The Kingston "Honour" Killing

You must be as repulsed as I am regarding the so-called honour killing that took place in Kingston a few weeks ago. While I don't know all the details, I think I know enough about Canadian law that the arrest of the father, mother and brother of the three girls and their father's "cousin," must mean the police have some hard evidence to lay charges.

National emotions (via news blogs, articles, commentaries, etc.) are running the gamut from tightening up immigration laws to street justice to outrage – and, to be sure, these all have some validity. Of course, in the civilized and reasonable country that we purport to be, these are simply not moral or legal options. In fact, while we want the full force of the law to be thrown at those guilty of this horrific killing, Canadian law holds the position that they are actually innocent till proven guilty.

Bit by bit, we are coming to understand that there was some grief between the eldest of the three daughters and her father. She was, in fact, doing some things that other normal, red-blooded Canadian girls were doing. And for her desire to shop, date, dance, and other "normal" activities, she loses her life. And not only only hers, but, perhaps to cover up this heinous act, others are killed at the same time.

Then to add insult to injury, the term "honour killing" is thrown in. Talk about an oxymoron! I am not clear from that type of culture whether such a killing is a religious or a moral conviction, but I do know it is a wrong conviction (Wow: That should stew someone's tomatoes!) There are far more rational ways to deal with alleged disappointments.

Maybe dad should have tried curfews, time-outs, phone restrictions, or less computer time.

Self-defense? That's understandable. Taking out someone who is attacking your loved one? Agreed. There is no grace for random, senseless murder for its sheer pleasure, neither should there be any margin in any culture for ritualistic killings. And because one's particular view of one's cultural reputation is being rattled, people must die? I don't think so.

Any culture or religion that entertains the notion that children are things to be sacrificed on any premise, that wives are merely sexual chattel, or that the price of of personal offense is death, is not reasonable or rational. I would strongly suggest that cultures that embrace that worldview are doomed.

What has been dubbed as an "honour killing" in that culture is consider first-degree murder in ours and should be dealt with as such, culture and/or religion persuasions notwithstanding.

The irony is not lost here: The Lord in heaven knows we Canadians have many contradictory issues in our own culture that make many lawmakers somewhat hypocritical. The country we love has its own so-called honour killings, Western-culture style. We call it abortion.

The law that will judge this threesome is based on the Judeo-Christian principles, the bedrock of any law-loving, law-abiding democracy in the world. It is what has preserved the western culture from imploding for the last few hundred centuries, and the inverse is true in the eastern cultures. However, as Canada loses more and more of this legal, moral, and religious basis for its existence, what happened in Kingston could increase.

It is one thing to recognize differences in cultures and religions (they are inseparably linked), but it is quite another thing to condone them, let alone embrace them.

I was impressed by the number of bloggers that I read at CBC.ca that were justifiably outraged at this grisly act. In fact, I don't recall reading anyone who thought the killers did the right thing. We may disagree with relationships, values, viewpoints, and convictions of those with whom we differ, but killing someone to make it right simply makes it wrong. They have crossed the line.

Perhaps we should start with the right terminology: What happened in Kingston was a "dishonour killing." Nothing more, nothing less, nothing else.

Pet Peeves and Sasquatches

We all have our little pet peeves, or, as I prefer to call them, idiot-syncrasies. I have many of them: That's what makes me very eccentric or interesting, depending on whether you understand me or not.

Voice mail, the mixed blessing of telecommunications, happens to be one of them.

Let me clarify my position (one of my eccentricities: I hate to be misunderstood) regarding what could be considered a life-saver to many. When I am away from my phone, I find voice mail a real blessing. When others are away from their phone, I likewise find voice mail a real blessing.

Where the mixed blessing part comes in, then, is when a) I leave a message on someone else's phone and they never return my call; and b) when I am actually talking on their voice mail, I tend to blather (longer than usual, I might add).

In a word, mixed blessing "A" is a matter of ignorance, and mixed blessing "B" is matter of embarrassment.

So this is some free advice to all you "ignorant" people out there: When someone phones you, leaving you a polite message – stating name, time, and date as well as purpose of the call – please phone them back. If you don't want people leaving messages for you, let me make a humble suggestion: Get rid of your voice mail. Save the $4.95 from Telus, and simply let your phone ring and ring and ring.

