difficulty to please his wife. His wife, on the
other hand, was kinda grouchy.
One day she had a new craving, a very unique and inex-
plicable craving. She approached him with some hesi-
tation, but in the end she had no problem asking him as
he always did what she asked. You see, she craved a
drink made from the roots of the great tree.
She asked him some questions: Do you love me? Will
you always love me? Do you think cravings are natural
when carrying a child, your child? Would you still love
me if I asked to go for another journey?
Her husband, who loved her dearly, listened as she ex-
plained her dilemma. She told him of her nausea, and
how their unborn child was kicking, probably with the
same craving. The husband quietly held much uncer-
tainty in his heart. But, she sent her husband anyway, to
retrieve the roots in order to make the drink that she
craved.
The husband was very concerned about her odd request.
He knew that they were not to touch anything on the tree
except for the fruit that it would bear. He walked with
much hesitation. He considered all of the consequences
that such actions could have for him, his wife, their un-
born child and the people. He walked toward the tree,
but become increasingly despondent regarding his wifes
request.
Sadly, he decided that he could not fulfill her request,
however he continued to walk. It is not known for sure
if he continued to walk to the tree, or if he wandered to
another path. His existence would forever remain un-
known.
The woman waited a long time for her husband to return.
She waited so long that she became impatient. She paced
the lodge complaining that he wasnt back yet. She con-
tinued to pace and complain. How could he take so
long, even though I am carrying his child?
After what seemed like a very long time her impatience
caused her to go looking for her husband. She searched
all over the Skyworld for him. After searching for him
for a very long time she finally decided to go to the great
tree to retrieve the roots for herself.
She arrived at the tree. She decided that although her
husband was supposed to go for the roots, he didnt re-
turn, therefore she would have to make the drink herself.
She approached the tree and examined the area. Which
would best suit her needs? Her pregnant state caused her
to use much care when bending to gather the roots for
her drink.
She knelt beside the tree digging for the roots, which she
desired. She dug with her hands, but in order to reach
the trees roots she had to pick some smaller plants, which
were in her way. She held on to the small plants with one
hand and continued to dig with the other. As she leaned
over she heard a sound. Unsure of what she heard, she
bent over further. As her curiosity grew, she leaned in
even further. It seemed to be the same sound that water
makes when running, like a river.
Throughout time storytellers have varied in what next
happened. Some expressed that from her curiosity she
leaned too far over and simply fell. Others say her hus-
band, out of anger, snuck up on her and pushed her
through a hole under where she was digging. Still other
variations of the story say that another family member
or another type of natural force, perhaps a wind, caused
her fall. It may have been an accident, or it may have
been an act of frustration from a family member, possi-
bly even her husband, but within the next moment she
found herself passing through a hole at the base of the
great tree.
Skywoman quickly tried to keep her balance and pull
herself back up through the hole. As she struggled to find
her grip she was only able to pull more of the plants that
grew around the base of the tree. She continued to fall,
now completely through the hole. She fell deeper into
the blackness of outer space. She continued to fall deeper
into the blackness and fell deeper, and fell deeper, and
fell deeperand felland fell and fell...
She continued to fall further and further from the Sky-
world. The blackness of outer space ever so slowly
began to be farther and farther behind her as she contin-
ued to gently tumble far, far off in the distance. The sky
was no longer complete emptiness. Something was start-
ing to appear. She was heading to something closer, and
closer and even closer. Skywoman tumbled, and tum-
bled and tumbled toward a place that we now know as
earth.
She was very afraid; she didnt know what was about to
happen. She finally caught her breath enough and began
to yell for help. HEEEELP, HEEEELP, HEEEELP!
An ongoing series to promote
peace through story sharing
by Elizabeth Doxtater
A Pride Filled Weekend
In the lead up to Brantford Pride I found myself feeling stressed
out and at wits end! As a committee member, there was so much
work to be done and so little time. The countdown was on, and
the clock was winning. In times like that its not difficult to lose
sight of what you are doing and why it is important. I had lost
sight, however, only briefly. My eight-year-old stepdaughter
wrote a poem called Pride is As I read, tears snuck from the
corners of my eyes. Pride is family. Pride is love. Pride is about
being yourself. Pride is loving who you want, no matter what
gender. Pride is unique. I cried because Pride is all of those
things, and even though I had temporarily forgotten, she knew
exactly why Pride is important.
