A prayer to the better angels

 Doom-scrolling is a crummy thing to do before bedtime.

This was brought home, once again, to me about three weeks ago, when I made the mistake of checking my newsfeeds as I lay down to sleep, and stumbled across a veteran American meteorologist named John Morales breaking down as he analysed the approach of Hurricane Milton towards the Florida coastline.

You don't want to see a grown scientist cry.  It's really unsettling.

Last night, the Resident Fan Boy and I watched John Oliver wrap up the latest episode of Last Week Tonight with a passionate plea to American voters to keep that guy from getting into the White House again.  I was startled to see that his eyes were moist.

You don't want to see a British political satirist cry, either.

My American cousin and her son have spent the past few days phoning voters in the swing states.  I'm doing my bit by steering away from newsfeeds.  I'm rather grateful that Facebook blocks news items in and out of Canada.

The RFB and I will be watching Stephen Colbert tonight.  John Oliver will be a guest.  Are we crazy?  Well, the results are unlikely to be known soon, because, after more than eight years of this nonsense, and for reasons that overwhelm and depress me, the vote is likely to be close.   

Another Republican, standing on the edge of the abyss of an American civil war, made a plea to the "better angels of our nature".

I hope I can sleep tonight.

Great was the fall thereof

Many Canadians may have been looking for ways to tune out the jingoism of American Independence Day.  There were options, but, at our house, we looked overseas.

The British election, it turns out, was perfectly timed for an evening's viewing on the west coast of Canada.  The polls closed at 10 PM British Summer Time, so the returns started trickling in about 4 pm our time.

When I discovered that the BBC News was streaming their live coverage at their web site, I alerted the Resident Fan Boy, a longtime election junkie.

"We can set up your laptop to see it on the big screen TV," he said, enthusiastically.

"You mean, we can set up your laptop." Apparently, it hadn't occurred to him that this was possible. (I wanted to use my own laptop to follow bulletins and charts.  The RFB probably had the same idea, blast him.)

And we watched things develop over the evening:  the strange, studio-filling graphics that failed to make things clearer, the exit-poll that was the chief structure for hours, until enough ridings had been declared to indicate that, yes, it had been a reasonable prediction -- except that no one knew that the Conservatives would lose quite that badly.

I was astonished to see Colchester, where most of my father's descendants live, turn Labour scarlet in a sea of Tory blue on the ridings results map.  A few years ago, elder daughter reported that, as delighted as she was to visit her paternal grandfather's family, she was horrified at how pro-Brexit and anti-immigration many of them were.  Golly,  I thought.  They really must be furious at the Conservatives.

And many famous faces fell, these strange, entitled people, who seemed to treat their country like some sort of college prank, but Sunak won his seat (and will resign as party leader).  And Farage, by gawd, got a seat by creating a whole new party, which only won five seats, but got an alarming percentage of the popular vote.  So the faces on British political satire shows will be largely the same for a while.

This afternoon, I sorted laundry in the bedroom and turned on the television for company.  It was the CBC news channel, and they were interviewing some analyst from the BBC.  

They're still at it, I thought. 

But no.  He was talking about the imminent election in France, which seems poised to be taken over by le Rassemblement National.

Nope.  If the Resident Fan Boy wants to follow that, he can take his lap top into another room.

Running scared

This evening I walk into the twilight.  I'm taking an extra loop before returning home, which takes me through desiccated, drought-dry leaves. On Su'it Street, tiny red berries pop under my feet.  The yards are blossoming into Hallowe'en decorations, which seems fitting, because today is Election Day.

Municipal elections are notoriously ill-attended and our municipal elections, with the long confusing ballots filled with scores of names for four different categories: Mayor, City Council, Capital Region, and School District, are no exception.  Demeter tells me that the turn-out for the last municipal election in Victoria was something like seven percent. She's wrong; it was almost 45%, but that's still pitiful, considering the effect a municipal election has on the quality of life in a community.

As far as I was concerned, there was a new level of trepidation with this year's contest.  Amongst the candidates, three groups appeared to have emerged:  those stemming from the incumbents, and two groups which were hopping mad at them.  

The first of the two "hopping mad" groups ran as a slate in 2018, and were not doing so this year; possibly because running as a slate made it easier for citizens to avoid voting for them.  They seem to be running on the "law and order" ticket: talking about "public safety" and "good governance".  Admirable, but a bit vague. 

