May June 2017 Calmes Issue

MAY | JUNE 2017

BALLET

Photographer Richard Calmes Amanda Farris, Diablo Ballet

Politics . Art . Health . Economics . Entertainment

METANOIA EXECUTIVE AND STAFF

A NEW WAY OF THINKING

PUBLISHERS COPY CHIEF

Assistant copy chief EXECUTIVE DIRECTORS EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR OF MARKETING PHOTO ARCHIVIST INTERNATIONAL DISTRIBUTOR INTERVIEWER/PHOTOGRAPHER Gerald Auger Maureen Bader Alex Barberis Andy Belanger Donald J. Boudreaux Dr Tim Brown Richard Calmes Andreas C Chrysafis Kamala Coughlan Brian Croft Miki Dawson Cheryl Gauld Len Giles Kulraj Gurm Carly Hilliard Dr. Gordon Hogg

CONTRIBUTORS

DISTRIBUTORS

SALME JOHANNES LEIS & ALLISON PATTON CALEB NG Jillian Currie JR LEIS AND HEINO LEIS DAL FLEISCHER GALINA BOGATCH SUZETTE LAQUA BRITANY SNIDER Marilyn Hurst Dr Arthur Janov Randolph Jordan Richard King IV Peter and Maria Kingsley Mark Kingwell Rod LAmirand Suzette Laqua Marilyn Lawrie Hank Leis Salme Leis Chris MacClure Dunstan Massey Seth Meltzer Thomas Mets Dr Caleb Ng

Janice Oleandros Stefan Pabst Dr Allison Patton Luis Reyes Cara Roth Dr Bernard Schissel Pepe Serna Lisa Stocks Peter Storen Mohamed Taher Dr Jack Wadsworth Chris Walker Dan Walker Harvey White

AUSTRALIA: Peter Storen CANADA Greater Toronto and Hamilton Areas: Henry Maeots Greater Vancouver Area: Lesley Diana Montreal: Gene Vezina INDIA: Jesse Johl LONDON: Salme Leis UNITED STATES Albany New York: Seth Meltzer Las Vegas: Mario Basner

Cover photo: Richard Calmes, www.richardcalmes.com Model: Amanda Farris of Diablo Ballet, Walnut Creek, California

METANOIA MAGAZINE is a publication of METANOIA CONCEPTS INC. For questions, comments, or advertising contact by Phone: 604 538 8837, Email: metanoiamagazine@gmail.com, Mail: 3566 King George Blvd, Surrey, BC, Canada, V4P 1B5

METANOIA CONTENTS

A NEW WAY OF THINKING

EXECUTIVE SUMMARY

BY HANK LEIS

DANCE MAGIC

BY RICHARD CALMES

WORLD HERITAGE COLLECTION PREMIER

BY HANK LEIS

CGF FACIAL REJUVENATION

BY DR ALLISON PATTON

WOLVES AND SHEEP

BY ROD LAMIRAND

CYCLE OF INSANITY AND BLOODSHED

BY ANDREAS CHRYSAFIS

RANT

BY HANK LEIS

LA DOLCE VITA

BY HANK LEIS

SHIPS PASSING IN THE NIGHT

BY HANK LEIS AND PETER STOREN

DAN WALKER CHRONICLES

BY DAN WALKER

WHAT A RIDE

BY LEN GILES

CANADIAN EDUCATION

BY DR JACK WADSWORTH

LIFE MOMENTS

BY DR BERNARD SCHISSEL

MISSIVES

BY DONALD BOUDREAUX

Digital Edition Available

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Executive Summary Richard Calmes is the consummate artist. His photography is an art form depicting the performance of other artists. Calmes photographs dancers. His timing, to capture the precise moment at which the dancer has achieved the optimal desired position, must be impeccable.

His lighting must reflect the best of the dancers position at the instant it is taken while in full flight. The cover shot of Amanda Farris of Diablo Ballet of Walnut Creek, California, is an example of his incredible work. This issue features, what we consider, the best of Calmes’ genius.

