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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Citizen, 2008-03-13, Page 5THE CITIZEN, THURSDAY, MARCH 13, 2008. PAGE 5. Bonnie Gropp TThhee sshhoorrtt ooff iitt My favourite things No one has ever successfully painted or photographed a redwood tree. The feeling they produce is not transferable. From them comes silence and awe. It’s not only their unbelievable stature, nor the colour which seems to shift and vary under your eyes, no, they are not like any trees we know. They are ambassadors from another time. – John Steinbeck, Travels With Charley Once you’ve seen one redwood, you’ve seen them all. – Ronald Reagan Different strokes, I guess. John Steinbeck was an artist, with a writer’s eye and a writer’s sensibility. Ronald Reagan was … not. Even his staunchest supporters never pretended that The Gipper was any kind of mental giant. It was Reagan, after all, who once assured reporters that trees caused pollution. I wish I could weigh in on the subject of the giant California redwood’s magnificence or lack thereof, but the fact is I have never seen a specimen firsthand. I’ve seen plenty of mighty fine trees, mind, from colour-besotted sugar maples in the Eastern Townships of Quebec to otherworldly red cedars looming Emily Carrishly out of the rainforests of B.C. There’s a knobby old apple tree with my initials carved in it growing out of a hillside in Southern Ontario and I still have a diamond willow walking stick I plucked as a branch from a thicket on the outskirts of Whitehorse in the Yukon. Joyce Kilmer famously wrote: I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. I agree with him. I have luscious memories of strolling under arbutus and beech and Garry oak and pines that I wouldn’t trade for any number of Pindaric odes or Petrarchan sonnets. And I still remember marveling at a stunted stand of gnarled and twisted black spruce leaning away from an Atlantic gale on the Newfoundland coast. We live in a land that’s sky high in magnificent timber but I had to leave Canada and travel nearly 5,000 kilometres to the west, to a volcanic outcrop of the Hawaiian Islands, to look up into the most incredible tree I’ve ever seen. It stands, improbably enough, smack in the middle of the town of Lahaina on the island of Maui. The tree – Ficus Bengalensis – is precisely 135 years old. We know that because the history books tell us that the sheriff of Maui, one William O. Smith, planted an eight- foot banyan sapling, lately arrived from India, in the Lahaina courthouse square on April 24, 1873. Lahaina at the time was still smarting over its demotion from capital city and royal seat of the islands. King Kamehameha III, Hawaii’s last reigning monarch, had moved his royal court to Honolulu, leaving Lahaina to fend for itself as a roughhouse whaling port and depot for the sugar cane industry. Today, Lahaina is primarily a tourist town whose main exports are T shirts, snorkel excursions and heftily-priced tickets to Luau extravaganzas. Lahaina’s banyan hasn’t grown all that tall in its 13 decades under the broiling Hawaiian sun – it’s only about 50 feet high at the crown. It’s the horizontal spread of the tree that astounds. First-time viewers often think they have entered a banyan forest. The best part of an acre – ‘way more than a city block – is shaded by a dense, three-storeys-high mat of leaves that towers over some 17 mas- sive tree trunks looming up from the courtyard. Only one of them is the true trunk. The others grew from aerial roots that dropped over the years from the tree canopy to the ground below. The banyan tree is Lahaina’s town square, piazza, village common and local gathering place all rolled into one. There’s room under its boughs for over a thousand people to shelter from the blistering sun or the infrequent rains. Each December it becomes the world’s largest Christmas tree as thousands of lights are strung from its branches. But the Lahaina banyan’s greatest performance occurs each evening just as the sun goes down. The tree erupts in an ear-shattering cacophony of screeching and cawing. Mynah birds. Thousands of them returning to the tree to roost for the night, just as they have for generations. The noise they make is unearthly. And magnificent.. At the risk of paraphrasing Joyce Kilmer: I think that I shall never hear A poem lovely as a tree. Arthur Black Other Views I think that I shall never see .... Premier Dalton McGuinty has decided there are two different rules for those who threaten anyone in public life – one for politicians and the other for the rest of us. The premier notified police after a female immigrant from India e-mailed she would “kill” one of his aides. She has been charged with uttering a death threat and could go to jail for up to five years. The immigrant has explained that people in her former country often use this expression when merely slightly irritated and have not the remotest intention of carrying it out. She says the words should not be taken literally. Others add that similar language is common in several countries and there is a lot, including this writer’s personal experience, to support this. The legislature also has been through a similar incident before, when it refused to rebuke even slightly an immigrant MPP from Britain, who said an opponent “should be shot,” but maintained this is an expression of only mild disagreement in that country. The premier and police have been much harsher in the case of Neelam Vir, 40, of Brampton, who emigrated from India and became a freelance writer for a Punjabi newspaper. She met politicians in her job and was thrilled by her easy access to them compared to those in India. She became concerned immigrants have difficulties obtaining jobs for which they are qualified and wrote to federal and provincial ministers. In five months she sent about 200 e-mails to