Loading...
The Citizen, 2007-05-17, Page 5THE CITIZEN, THURSDAY, MAY 17, 2007. PAGE 5. Bonnie Gropp TThhee sshhoorrtt ooff iitt Most Ontario elections are won long before the campaign buses start rolling, but the next on Oct. 10 suddenly looks like it’s going down to the wire. This is because the Liberals under Premier Dalton McGuinty, who have led in polls almost since being elected in 2003, are stumbling and could lose some ground. They were slow protecting lottery ticket buyers against retailers who cheat and seen steering money disproportionately to immigrant groups run by Liberals, and were evasive when questioned on both. They are out of touch in asking residents to “flick off” to save electricity, hinting at an obscenity that offends many. They flew a minister, Dwight Duncan, on a government plane to make a routine speech at several times the commercial cost, at a time an opposition campaign targeting Liberal waste is taking off. Governments prefer skeletons to tumble out of their closets early in their tenures, so they will not be fresh in voters’ minds, but the Liberals’ worst failings are being paraded at a particularly inconvenient time, only five months before an election. McGuinty – as an example of elections often being decided long before the voting -- had a smoother path in 2003, where his victory was a foregone conclusion a year before the election was called. Ernie Eves had taken over as Progressive Conservative premier from Mike Harris and much of the bloom Harris had won by cutting taxes had faded and voters were more concerned at weakened services. Eves tried to appeal to moderates by delaying plans to cut taxes and privatize hydro transmission, but critics in his party protested he was not a real Conservative, and he entered the campaign with lukewarm support and no chance of competing with Liberals promising real change. In 1999, Harris had the election sewn up long beforehand, because enough voters were still enthused by his tax cuts and prepared to ignore his hard-nosed tactics, such as canceling a food allowance for pregnant women welfare recipients on the ground they might spend it on booze. McGuinty also had been slow establishing a presence and Harris hurt his image further with advertisements showing him looking like a furtive prisoner in a mug shot and charging he was “not up to the job.” The 1995 election Harris won sometimes is cited as having been decided in a campaign, because the Liberals under Lyn McLeod started it with 51 per cent in polls. But Harris had laid the groundwork a year in advance by announcing his Common Sense Revolution program with unusually clear details of how he would cut spending, the Liberals helped by postponing unveiling their policies until after the campaign officially started, when voters already had lined up behind Harris, and New Democrat premier Bob Rae was never in the race, because of his successive record spending deficits that forced him to wait five years before calling an election. The 1990 election was lost during the campaign, because Liberal premier David Peterson was high in polls, but called it after only three years without justification and voters felt he was opportunistic, too intent on seeking glory on national unity and crude when he tried to buy his way out by offering to cut one per cent off provincial sales tax. In 1987, a Peterson win was a sure thing long before he called an election, because with the help of the NDP, which supported him in minority government, he was able to boast of worthwhile programs that included an end to extra-billing by doctors. But the 1985 election was another lost in the campaign, because Conservative premier Frank Miller started with a huge lead, but raised voters’ doubts he could compete with younger opposition leaders when he refused to debate them on TV, the last premier to do this. Parties have sometimes won elections by strong performances in campaigns, but more often have found it a big advantage to get an earlier foot in the door and keep it there. Going country “They are the bimbos of the natural world: more beautiful and less interesting, arguably, than other orders of animals. An evolutionary experiment in sheer decorative excess, with a high ratio of surface to innards.” Those are the words of ecologist David Quamenn and he’s talking about butterflies. More beautiful for sure – but less interesting? Mister Quamenn has impeccable scientific credentials but I would argue him to the mat on that one. Consider the annual miracle that will shortly unfold from the Queen Charlotte’s to Newfoundland and from the High Arctic to the backyards of Windsor, Ontario. The migration of the Monarch – the butterfly a lot of Canucks call King Billy because their colours are those of King William of Orange. These gobsmackingly beautiful creatures with their blazing orange/black filigree wings will soon be dipsy doodling into Canadian meadows and roadsides, backyards and vacant lots – anywhere, in fact, that milkweed grows. Milkweed and only milkweed is where Monarchs lay their eggs. Milkweed and only milkweed is what Monarch caterpillars eat. There’s an excellent reason for that. Milkweed contains a poison that makes potential predators of Monarchs throw up. The gaudy body colours serve as a reminder to birds, frogs, toads and salamanders not to mess with Monarchs. What’s more if the Monarch you see is a female, she will be finishing the final leg of a 4,000-mile migration begun by that butterfly’s great grandmother a year earlier. After it lays its eggs a Monarch only lives for about six weeks. Four generations of butterfly may have lived and died on the journey and yet millions of Monarch descendants find their way unerringly to the same grove of trees in a high- mountain forest in Mexico, year after