Las Vegas is the entertainment capital of the world. We have the photos of the guests attending the Vernissage of the Las Vegas opening of Mario Basner’s Tivoli Village exhibition. The event was visited by the who’s who of Las Vegas, including a special guest, Robin Leach of the TV series fame Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.

He is currently writing for The Review Journal, in Las Vegas.

Metanoia also covered the opening of the Trump Tower in Vancouver, all due to the kind invitation of Joo Kim Tiah, the CEO of the Holborn Group. The event was amazing in many ways and we have the photographs to prove it.

‘Ships Passing in the Night’ is really two stories; a trip to the Arctic on a ship that evolved into a yacht and travel by a young couple across Canada, then South to California and back East across the U.S. in a rebuilt old Cadillac.

And as always there is more. Much, much more.

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Since the founding of Metanoia Magazine by three Naturopathic Doctors and the Leis family in 2008, we have produced over ninety issues. We have had over one thousand articles written, including interviews of over 100 actors, 100 artists, dozens of politicians, philosophers, psychologists, and experts in other fields.

A majority of the writers have post-graduate degrees or have expertise or knowledge of a special nature.

THE DANCE MAGIC OF RICHARD CALMES It all started in Atlanta. Ten years ago, Richard Calmes was asked to photograph dancers for Gwinnett Ballet Theatre’s publicity efforts as a favor to the company. And something just “clicked,” no pun intended.

In the decade that followed, he has become one of the most popular dance photographers in the world. He has enjoyed over 30 national and international dance and photography magazine covers, 44 million visitors to his web site since 2006, and has over 10,000 friends and followers on Facebook. He is a much sought after lecturer at photographic organizations and photography schools, and he has had dozens of interviews about dance, art and photography on numerous internet blogs and sites.

Undoubtedly, his work has touched people who love dance or simply love beauty.

In recent years he has enjoyed an Alvin Ailey American Dance Theatre sponsored company shoot at the Fox Theatre in Atlanta, GA. This experience had him photographing these famous dancers within the Fox’s beautiful architecture and then in an additional studio shoot. He continues to photograph Ailey dancers on an annual basis in special

studio shoots. In May, 2014 his 20 of his images were featured at the National Museum of Dance in Saratoga Springs, NY in a 12 month solo exhibition. These images now grace the walls at Gwinnett Ballet Theatre’s Atlanta area studios.

His resume also contains a special Paul Taylor company shoot and numerous Regional Dance America Festivals since 2006. He was featured in the New York Times for his work at the North Carolina School of the Arts with Ethan Steiffel. He has also become an official photographer for Eurotard Dancewear and Dance Studio Life Magazine.

Yet Calmes’ philosophy continues to be focused on the everyday dancer, as he believes that beauty lives and thrives everywhere, not just in the major art Meccas. He considers his art to be a collaboration between the dancers and himself. “Photographing these beautiful artists is a privilege for me,” he says as he enters the second decade of his dance photography journey.

For more on Richard Calmes and his work, visit: www.richardcalmes.com

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MARIO BASNER PHOTOGRAPHY in collaboration with METANOIA MAGAZINE Presents

THE MARIO BASNER WORLD HERITAGE COLLECTION VERNISSAGE JANUARY 17 AND 18, 2017 TIVOLI VILLAGE, LAS VEGAS “SPECTACULAR, SPECTACULAR”

January 16, 2017 was not a warm day in Las Vegas. But it was the day that had been chosen for the grande opening of Mario Basner’s World Heritage Collection at his gallery at Tivoli Village in Las Vegas. Allison Patton and JR Leis were dressed to the nines, wearing flimsy evening attire that were hardly protective of them from the elements.

The collaboration to organize this Vernissage had commenced several months earlier, when the Metanoia team had interviewed Mario Basner for the magazine and had themselves fallen in love with the photographs. The art itself was of the great edifices from pre-war Germany left behind to decay and slowly wither away to nothing. Basner had created such masterpieces that seeing the photographs was like being there. The effect was three dimensional. The reaction by observers was profoundly emotional, often moving them to tears. Now here they were in the receiving line with Mario and Deanna Basner who had spent the last weeks 24-7 preparing for the event.