And an explanation of "B" is also in order here: Please bear with me if I phone you, as I go on and on about anything and nothing - be it the weather, the price of ice in the Arctic, or whatever comes to mouth, er, mind. Talking to someone else's voice mail is like trying to talk to someone in a coma: I talk, but they don't respond. (Oops, did I say coma or Grammar 9?)

The more modern version of voice mail, of course, is the Inbox on your computer. I write many people on a regular basis, exchanging a lot of information. I can write at midnight or midday; I can write four paragraphs or four words. I neither worry about bungling my message, nor do I worry about disturbing the person I am trying connect with.

On the one hand, if I make a spelling mistake or don't articulate my thoughts well - and I do that with remarkable consistency – I can take a deep breath (or the cyber equivalency of such), and start again. On the other hand, the panic attack I have when I am on the phone is that I have only one jump at this jig, and I better be in step, because when the music stops, the dance is over. (Great metaphor, budding writers: Do you have any idea what I meant by the above verbiage? Me neither.)

I should add yet another pet peeve with voice mail: Many times the guy or gal leaving the message is either very curt ("Hi, this is Horace; leave a message"), or very witty – correction: they are trying to be funny - ("Hi, this is Doris, and I am either scuba-diving in my bathtub or playing marbles with my pet sasquatch.")

If that's funny, then I'm good-looking. (Now that's funny!)

Voice mail is great when used properly. Abused by neglect, however, it can create unnecessary frustration for caller and callee (is that even a word?) alike. The caller - in other words, someone like me - can get the distinct impression that someone doesn't want to listen to me, let alone talk to me. And for the callee, it becomes a very annoying interruption – especially if you actually are playing marbles with your pet sasquatch.

So, next time I attempt to phone you, please either answer the phone or get back to me as soon as possible. And when you do get back to me, please speak clearly, slowly, and intelligibly. I'll make sure I then return the call, once I'm out of my scuba gear.

A Significant Month

In a matter of days, I will be successfully straddled between celebrating two significant anniversaries: my wedding day (#28) and my birth day (#55). July just happens to be that type of month. It's the latter anniversary (I have only one birth day – the day I was born, Horace) that has created more angst for me than the former one.

After all, any man married to the same woman for twenty to thirty years or more is quite a novelty these days. There is a certain heroic element for hanging in there, even though it bucks current trends. Too often, marriage partners are viewed with the same cold eye as professional athletes: Kept around for a few seasons, they get dropped for younger, more suitable versions of the same. That's why I like the term "covenant" for marriage; "contract" sounds so, well, temporary and business-like.

You are aware that there are very few jokes about marital longevity, whereas libraries and comedy stages are full of cracks and quips about growing old. I had it just the other week, twice. Some old geezer, probably my age, asked me about my two grandchildren playing on the hills of Dinosaur Provincial Park. I made three corrections: "Sir," I said, "there are actually four of them, they are not my grand-kids, and the blonde is not my daughter – she's my wife."

Talk about dinosaurs...

And a couple of days ago, at my favourite pre-owned clothing store, the clerk (politely) asked me about discounts or coupons. I was taken aback at his question, knowing that it was Senior's Tuesday. I would have poked him with my walker, but I think I left it in another store. Or was it at the bus stop? I better find it soon, because I think I left my dentures in the basket.

I don't feel that old. Granted, I am slower physically than I was a ten-miles-a-day letter-carrier, twenty years ago. And I think I am slower emotionally, in that I don't get as excited about a variety of things as I once did when I was a lot younger. Maybe I am a little jaded.

Speaking of emotions, I still tend to lose my temper, but for some reason I always find it again.

One clear-cut mark of my aging process is that I love older music more and more. I was born in the 50s and raised in the 60s, and that era has become my music of preference. Ironically, I never became aware of it till the 70s, so it was already old then. I still remember my first Beach Boys album. By the time I got around to buying it, they had become the Beach Men.