At the flag raising, I stood with my children and wondered if
they understood why something as simple as raising a rainbow
flag at City Hall is so emotional for so many. I suspected that
they didnt, because they are not familiar with a world where
they and their family are not accepted. They have not been privy
to the learned behaviors that have plagued our society with sex-
ual orientation/gender discrimination. They are growing up in
an environment where more than ever before, acceptance is
taught; where even though their family is unique or different, it
is not wrong.
I asked them why they thought the flag raising was important
and my twelve-year-old daughter responded, because some
people dont respect people who are gay or lesbian, and raising
the flag feels good because it shows that some people are re-
spectful and caring. I feel that it is good for people to participate
in Pride even if they are not LGBTQ because that means you are
respectful of people who have differences or who may not be
the same as you.
On Saturday morning there was a non-denominational service
at Heritage United Church. The service was inspiring and emo-
tion packed. One community member that attended the service
said, "I was raised Anglican, but my child knows more about
Santa than she knows about the Christmas story. I am just not
prepared to risk taking her into an environment where she gets
the message that there is something wrong with her family. It
was very emotional for me to take communion today; it was one
of maybe half a dozen times since I came out in my teens. I kept
waiting for the lightning bolt to take out the Minister! She went
on to say, "sometimes it feels as though my life is divided into
two parts, my childhood which included faith and a strong Chris-
tian tradition and my adult life which began when I came out.
The Pride Service was like going home and finding out that the
relatives who told you, you were going to hell when you were a
kid, had set the table for you.
Brantford Pride has such a strong sense of community; the walk
was small but cheerful. The festivities at Mohawk Park were
family oriented, and it was moving to take a step back and really
see the kind of community that we are building, to watch chil-
dren dancing to live music and to see some new faces mixed in
with familiar ones.
Pride Committee member Tara Buchanan said, I was touched
by the talent and enthusiasm of people who participated in mak-
ing the, What does Pride Mean to You 2013 Quilt. It is the be-
ginning of a beautiful tradition for Brantfords LGBTQ
community.
As I participated in the pride filled weekend, I understood its im-
portance as feeling good to be a part of a community growing
acceptance. It felt wonderful to be standing in a crowd of family,
friends and allies and even more so to be a part of a community
with a visible and vibrant presence within Brantford. This is
cause for celebration and exactly why Pride is so important! If
the rainbow flag flying at City Hall, the church service, or the
walk to Mohawk Park, filled with supportive horns honking
helped even one LGBTQ person feel visible and not isolated and
alone than we as a community were successful in paving the road
toward equality.
by Christine Wildman, Facebook: Christine Wildman
Page 11
St. Marys CBM held a public meeting on May, 8 at
the Burford Arena about the proposed installation of
their gravel pit on Bishopsgate road at the fifth Con-
cession just outside of Burford (ten minutes west of
Brantford). This meeting in particular had to do with
the natural environment.
The slideshow they displayed will be online for the
public to view (if you Google St. Marys Olszowka,
you will be able to navigate from there).
The slideshow was fairly detailed and gave informa-
tion that seemed fairly insignificant, indicating mainly
that St. Marys cared about the environment and noted
the species that inhabit the area. Wetlands in the pro-
posed site are designated Provincially significant.
There was not much concern about the presentation it-
self. When the speakers opened the room for citizens
to voice their concerns, the meeting heated up a few
degrees.
Issues Raised
A concerned citizen respectfully voiced that the pond
construction would throw off natural deer pathways,
and this could cause their path to be rerouted onto the
403, which would have catastrophic consequences for
everyone involved. Glenn Harrington of CBM was not
concerned though, claiming that deer regularly cross
their pits. The citizen raising concern didnt appear
satisfied with the response.
Another question was whether these researchers did
surveys of species at a specific time of the season--or
year--to yield certain results. Melanie Horton of CBM
ultimately dismissed the notion.
Carolyn Innes, who is a graduate at the University of
Guelph in Epidemiology, raised question as to whether
agricultural land after the pits existence would ever be
restored to a quality equal to what they were before
the pit? Concern arose that once the area is turned into
a gravel pit that itll never be farmland again. Innes
question evolved to if any farmer would even want to
farm on this restored land. Though they didnt name
any, St. Marys claims there are pits that were agricul-
tural areas that have been restored to agricultural land.