This was no minor function at just any gallery. Luxury Magazine, one of the most prestigious and artistic publications anywhere had done an extensive cover story on Basner. A number of other media outlets had also written articles on the Basner’s art. Even Robin Leach of the 1990s TV Series Lifestyles of the Rich And Famous had done an interview. And now there he was in person, attending the event, with the rich and famous of Las Vegas and Los Angeles.

As the saying goes, “It was a grande affair!” The evening went well, the guests enjoyed the artwork and the food, fun was had by all, and promises were made to keep in touch. And too soon it was all over.

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L to R: Deanna Riley and Mario Basner, Robin Leach of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, Dr. Allison Patton and JR Leis

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Wolves and Sheep

by R Lamirand

There are two kinds of people in the world – wolves and sheep. You’ve heard variations of it your whole life: winners and losers; leaders and followers; the strong and the weak. It’s a powerful rhetorical device because it’s simple.

Of course, simple and easy to remember is PR-speak, advertising language, for misdirection by simplification. ‘You’re either for us or against us’ is another bullying bit of bamboozlement to shut down the terrible greys which arise in any serious discussion, consideration or negotiation.

Greys which, I will admit, are sometimes suspect and for good reason. It is those very same details and exceptions which obfuscating politicians and other front men and women use to avoid answering questions.

But let’s not throw out the toddler with the tub suds, the complexity of the most contentious issues, even without blind allegiance to a partyline or corporate agenda, even without steadfast resolve to an inherited belief or cultural convention, does, and always will, require nuance. And so, clearly we can temporarily suspend nuance to claim the obvious – there are always more than two kinds of people.

And, at this point, dead reader, you may be thinking, ‘Well, yes, sure, okay, but what a long way to go, to make such as small point.’

Fair enough but hold this thought for a minute.

The Young.

In 1981 I broke most of the windows in my father’s Vancouver house and ran off to Toronto to ‘find myself’. I did eventually find myself. Sadly, it was the same me I had left in Vancouver.

Why did I smash the windows?

Well, I was young and stupid and drunk and I imagined some massive injustice had been brought upon me.

And the sudden quest for identity was a coincidence?

Well, part of the reason I left was indeed to look for something I knew not what. I imagined somewhere out ‘there’ was something which wasn’t ‘here’. But, it also had to do with the fact that my father was a muscular, ex-convict, longshoreman who could kick my ass then and for most of the rest of his life. It wasn’t until he was in a care home that I was certain I could take him. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my father, always will, but even though Toronto was just short of sufficient distance for me to feel safe it had to do, because I didn’t think I could get a job in Montreal and I sure as hell wasn’t going to the Maritimes! I offer my deepest apologies for my Western egoism and youthful ignorance.

Ironically, I also ended up visiting Quebec on occasion and discovered

there were Canadians living in Canada who were neither immigrants nor really Canadian. Again, my ignorance was a vast chasm as yet unknown to me in the imagined radiance of my promising future. To add injury to insult, it didn’t really occur to me that I had come from a long line of French speaking Canadians until my grandfather refused to teach French to his children.

I worked a dozen jobs over the next couple of years from temp clerk to telephone solicitation but mostly waiter jobs in midlevel restaurants.

Let’s go back there for a moment…

I’ve quit my job again and will have to get one soon. I’ve got $20 and Toronto doesn’t do welfare unless you’re unable to work. What? Yup. No free money if you are able to work.

What! Fine. I can get a job in two days, three at a stretch, when I want to.

So, I’m reading Ayn Rand and loving it, The Fountainhead to be precise. It’s kick-ass stuff. Howard Roark doesn’t take shit from anybody. He just puts massive effort and complete confidence into his ideas and in the end he wins.