The last group is far scarier.  They call themselves "VIVA" (as in "Vancouver Island Voters Association") and they claim to be non-partisan -- except the candidates have ties with the People's Party of Canada.  Populism has come to municipal politics.  (Oh gawd.)

It seemed imperative to cast a ballot.  The Resident Fan Boy ordered mail ballots, and when they didn't show up, grabbed a bus to City Hall, where he found them being held.  He, younger daughter, and I had the luxury of filling out those ballots, chockfull of candidates, at the dining room table.  He ran them down to our polling station that afternoon, by which time the line twisted around the community centre, and was fashioned into a zigzag to save space.  He carefully asked at each checkpoint, fearful of being accused of queue-jumping, but was able to file our envelopes quickly.

Meanwhile, Demeter had failed to tell me that her voter card hadn't arrived in the mail.  She said that this had happened last time, and waved me off.  I went home and worried.  The RFB had told me the wait in line was 90 minutes.

I went over for the evening call to find her placidly noting the temperatures on the local weather report, as she does every day at 5:40.  Apparently the queue operated much in the same way as the Queue at Westminster to see the Queen's coffin.  Someone clocked her walker, and directed her through the front entrance, where she was streamlined through the process, even the registration required because of her lack of a voter's card.  Then she went grocery-shopping.  She bought cheese.

Tonight, the ballots are taking forever to count, but the local news has projected those for whom we voted, for the most part.  Not a populist in the bunch.

This time.

The rock zoo

So I've left the coffee house after my early morning mocha, en route to set up Demeter's petit déjeuner. 

All summer, there's been a pile of rocks in a sort of cage on a bit of lawn by a house where the election awning is persistently being knocked over. Presumably, someone in the neighbourhood is anti-NDP, and might use the stones to throw as a political statement, something that's been happening lately in Canada. 

This morning, I notice that the rocks have been rearranged.

I gaze through the wire, and remember that the advance poll has just opened up down the street. Time to grab my voting card and ID, and cast my ballot, rather than a stone.

Update 11 Sep 2021: Closer examination reveal that two of the rocks read: "Worth More Standing" and "Go Away, Loggers", so I guessed this was about Fairy Creek. This morning, a hand-lettered sign had appeared on the cage, saying that this is an installation in protest of the rough treatment of anti-logger protesters.

Slow vote to Fernwood

The Resident Fan Boy and I voted in one of the advanced polls in the recent municipal election for Victoria, partly to avoid the crowds and partly to plough the path for younger daughter, as this is her first election in British Columbia.

Good thing we did!  A civic election has to be the toughest of the three levels of elections; municipal politics get less press coverage than provincial and federal politics on the whole, and there's usually a huge selection of candidates, for more positions, so it's not a simple matter of ticking one square for an MLA or MP.

This election, for example, was for mayor, plus (up to) nine city councillors, (up to) eight school board trustees, and, to really complicate matters, a choice of which councillor to send to the Capital Region District, and a referendum.

On top of this, we had a number of hurdles to overcome.  Despite registering online, we were not yet on the voters' list, because that had been released to the elections officials over a month ago.  This meant registering in person at the polls.

When I showed up at City Hall for the advanced poll, I noted the other hurdles - particularly tough for younger daughter's autism spectrum challenges.

Four line-ups:  1) To enter the voting area.

2) To  register, which included answering some questions, and providing the correct ID.  The fellow registering me decided, on principle, to accept my library card (which I had mentioned, but not offered) as ID.  I'd already presented my passport, along with my provincial health card, which confirms my address.  "Library cards are on the list, and -- we can!" he declared.

"Great," I replied.  "I'm a literate voter.  Also well-read."

3) Another line-up to take one's turn in the voting booth.

4) Most daunting of all, a long curving line to "cast the ballot", that is, in this case, feed it carefully and singly, into the sole "ballot reader", a machine resembling a printer.  You had to wait for the confirming click, then they'd hand you your "I Voted" sticker.

The machine, which, I suppose, eliminates hand counting and sorting, takes waaaaaay longer than slipping one's folded ballot into a ballot box.  You can't fold your ballot for one thing; you have to conceal it from prying eyes in a yellow folder, although it wouldn't be hard to guess how you voted in the several seconds which elapse between taking it out of the damned folder and feeding it into the damned ballot reader.

Oh, yes, and the ballot itself had to be filled out by meticulously shading into an oval next to your choice(s) with, and only with, the provided pen, much like the dreaded provincial high school exams for university qualification that I remember with little relish.

On Election Day itself, I searched for illustrating photos on the internet to assist younger daughter with visualizing the process to come, because despite being a veteran of all three levels of elections in Hades, this would be a whole new procedure for her.