Whether it is four-part gospel harmony, barbershop quartets, good old-fashioned doo-wop, or early rock and roll, I suggest to you that there is a certain classiness, quality, and wholesomeness that has been unmatched since that time. The words, for starters, are clear and meaningful, something I can't say for much of the music of recent history. I admit that is a strong opinion, and I also know music is very much a matter of taste; but when I hear what passes as music today – secular or religious – I seriously cringe in disgust and disappointment.

Just as an example, I am listening to a CD-version of the Oak Ridge Boys, circa 1960, as I write these words. Those Oak Ridge Boys are not the same Oak Ridge Boys of today. I am a quasi-fan of the ORB still, having seen today's version live, just before they fled to Country. They are very gifted, no doubt about it, but I still hanker after their older stuff as I "mature."

Another benchmark of aging gracefully – like healthy cheese and great wine – is habits. You know those sorts of habits I'm talking about: shopping, wardrobes, holidays, evenings out or in, etc. I feel settled for the most part when it comes to these things. I rarely feel the restless and consuming urge to try this new thing, or go to that new place – just for the rush, just for fun.

The real kicker here is that I am gaining a status that will match my looks: I am going to be a grandpa! My wife and I have discussed what we should be called with the excited parents-to-be. For myself, I ran through the slate of terms of affection for the old man who is the father of the young mother. I am working through "Papa," "Gramps," "Poppa," and of course, "Granddad."

In addition to a new moniker, I need to adjust to a new relationship, namely, being married to a grandmother. Has it really come to this? But after twenty-eight years, one has come to expect the unexpected. On the upside, maybe she knows where my teeth are.

What is Really Newsworthy

Unless you have been hibernating under a rock in Maleb in recent days, you will be keenly aware that Michael Jackson is dead. The so-called King of Pop passed away on Thursday, June 25, and the one autopsy at the point of writing has not yet confirmed cause of death.

The news of Michael's death has caused me a lot of grief. Now before you fall of your stool, wondering how the death of Michael Jackson has caused someone like me grief, please re-read the previous sentence. (Let me help you: I said the "news," not the death itself, caused me the grief.) And the fact that I can still write about it ten days after fact (on the day of his funeral), and that you can read a week and ten days after the fact, reveals a lot about the state of the news these days.

Tehran is battling civil unrest, with protesters being arrested or worse, shot or hanged. North Korea has launched yet another series of missiles, perilously close to both South Korea and Japan. And there is a drought plaguing the prairie provinces. But these stories (and many others) have taken a backseat to Jackson's death.

My first awareness of Jackson was when he was a cute little kid, singing with his brothers as part of the famed Jackson Five. Over the past four decades he has morphed into something very, very different. Despite our pronounced different tastes in music, dancing and values, I actually feel sorry for him, now that certain facts are being made public.

Where does one start - His horrific drug issues? His money mismanagement? His cosmetic skin changes? And those are the one I know of. However, as sorry as feel for him, I draw the line at the public outpouring of grief, starting with the media. He has been presented as some sort of hero, some sort of cultural treasure. An icon, in his own way, perhaps, but, please, spare the platitudes.

A clever and creative dancer, granted. A good and innovative singer, that's arguable. Was there anything wholesome about his public performances? Hardly. (That could be said about a whole host of widely-accepted entertainers.)

From Michael Jackson we shift to Steve McNair, erstwhile quarterback of both the Tennessee Titans and the Baltimore Ravens. He was shot at close range, including two bullets to the head. McNair's body was found alongside that of a much younger woman, one that he had been dating; she had also been shot. They were found in McNair's condo, which was not the home of his wife and four sons. You connect the dots: It has been ruled a murder-suicide, with McNair as the "murder" part of the equation.

Heroes. Celebrities. Rich. Popular. And now dead. Dead too soon, who can say? As I am not Giver and Taker of Life, I leave that up to Him. What saddens me, if you have any sense of where I am coming from, is the fact that both Michael and Steve were (likely) just regular guys like you and me at one time. But over the years, money, fame, and power crept in, and in the long haul they became victims of their own status. The are part of a long list of entertainers, athletes, and even politicians that have fallen under the siren spell of sordid success.