Wins completely. He has no time for “second-handers”, “glad-handers”, “ass-lickers”, “BSers”: in other words, the latter of the two kinds of people.

It’s about eight at night on a hot and humid Queen Street evening. I am living

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in the highest room in an old and drafty house for $70 a month. I’m sitting on a broken chair I found in the lane, typing on a tiny mechanical typewriter lent to me by the lesbian friend of the high school girl I’m going out with. Later that month the lesbian will discover she isn’t homosexual, dump her sixteenyear-old girlfriend, move home to her parents, and take her typewriter back.

But for that month I am trying to write.

Peck, peck, peck, light a cigarette, smoke, stare at the peeling wallpaper.

Unscrew the cap from a mickey of Southern Comfort. Peck, sip, inhale, exhale, peck.

I’m hungry. Only one cigarette remains. I reread the ridiculously recursive undigested drivel which has somehow replaced the majestic mental calisthenics I had composed, rip the paper from the roller and toss it on the floor. She will come-by after school tomorrow for desperate sex and I want her to see proof of my frustrated genius lying on the cigarette-burned and musty carpet. It is amazing philosophy I have tossed onto the floor because of my high standards, she will think. The she will smile and blink - her eyes like temporarily eclipsed planets. But that’s tomorrow, so I walk to Young Street where the bums and street kids play chess to make a dollar and where my friend Steve will be.

Steve is either an idiot savant or a future king. He once played chess against me and another unemployed bum at the same time. Let me say, I was then, an excellent chess player. We both lost. The impressive part though was - Steve played with his back to us.

We called out our moves: pawn to king four, pawn to queen five, pawn takes pawn. I would call my move, Steve would reply, Chris would call out his move, Steve would reply. He destroyed me in the middle game. The reason I didn’t see it coming was his bishop was diagonally across and back - as far away as you can get on a chess board - and it came swooping through the middle board crammed with pieces, to kill my castle on its home square! If a guy can beat you with his eyes closed while playing two games then clearly you’re a tadpole. Steve tells me again about Ayn Rand. He is a fan. And so,

over the next month, I read her books and become a fan. And I learn that to make it in the world you just need to have balls and be willing to work, hard!

Grow a pair!

There are Wolves and There are Sheep.

My mother’s father died when she was a little girl. He died in the war as the Allies were retaking France. It was friendly fire. His tank was blown up. His brother died that year too, in the same theatre of operations. He was killed by the Germans. Their other brother, the third brother, was in military training to go to Europe at that time. When he heard his brothers were dead he was ready to kill or by killed. He was motivated. He was determined to catch the retreating enemy and kill as many as he could. As my mother tells it, her grandmother was given the choice to have him returned home to Penticton, British Columbia, or be allowed to continue to the European battle line.

She chose to seize the remaining son, I suspect, in hopes of holding back her collapsing world. Yes, it is much like the movie Saving Private Ryan. I had for years thought about writing that story until the day the movie arrived.

Anyway, she made a choice and so, against his will, he was returned, like it or not. It destroyed him. And it destroyed them. He didn’t follow his brothers into cold, foreign ground but they never really spoke again.

I’m glad I was lucky enough to miss the call to war but I would have gone.

With a sense of importance and pride, I would have bought into the whole thing, lock, stock, and barrel; uniforms, medals and taps. I would have leapt on the grenade for the sake of my fellow soldiers. I would have left my wife, if I’d had one, as my mother’s father had.

And perhaps, like him, fallen in love with a French woman – so the family story goes. Even if he had survived I likely never would have met him. It appears he would have forsaken the Peach Festival and Okanagan orchards for a new life in the land of love and reconstruction.

And the point? Hold on.

You’ve heard about The Young now

it’s time to hear about The Lucky.

Imagine you are on welfare in Toronto and get a job at a restaurant which begins to franchise the next year when you become the manager.