You can imagine that part of me was rather hoping she'd give this election a miss, and I did explain, more than once that voting in a municipal election in Victoria would involve four long line-ups and a complicated ballot.

However, even after a long day that included a practice session with her accompanist for an upcoming singing competition, and a trip to Pic-a-Flic to renew her DVDs, she was insistent.  Of course she wanted to vote.  It was Election Day, and she's twenty-two.

Far be it from me to disenfranchise anyone, let alone my own daughter.

We set off to the nearest polling place, the high school, at 6:30 in the gathering darkness, reasoning that we were bound to finish long before the polls' closure at 8 pm.

It took some time to locate the entrance and we were directed to the other side of the building -- where an enormous line snaked out into the parking lot.

After chatting companionably to our fellow queue occupants for - I dunno - twenty to twenty-five minutes, we were finally in the gymnasium, where younger daughter still had to be looked up on the voters' list, even though we told them she wasn't on it.

We joined the queue for registration.  At the advanced polls, this had been quick, but, even with four people at work, it was clear that the filling-out of the form took out an inordinate amount of time.  When younger daughter sat down, one of the questions put to her was if she knew the final three digits of her social insurance number.  This was after she presented her health card, passport, and birth certificate.  The Resident Fan Boy deflected some of the sillier questions.

We had told younger daughter that she need only to vote for mayor.  We were talking to someone on the spectrum.  She took several minutes filling out every part of the ballot.  I took some comfort in noting that others were also taking a long time, and somewhat less comfort in watching the line for the ballot reader grow longer and longer.  By the time the RFB and younger daughter joined this final queue, it had been over an hour since our arrival.

Worn out, I went to sit on the concrete steps leading out of the gymnasium.  In the hall behind me, a long line-up of people still waiting to enter had been brought inside so the outer doors of the school could be shut and locked.  The polls had closed - it was now 8 pm - but those inside would still be permitted to vote.

From my perch, I watched the long line of voters approaching the lone ballet-reading machine.  I marvelled at how different this population of the electorate was from those coming to the advanced poll.  When I voted, I was surrounded by mainly middle-aged and elderly, mostly smartly dressed people.  Tonight, it was a Fernwood crowd:  parents with babies, toddlers, preschoolers, and primary graders; people with dogs;  people who looked like they rode motorcycles,  many, many young voters evidently casting a ballot for the first time.

Despite my weariness, I was touched by the faces as each person waited for the confirming click, then slapped their "I Voted" sticker into place, beaming.

One last heart-clutching moment when a young woman attempted the machine, then was directed back.  Evidently, her ballot was not quite correctly filled out.

Oh gawd,  I thought.  Will younger daughter's ballot be okay?  It's been over an hour and a half...

It was.  I gave her a thumbs-up, and we walked out under a night sky with planets glowing in it.

We got home two hours after we had left.

Somehow, we feel affirmed and confirmed as residents of this city.

Not wanting to know

Oh, but last week was balmy, fading away into evenings of gentle shades of mustard and rust. We didn't know Leonard Cohen was already dead.

Down by the Rideau River, the pathway seemed to glow in a deep aquamarine. It all reminded me, a little uncomfortably, of an evening eight years ago, which also happened to coincide with the American election.
I slipped off to the Bytowne Cinema for a movie, but returned too soon, so tuned into one of the few television channels not covering the events south of the border, before scooting off to bed early.

The next morning, I awoke at 5:26 and thought:  I don't know who won.  Let's keep it that way for another hour.

So I guess my heart knew.

In the coffee shop, a young fella told us that his American girlfriend had voted Libertarian in the advance polls, being a Bernie Sanders fan.  They're planning to immigrate.

"The Canadian Immigration web site has crashed!" he said, the air of someone delivering astonishing news.  I knew; I'd been standing in horror by the radio speakers in my bedroom.

A man fixing his coffee at the creamer and sweetener station by the door, looked up.
"Trump got in?"

He must have been the last person in Ottawa to know.

A couple of days later, the young fella was seated with his girlfriend in the coffee shop.  He recognized me but thought he'd seen me the day before.  I reminded him it had been the morning after the election.  His girlfriend was a bit taken aback that he'd been discussing her vote with strangers.

"I didn't vote for Trump," she muttered.

I decided it would be unkind to point out that, if she hadn't voted for Hillary Clinton, she had essentially voted for Trump.