As a committed creationist, I believe we are created (read: wired, made, constituted) to live lives that are measured and accountable. By that I do not mean pre-programmed: I simply mean that we are destined for a certain type of significant and meaningful living; when we go beyond that, we are in serious trouble. I cannot see how we can ever succeed when we are elevated to a level of overwhelming popularity and unchecked desires. Without any exception, lives that are lived with no restraints – be they moral, financial, or physical – frequently end in tragedy.

Jackson was talented, no doubt about it; McNair was gifted, that's obvious. But I for one would never consider them heroes of mine, nor would I ever shove every other worldwide news event aside for day after day to follow every twitter of their demise.

Heroes? Let's hear more about the soldiers in Afghanistan and Iraq, or the business people who are struggling to keep their companies solvent during these dark economic times. Let's hear more about the moms and dads today who are leading their families in measured, accountable ways. Let's hear it for the regular working stiffs who are the backbone of this society.

Now that would be news!

A Toast to the Mennonites of Southern Alberta

Some of my best friends down here in the South have names like Banman, Thiessen, Unger, Dyck, and Dueck. (I like the rest of you, but I've run out of space.) Not only are they my friends, but they are my students, my mechanics, my shopkeepers, and my employees.

Okay, okay, scratch the last link: They don't work for me, but they all certainly work for someone else.

Can you imagine where the communities of Bow Island, Burdett, and Grassy Lake would be without this welcomed infusion of Mennonite families? (Note: I said "infusion," not "intrusion.") Take their numbers out of every type of school, houses (as renters and buyers), the workplace, the farms, to say nothing of their contribution to the southern economy as consumers, and I suggest to you one word: toast. Toast, as in "the economy of southern Alberta would be toast if we didn't have our friends from Mexico and Belize moving in and settling down."

One of the many hats I wear is that of supervisor of students who study and learn at home. Homeschooling is a growing option for hundreds of families throughout Alberta, and many of the Mexican-Mennonites have caught this vision. My wife (also a certified teacher) and I make calls – in the home and on the phone – on a cyclic basis throughout the year. We are continually impressed with the diligence of these people as they teach their kids

Farther afield, in places like Vauxhall, Two Hills, Cleardale, and La Crete - just for starters – there are significant settlements of Mennonites. In these far-flung places, we have the influence of the Neufelds, Peters, Reimers, and Enns of the world. Some have been here for a generation or two, others are just coming in now.

And not just moving in: They are developing businesses, paying taxes, and getting involved.

As a wannabe history buff, I looked into the migration of these people. Their roots are Western Europe (Germany and Holland), and their convictions have taken them from there to Prussia to Russia to southern Manitoba, then further south to parts of Mexico and South America. Spare me if I have over-simplified their odyssey. (It took me three books to regurgitate this information for you in 33 words!)

My basic point is this (and it's always simple - but not simplistic): These people have proven and will prove to be our economy's lifeline. As I stated previously, they fill many roles here in southern economy; I cannot be definite about the northern one, but I assume the towns I mentioned before are enjoying the same blessing of these families.

Two examples come to mind: schools and farms, two backbone institutions I would say. How many schools have a high percentage of Mennonites, as well as special German classes? Can you spell M-O-S-T? And check out who are the hired men on many farm these days. Again, the word starts with M and ends in S, and it's not M-O-S-E-S.

There are many days I sincerely wish my name was Craig Hamm or Craig Froese. And I wish I spoke Low German. The closest I can get to Low German is to get on my knees and say, "Nein."

Some of them talk and dress and eat differently than we do; so what? I know lots of Chinese and East Indians who do the same. I have no problem with such superficial differences; just don't make me use chopsticks or wear a turban. (Excuse me, but did I just stereotype? Thought so.) These differences are part of the – what was that word last week? - mosaic that makes this country so rich.

So, in the spirit of an extended Canada Day, to each and every one of anyone of you with a Mennonite heritage – a rich one, at that – I'm glad you're here. Tell your relatives in Mexico and Belize that there's plenty of space and work to go around. Consumers, by the way, create more consumers, and consumers drive the economy.

Tell them Fast. But don't tell them it's Friesen up here. Honest, I'm not Thiessen.