And imagine against all odds every choice you make is right. You climb and open more restaurants, and move, and succeed until at 45 you are worth a million. And when the young ones come and ask about your success you think back to that inspiring book you read in Toronto and the hard work in your first years. And you know what happens then? Then, all that dickswinging, bullshit comes out of your mouth because that’s ‘the way of the world, son’ and ‘it’s a dog eat dog world’ and ‘there are winner and there are losers’.

Or instead imagine Hollywood scenario:

another

You are in Europe and caught up to the front line. Your unit gets snafu-ed, the shit hits the fan but you keep your head and when the moment comes your courage throws you onto that grenade. Everyone sees your sacrifice.

There is an explosion but the grenade is lodged under the flat of a shovel and what shrapnel that does hit you, hits your canteen and your boot. You go home two toes short of a full shoe, a hero, decorated and cheered. And when the cadets come to the Legion to talk to the war vets, and all that “love-ofcountry” and “courage-under-fire”, big-brass-balls bull-crap comes out of your mouth, you say, “That’s where they separate the boys from the men and because there are men and there are cowards, that’s it, son.”

But it’s false. There aren’t wolves and sheep. You were mostly just really, friggin, lucky. It’s a false choice and it’s a philosophy held only by the lucky and the young. It’s a simplistic conceptual polarity to goad the naïve into joining one side of the other. My grandfather wasn’t ‘a loser’ and the guy beside him who was scared to death but lived wasn’t ‘a winner’, he was a survivor.

The Real World You are on welfare in Toronto for no other reason than its free money

so you don’t have to work and you are young, selfish and single. You get a job at a restaurant which begins to franchise. You climb that ladder for a while but don’t like pushing your staff too hard, so find limited success. You need more education so take a few night-school course, some of which are actually useful. You move back to your family in Vancouver, admire dad’s new windows, and try different things and get more education, until things work out relatively well for you. You are never rich in money but in the course of your life you experience an arc of satisfaction the centers upon your spouse, your children and your friends.

When your grandchildren come along and start asking about your life it’s mostly just funny stories and good times, some financial recommendations, and if they ask hard enough you tell them how lucky you’ve been and there has been some hard work too.

Or imagine you lived at the time of your grandfather. You go to Europe and your unit is snafu-ed and the guy beside you leaps on the grenade instead of you. He survives and becomes a hero.

Every year on the Remembrance Day celebrations he has pride of place. And when your grandson interviews you about the war for his class essay, you try to explain the terror and madness of war but in the end only recommend he read: The Things They Carried, Catch -22, All’s Quiet on the Western Front. Of course, you know he will not read them but you also know he is unlikely to join up, ship off, and die in battle - and that’s your goal. You’re not a peacenik or a pacifist but you’ve figured out a few things in your life.

Dulce et Decorum Est comes to your mind.

So what happened?

I eventually left Toronto. I still think of that young girl whose heart I broke.

I quit smoking. I stopped writing ridiculous solipsistic inanities and went to university. I began to see through Ayn Rand and others like her. They have lost compassion. They see empathy as weakness. I’ve heard many times that ‘a young liberal, is an old conservative’. I don’t know about that. I think the best of us are feisty young men and women who gain a little humility and see in

their lives how easily things could have been different – there, but for fate, and my own small contributions, go I. I only ever saw Steve once again after that. I asked him if he was still playing chess and reading Rand. No, he said, ‘I’m reading Maharishi Mahesh Yogi and I play only backgammon. That’s a real game.’

People are like snowflakes and I don’t mean cold and pointed. I mean unique and fragile. There are wild animals, like wolves and possums and orangutans, and there are domesticated animals, like sheep and dogs and cats, and there are leaders who sometimes follow and followers who sometimes lead. But remember this - beware of the people who flog simple ideologies

about ‘them’ or ‘us’, about ‘winners’ or ‘losers’. They are sowers of grief for whom complexity and nuance are an uncertainty they cannot bear.

To conclude here are two little quotes which may make you smile: “There are basically two types of people. People who accomplish things, and people who claim to have accomplished things. The first group is less crowded.” – Mark Twain.

“There are two kinds of people: sheep and sharks. Sharks are winners, and they don’t look back because they have no necks. Necks are for sheep.” – Futurama.