However, they lacked the evidence and data to support
this statement. They said they can bring pictures to the
next meeting, which has been a common response to
citizens concerns.
They do bring pictures to each meeting, but obviously,
they only bring ones that back-up their point and make
the pits look like a positive experience. No word as to
if they actually have brought pictures to answer citi-
zens questions from past meetings. This could be
making a mountain out of a molehill, but perhaps the
citizens against the pit should record their questions
when St. Marys claims that they will bring pictures to
the next meeting to ensure that they actually do answer
the important questions.
When legitimate concerns were raised, the represen-
tatives said that they will gladly answer questions until
you are satisfied. However, the overall sentiment from
the meeting was: Express your concern and theyre
willing to make changes to the plans specifics but
even if there is widespread disdain for the pits instal-
lation, theres no chance theyre going to take the
whole plan off the table. So, in conclusion, to para-
phrase, it seemed like they were saying: Complain
enough and we may change the plan, but we wont
scrap it.
However, the issue is not finished. This pit is still in
its early stages of creation, so many believe the issue
can still be beat.
There will be more meetings coming in the near future,
so stay tuned. They may get testy as well. As a side
note, this article focused on the concrete issues--no
pun intended--and tried to stay away from the testi-
ness. So this article may not be the best indicator of
the emotions flaring in the room. You may have to
come experience a meeting to gauge the testiness, and
you just may get caught up in the polarizing issue of a
gravel pit.
I was born in the Brantford General Hospital at 8:30
a.m on October 27, 1949. I lived in that fair town
until 15 when we moved to Aurora to be closer to my
dads job. When that didnt work out we moved to
Newmarket, Ontario. I met my daughters father, we
married and had her at Newmarket Hospital. Father
held out his arms and said, give me my baby. His
Stevie Stephanie, was the light of his life. I lost
him to cancer when she was three. After 18 months I
moved back to Brantford, just Miranda and myself.
Things had changed, but only a little.
I went to school in Hamilton and learned to be a key
punch operator. For those who dont know what that
is, we punched holes in cards that told a computer
what to do. I returned to raise my daughter who is the
centre of my being. She is beautiful, intelligent and
a hard worker who is always there for me no matter
what she has to do for herself.
In 1989 my mother passed away and again the kind
people of Brantford came to support me. The funeral
was done tastefully, but she is buried in St. Thomas
with my father as was her wish. I did many jobs in
Brantford including GWG making jeans, watching as
time passed and things changed. The Eaton Centre
once sat where the old market is, but not for many
years, taking the place of a parking lot left from tear-
ing down the old City Hall structure.
The library moved from its original home, which is
now a campus for Sir Wilfrid Laurier, to the modern
building on Colborne Street where I spent many
happy hours. I went to college twice, first time at
Brantfords Mohawk college along with my daughter
and loved it. Her father and I finally divorced and I
lived alone. My daughter had her own life and I
moved on.
Downtown Brantford deteriorated as the malls took
over. It was sad to see. When the university came, the
downtown came alive again full of young people.
Again there were changes. Harmony Square has been
the best of these.
After so many years I met the man of my dreams. He
didn't smoke or drink, had young children and is the
sweetest most gentle man I have ever known. I
moved to Paris to be with him. We were married Feb-
ruary 14, 2004 (yes, Valentines Day) at St. James An-
glican Church in Paris where we lived. Father Bob
Schroeder did the ceremony. My uncle John, the only
one left of my fathers family, gave me away. My
daughter and my husbands best friends wife made
the wedding perfect. Thank you Mandy and Rose.
I had my own business helping children with ADD,
ADHD and Dyslexia. My husband and I wrote three
books on the subject, and then the place where he
worked closed down. He had to get another job, and
it was in Guelph. That is a long drive twice a day.
We moved to Cambridge to be close to his job. It only
lasted six months. As I have become more and more
handicapped we began looking for an alternative that
would fit my challenges. He drives a school bus. This
means that he can work in any town that has a school,
literally. And now I am coming home.
Many things have changed. Colborne Street is differ-
ent, better but different. All the beautiful flower beds
are just coming out. Yes, I am handicapped and
Brantford reaches out to embrace me.