year. A grove they’ve never seen. ‘Less interesting’, Mister Quamenn? It’s a perilous journey. The Monarchs face hurricanes, tornados, freak blizzards, flash floods and droughts, not to mention herbicides, pesticides, speeding cars and trucks and airplanes. An adverse wind can blow them irretrievably out to sea. A tiny miscalculation flying south can maroon them in Florida or drown them in the Gulf of Mexico. Yet, somehow, every year, a critical mass of these creatures manages to find a narrow, 50-mile wide gap of cool, river valleys in Texas that funnels them down to wintering grounds in the Transvolcanic mountains of Mexico where they roost, semi-dormant in the chilly air that prevails at 10,000 feet above sea level.. Somehow – and scientists are baffled by this, because an insect just wouldn’t seem to have the requisite mental equipment – but somehow Monarch butterflies possess the knowledge to orient themselves in latitude and longitude. It took humans until the 18th century to figure out how to do that. Bimbos, Mister Quamenn? It is truly a miracle, but one wonders how much longer the Monarchs can pull it off. Farmers loathe the Monarch staple – milkweed. Most of them pull it out or spray it every chance they get. We continue to pave and ‘develop’ and otherwise subjugate our wild places. What last year might have been a way station for migrating Monarchs might this year be a condo or a subdivision or a highway cloverleaf. And then of course, there’s global warming. New weather patterns mean different seasons for the wildflowers on which the Monarchs depend for nectar. It also means more weather extremes – storms, heat waves, cold snaps. Worst of all is what’s happening to the Mexican forests where the Monarchs spend their winters. They’re disappearing. Some years ago, the president of Mexico declared with great hoopla and fanfare that his government would protect the Monarchs. He turned nearly 400,000 acres into a butterfly sanctuary. It was a publicity stunt. In the past 25 years more than half the ‘sanctuary’ has been cut down by illegal loggers. So is the Monarch doomed? No. Threatened, for sure, but not doomed. This flimsiest of creatures, possessing the weight and fragility of a city bus transfer, has been criss-crossing our continent for eons against incalculable odds. The Monarch is used to facing long odds and beating them. This is one bimbo lightweight you don’t want to bet against. Arthur Black Election going down to the wire Whenever I need to leave it all behind Or feel the need to get away I find a quiet place, far from the human race Out in the country —Three Dog Night Work took me on a little excursion recently. It was a warm, sunny day and I found myself trekking down gravel roads deep into the heart of Huron. I don’t spend a lot of time in the country anymore. There were years when that was a big part of my summer and weekends. But as the rural relatives aged and moved off the farm, the opportunities diminished, and eventually disappeared. Even as a youngster, though, I knew there was something magical about country living. During my sojourns there, I never missed the close-at-hand activity I enjoyed in an urban centre. I never thought about the movie theatre or the fact that boredom could always be relieved with a short jaunt down the block to a friend’s house. My visits were highlighted by things I would never have found entertaining in town, long walks with no destination, times when there was nothing but nature and imagination to provide amusement. Picking berries, playing in the mow, or with burlap saddles and rope transforming stable walls into horses, pleasure was found in the simple. I recall sunny mornings bounding out of doors with my cousin, for all the world as if we had serious business to be taken care of. Our destinations would vary — the chicken coop, the orchard, the pasture, the barn or the garden. But each carried the promise of adventure. I think back to quiet Sundays lying beside my grandparents’pond, staring at the goldfish. I remember running with a carefree spirit that can’t be experienced amidst brick and mortar. Barefoot down gravel lanes, climbing Grandpa’s ‘knotig’tree, the experiences I carry from the farms of my childhood exemplify freedom. So it was these thoughts that came back to me as I enjoyed my recent, mature version of a gravel run last week. Turning off the main road was like a sigh, a release from the chaos. Freshly gravelled, the road compelled me to slow my pace and take in the surroundings. Trees arched over the narrow route which linked its residents’ otherwise isolated existence. A bevy of tiny birds flitted past me, carefree in the reality of open skies and shady woods. Everywhere was open and airy and I began to feel the same unrestrained sense of being I had as a child. The atmosphere was clean and pure, innocent and easy, pristine and natural. I was overcome by an urge to pull to the side of the road and listen to the quiet. I thought of kicking off my shoes, and running barefoot into the tall grasses. Unfortunately, duty called and I could not spare the time. But the thoughts were nice as were the memories they stirred. The reaction, I admit, did come as a bit of a surprise. After all, I live in a rural county and do have occasions that take me to farms or quiet spaces. But this was the first time in many years that I felt the country’s therapeutic charms. It was a cleansing breath, a journey back to childhood that put a smile on my face and kept it there for hours after. Whenever I feel them closing in on me Or need a bit of room to move When life becomes too fast, I find relief at last Out in the country. Other Views As butterflies flutter by Eric Dowd FFrroomm QQuueeeenn’’ss PPaarrkk 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.