McGuinty. His office replied to her by her first name and she felt recognized, went to a news conference and hearing him say he enjoyed Indian candies and took one to his office and left it with an aide. Later she e-mailed the premier asking if the aide had given it to him and added “if she didn’t give it to you, I’ll kill her.” She wound up taken to a police station and held for six hours until her husband bailed her out. She says her dream of a life in Canada is ended, but she cannot leave while the charge hangs over her. McGuinty said the incident was “sad, but obviously if I or someone in my family or staff receives some kind of threat, we turn it over to the police and they deal with it in the way they see fit.” Clearly people in some countries commonly say they will kill someone without meaning it. One spokesperson here said some in India might say “get the milk or I’m going to kill you.” Not many murders in India have been reported over refusals to pass milk. Others have added the term is common in other countries and parts of Canada, particularly Newfoundland. In Britain a mother might warn an unruly child “I’ll kill you when I get you home,” but often will forget she had even been irritated by the time she reached that destination. Vir sent an extraordinarily large number of e-mails to McGuinty in a short period, but this is no proof of an irrationality that might prompt murder. It could more easily be the exuberance of someone, not previously listened to by authority, who found a premier corresponding with her, using her first name. The MPP who used an expression with similarities in the legislature was a normally jovial, well-mannered and respected New Democrat, Gordon Mills, who a decade ago shouted “you should be shot” at a Progressive Conservative, Gary Carr. Mills explained saying someone should be shot was not meant or taken literally in Britain. Carr and another Conservatives said they had no fears of Mills, but were concerned his remark might incite some “kook or wing-nut.” The legislature, which included McGuinty in opposition, accepted the MPP’s explanation and did not reprimand him. The premier should have shown the same leniency to the immigrant who is not a politician. Eric Dowd FFrroomm QQuueeeenn’’ss PPaarrkk Was death threat mishandled? Chirping birds, a gentle breeze stirring the soft music of windchimes, the quiet conversation of a babbling brook. These are among my favourite things — they are the sounds of spring and summer. Oh, I know. Here I go again, complaining about the cold and snow. But now I’m not alone any longer in my campaign against winter. I’m hearing the whining and grumblings on the radio, the street and in conversations with others. The season’s relentless hold is wearing, sapping us of physical and mental energies. Funny thing is, while I may have yammered on about the lousy weather early in the year, I don’t say too much now. Having been miserable for months, I’ve learned a mode of survival that sees me through to this bitter drawn-out end. I have found my ways to shove Old Man Winter, if not out of sight, then out of mind. A bouquet of spring flowers brightens a room, and the spirit. The light splash of a tabletop fountain takes the chill out of a dreary afternoon. And a CD of nature is the perfect backdrop to take you from the nightmare of winter to the dream of deck reading. As well, there may not be a hint of spring for us to take hold of yet but there are some early clues that have to be making its predecessor nervous. The sun is warming, the snowflakes seem closer to slush than fluff and days are longer. It is just a matter of time when winter’s battle will be lost. Here at work the annual farm issue heralds spring’s nearing. The agricultural community is preparing for the time of planting and renewal. Soon the vast fields will be alive with activity and growth. Perhaps it was my getaway state of mind, but in putting together the section this year, my thoughts turned to the pastoral perfection of the countryside. Then I was hit by an idea that I hoped just might bring a little sunshine to the dying days of winter, one page dedicated simply to scenic shots of rural life. And as I worked on the farm issue I found myself coming back for a glimpse at that page again and again. A spot of colour and light it refreshed me each time. What can be more vibrant than a landscape of blue, greens and golds, grazing animals or signs of harvest and productivity? We are fortunate to be surrounded by such beauty. When people look for places to settle, often high on their list of priorities is the view. And whether that scene is from a high rise or a country cottage, what they are looking for is nature. Not an urban landscape of concrete and steel, but an unfettered glimpse of water, sky or land. That view is here for us. Close at hand, if not right next door. A kaleidoscopic world that can stimulate and simultaneously soothe. If only for this reason I am thrilled to live in a rural area. Others can enhance their homes with plantings, boxes, gardens and beds of beautiful flowers and lush vegetation. But what could be a better backdrop for that than a clear blue sky and lush pastures linked by areas of flora and fauna? With all that promise is it any wonder that we are over eager to see the end of Old Man Winter’s overblown bluster and bland countenance? Letters Policy The Citizen welcomes letters to the editor. Letters must be signed and should include a daytime telephone number for the purpose of verification only. Letters that are not signed will not be printed. Submissions may be edited for length, clarity and content, using fair comment as our guideline. The Citizen reserves the right to refuse any letter on the basis of unfair bias, prejudice or inaccurate information. As well, letters can only be printed as space allows. Please keep your letters brief and concise.