We will like it in Smokey Hollow, which is a seniors
community. I will be able to swim, have a social life,
play darts (well I will try and everyone needs to stand
behind me) join the knitting club, the ladies club, the
country club, the Euchre club and many more. There
will be Tai Chi and exercises geared to my chal-
lenges. We will have our own house, but the grounds
are cared for. We dont cut grass or shovel snow.
They even have a fire department. The people are all
friendly and community minded. Everyone cares for
everyone else, like when I was young.
Home is truly where the heart is and mine is there.
Only a couple of weeks and we will make the last
move of our lives, hopefully. Brantford, here I come.
Another Public Gravel Meeting Gets Testy
by Jesse Ferguson, Facebook: Jesse Ferguson
Coming Home
by Lynne Joseph
***Dedicated to all those who have lost a loved one
to cancer.***
It was a long trek for Gilbert, but he couldnt miss this
event. He smiled when he saw Becky standing guard
at the back gate, making sure no one snuck in without
paying, but shed let him in--she always did.
Why Gilbert, you old son of a gun! Becky laughed.
Its bin too long; where ya bin hidin?
Dont git aroun much anymore, Gilbert smiled.
Got real bad arthritis in my joints.
Becky gave Gilbert a gigantic hug. Git in here
need a drink?
Water will do fer now.
Becky fetched him some water. I got a few things to
look after, so Ill catch ya later. Some of the old gang
should be along shortly.
Gilbert was thankful they hadnt arrived yet. He felt
weird this year, couldnt figure why. He found an
empty picnic table and sat down. The crowd began to
trickle in. A band was tuning up for their first session.
Becky studied her old friend. He had aged. His hair
and beard were snow white, except for a red stripe
down the middle of his beard. Some might mistake it
for red hair--she knew better--Gilbert chewed tobacco.
She smiled as she noticed the length of his braid.
Thirty years ago he swore hed never cut it off. Becky
wondered if he was bald under the bandana that he al-
ways wore. He was wearing glasses this year--a funny
little round pair--which made him look like a possum.
Becky noticed the torn black jeans, greasy work boots
and the picture of a wolf on his shirt. Wolf Man was
his nickname, back in the day.
Becky shuddered. She had a strange feeling something
terrible was about to happen.
Gilbert lit a cigarette. Smoke curled around his head.
He felt the tightness in his chest and began coughing.
Damn cigarettes, he cursed as he coughed up a
whopping gob of sputum. He gazed around, making
sure no one was looking, and then spit under the table.
The band was playing some 50s rock and roll. They
were old boys, like him. He glanced over to the en-
trance and noticed his buddy Roy heading toward him.
Hey old man! Roy shouted.
I aint hard of hearing; dont have to yell, Gilbert
laughed. How ya doin?
Deaf, Roy was still shouting. And cant afford
hearin aids.
Gettin old sucks, doesnt it? Gilbert stated. Ill be
70 next month, if I makes it.
Ya dont say, Roy lit a cigarette.
Gilbert got a faraway look in his eyes. Had a decent
life, done what I wanted, when I wanted faithful
friends, good times
The two friends began to reminisce about their biker
days. Finally, the announcement Gilbert had been
waiting for came over the loudspeakers. Anyone with
pledges for getting their head shaved for cancer, please
register up here. Our barbers will begin at 4 oclock
sharp.
Thats my cue. Gilbert got up from the table, shuf-
fled to the registration table, dug into his pocket,
pulled out his last months disability cheque, and
handed it to the girl. Dont have a pledge sheet Miss,
kin ya make me up one?
Im not sure if we can take this cheque sir; Ill have
to verify it with Becky.
Its okay, Becky knows all about this. Gilbert didnt
want to draw unnecessary attention to what he was
about to do.
The girl filled out his registration and put the cheque
into a box. Have a seat over there, Gilbert. Next
please.
Becky could not believe what she was seeing on the
stage. Her old friend was taking off his bandana. Bald
as a bald eagle he was. Everyone was gathering around
to watch the main event. One of the musicians grabbed
the microphone. First up is Gilbert. Look at this pony-
tail folks--all the way to his waist--how many years
did it take you to grow that Gilbert?
Too many, Gilbert whispered huskily.