Every morning, for the past week, I've woken up with a feeling similar to that when I first learned that younger daughter was special needs.  I feel depressed, trapped, and rather terrified about the future.

At the very least, I don't know how I will be able to face seeing and hearing the likes of Newt Gingrich and Ann Coulter in the media again.

I don't care to discuss the very worst.

I vote because I like to complain

The bell rang this sparkling shining morning, and I tripped down the stairs to answer it. (Never mind what I was up to.) A pleasant young man stood there clutching a clipboard and I could see from his pile of brochures that he was our local Progressive Conservative candidate.

Some of you may be aware that Canada is suffering through yet another federal election. For the past decade, we've been having a damn federal election every couple of years. This is because we have a minority government, run by a lacquer-hair control-freak who has succeeded in reducing media coverage of his Progressive Conservative Party's shenanigans to carefully spooned-out sound-bites. Their latest trick has been tossing people out of PC events because they've vetted their backgrounds for tell-tale trouble-maker Facebook features such as liking environmental groups or having their picture taken with a Liberal Party member. I wish I were kidding.

I looked brightly at the guy on my porch: "Oooh, you're our PC fella!"
"Will you be supporting the Progressive Conservatives?" he asked hopefully.
"No, we're NDP and Greens in this house," I said cheerfully. "But we're pleased to see you as a part of the democratic process."
"It's nice to see a smiling face," he said and went on his way. This neighbourhood has been a Liberal riding for about a gazillion years. This means my vote will have no value whatsoever, but I will vote, dammit, because it's my duty and I figure I can't participate in the grand Canadian tradition of dissing the government, unless I cast my ballot.

Thankfully, we have the Rick Mercer Report to take the sting out of most elections. It's a very funny show, probably funny only to Canadians, but then, I have to Google most of Graham Norton's references, so there. Part of each show is a feature called the Rant. This week, Rick goes after young voters. About thirty eight percent of eighteen-to-twenty-five-year-olds turned out for the last election:
If you're not Canadian, and you're thrown by the accent, he's from Newfoundland.

Identity crisis

We're heading into High Autumn now, and this particular one is reaching the high and colourful standards of the fall of 2000 when we first came to Hades, which, come to think of it, also followed on the damp heels of an unseasonably rainy summer. So this morning, for the first time since 2000, I saw the striped sidewalk effect, due to the droppings of three particularly vivid maples lined up the next block up from our house. It looks like the Doctor's scarf; too bad the effect was spoiled by this morning's clutter of garbage cans and recycling bins, delayed by yesterday's Thanksgiving holiday.

Today is Election Day, and while all true Canadians whinge about the weather and government, they cannot rightfully do the latter, in my opinion, unless they've bothered to vote, no matter how futile it may seem. Particularly at our house this year. I'm voting with my conscience, even though I find all four leadership candidates depressingly unprepossessing; the Resident Fan Boy is voting strategically, even though our riding has gone to the same party since 1974.
"When are you going in to cancel my vote, darling?" I call to the RFB as he heads out for work. Oh well.

Now, the challenge in voting for the past couple of years lies in the new identification rules. Apparently, even with sinking voting participation with each election, there are fears of illegal voting. (I wish I thought people cared that much. I wish I thought I cared that much.) This means perusing a rather large pamphlet with long lists of combinations of IDs which will be acceptable at the polling place. Most people can get away with their driver's license, but I'm a militant non-driver. This means I need a piece of government ID (a birth certificate or a passport), and (here's the rub) something on the approved list that shows my address. Up until recently, that was my health card, but it came up for renewal last April and the new ones don't bear addresses for "privacy reasons". A utility bill is also acceptable, but I just paid my bills last week and the bit with the address on it is what's returned with the cheque. I email the Resident Fan Boy for the location of our Canada Child Tax Benefit statement and he tells me that he shreds them. Oh dear. I have a letter from my mum but the stamp isn't cancelled, and letters are not on the lengthy list. Fortunately, Resident Fan Boy hasn't paid the hydro bill yet, and that bears both our names. Whew. I stride down to the United Church, where two lovely Indo-Canadian ladies tell me that everything is in order. "You mean I get to vote?" I cry with mock-glee. Fortunately, these ladies are not "election day Hitlers" and they laugh, and hand me my ballot.

Now I'm going to find somewhere to blot out the world. The Resident Fan Boy may be an election coverage junkie, but I'm not. This year, the polls don't close until 9:30, so I have the option of retreating to bed and watching Gavin and Stacey. I wonder if DVD rentals spike on Election Night...