Well, folks, anyone want to sweeten the pot a little
before Gilbert gets shaved?
People began throwing coins and bills into Gilberts
box. He smiled as he recognized several old bikers
dropping in some large bills. It would be a good day.
The young hairdresser revved up her barber shears.
One cut and she waved the pony tail in the air. The
crowd cheered! More money was dropped in the box!
No one noticed the tears trickle from Gilberts eyes.
No one noticed Becky wipe her face with an old hanky
she had pulled out of her apron pocket. No one saw the
embroidery in its corner: To Becky, my true love,
from your Wolf Man 1956.
Gilbert slipped quietly away before Becky could reach
him. She had a feeling shed never see him again.
Later that night, as she counted the proceeds, she came
across his cheque. The tally for the money in Gilberts
box was $1, 657. 25. She turned his cheque over
Well, Becky, my love, this is it the old Harley
awaits me Ill keep the back seat warm for you
take as long as you like. Love, your Wolf Man.
Beckys tears flowed shamelessly onto the words,
smearing the message into an illegible swirl of ink.
Gilbert
by Mary M. Cushnie-Mansour, website: http://marymcushniemansour.ca/
It all seems to be a normal Date Night Friday, the kids are having a
sleep over with their grandparents, the dinner and movie venue are
selected. All that needs to be done are some housekeeping items at
the office. Thats when the call is received Your father has had
a heart attack!
Shock, denial, panic, silence You are making decisions quickly
but the easiest one is to grab some overnight clothes and jump in
the car and hit the highway. The fear of not knowing fully whats
going on shoots through your body every minute. An inadvertent
call to his cell phone ends in relief as a nurse picks up and confirms
the heart attack and that hes going through surgery to remove the
blockage. Relief that hes in the best hands possible slows the car
down to normal highway speeds and 3 hours later you arrive at the
hospital. You dont care about the parking rate or even where you
will eat or sleep the night. Your main focus is making sure your
father is going to be ok.
Its a rather emotional thing seeing your hero lying on a hospital
bed with enough wires and tubes hanging out of him to power a
city block. Even though the surgery was a success, the blockage
was removed, the long recovery process begins.
I call it a Simple Heart Attack because for all intents and purposes,
the survival rate for heart attack victims is in the 90% range if the
problem is caught early enough. Youre through surgery in less than
2 hours and in many cases are sent home next day. This isnt so if
youre out of town and need to be kept for observation and cleared
before travelling.
You start adding up the cost of the weekend; Hotel room for 3
nights, 3 days worth of parking and 3 days of dining. The tally just
for the weekend is around $2,000.
What about the recovery period and the cost of the medications and
treatments not covered by OHIP? How about the month of recommended
time off work? Where does this money come from? Savings?
Credit? These expenses can escalate very quickly into the tens of
thousands of dollars all for a now Not So Simple heart attack.
In 1983, Critical illness insurance was created by a South African
surgeon named Dr Marius Barnard. Dr Barnard was finding that
the cost of recovery was actually causing more stresses in his
patients than the surgeries he preformed. His patients were taking
longer to get better and in some cases dying as they were forced to
return to work before their bodies had fully recovered.
Critical Illness insurance provides a lump sum of money should
you suffer from one of the covered conditions. Most companies
have 20+ covered illnesses but the reality is that 84% of benefits
are paid for Heart Attack, Stroke, Cancer & Coronary Bypass Surgery.
What would a lump sum of money provide in the event of a Simple
heart attack? You dont need me to answer this for you. Instead I
challenge you to think of someone you know who has suffered a
Critical Illness. Think of how their financial situation was affected
and ask yourself, would $25,000 of Critical Illness Insurance have
changed their financial situation? Would it change mine?
We feel very strongly that savings and goal planning are areas
where professional advice is a necessity. If you wish to talk about
your financial goals and how Critical Illness Insurance can help
secure them please give us a call, were here to help.
Alford & Associates is a family owned and operated financial practice
in Brantford. For over 25 years we have helped our clients secure
their financial goals. First and foremost we help you secure your
greatest asset Your Family.
ALFORD & ASSOCIATES INC.
Insurance & Investment Advisors
254 Brant Ave., Brantford, ON N3T 3J5
Fx: 519.751.0522
www.alfordandassociates.ca
519.751.0901

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