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CYCLE of INSANITY and BLOODSHED Revolution of the Mind Series

By Andreas C Chrysafis

For a brief moment the Christmas spirit brings out the best in humanity but also reminds us of a growing inequality swept under the carpet. Festive familygatherings represent one side of the story but there is another side to it; the grim reality of homelessness but also of millions of people living in a nightmare being trapped at the centre of pure madness and evil never seen before – with the exception of the Holocaust.

The infliction of suffering against the weak and vulnerable in the hands of madmen has transmuted into a fact of life where one’s life is

24.

dispensable at will. This is an appalling state of distorted reasoning and sick mentality. But worse, the mass killings of humans no longer appear to touch the inner conscience of societies.

Desensitized to the daily sight of brutality exposed on television screens, people are programmed to consider materialism a priority rather than humanitarianism.

Far from the madding death zones, some prefer to cocoon and distance themselves from those harsh realities or, they simply raise their arms in despair feeling helpless to change events. But then again, why should they when the suffering of others does not affect their cozy lifestyle directly

Trapped in a cycle of insanity and bloodshed, war victims subsist in the hope to live another day and tell their tale; a tale that hardly anyone wants to hear!

Engrossed in consumerism fortified by a throwaway culture, saving lives no longer seems critically important.

In fact, the world has never been so desensitized to this phenomenon, which has transmuted into a deadly virus that spreads havoc across the world. Faced with an ever-growing apocalyptic anarchy in Syria and Iraq, it portrays

how a metamorphosed society tolerates cruelties.

Consequently, the virus has spread its wings and no longer recognizes borders, creed or religion. The long trail of men, women and children crossing continents on foot to escape the killing fields are a clear indication that something has gone badly wrong with the current misguided mentality tolerated by a political elite in the echelons of power. It’s as if nations are regressing back to the dark ages with faceless masters of wickedness controlling events!

Today, ISIS and other terrorist groups destabilize the destiny of entire nations and have transformed countries into a plethora of killing fields that uses human blood as its currency. The pandemonium in the Middle East seems tolerated by a new world direction; one that operates without empathy but with one objective in mind total globalization through bank loans and the use of arms!

The easy access to weapons has become the throbbing heartbeat of modern-day irrationality. The more wars the more the sales of arms; the more the killings the more the profits; and the more the cycle of insanity and bloodshed, the more the arms trade!

Military expenditure has reached over two trillion dollars or 4% of world GDP (SIPRI) annually. This shows how massive the arms procurement industry has become. It is so vast and lucrative many “wannabes” vie to dip their fingers in the honey pot. Triggering conflict is a way to get a taste of that nectar - legally or illegally. For the arm dealers and the death merchants of the world, wars can only bring manna from heaven.

Meanwhile, global banking institutions without a stitch of social and moral responsibility continue to fuel the warring factions to purchase more weapons and kill one another. The appalling effects of “profits by death” are so evident and yet, governments issue export licences to sell weapons to questionable buyers often led by devious despots and madmen. Stop the finance and legal flow of arms to

madmen and soon the killing stops!

But not always! There is a more ruthless player on the scene that lurks in the shadows and has grown huge fangs; that is the international Mafiastyle criminal organisations and their ruthless bosses!

They boast of having thousands upon thousands of hard-core gang members and a network of hoodlums at their disposal worldwide. To understand its magnitude, the Italian Mafia alone bragged of having “a much bigger army than Hitler did”. Those untouchable criminal cartels are well organized and dominate the lucrative arms trafficking and will supply arms to anyone that can pay for them. They are merciless and have no country or loyalty other than to accumulate mountains of hard cash; cash that is then deposited in banking institutions to “cleanse” the stains of blood and money laundering.

front-companies and bank accounts internationally. They have infiltrated politics and state unions and also use political lobby groups deep inside the echelons of power and in the process have established a network of agents worldwide.

The wars today are not always based on the principles of “freedom and democracy” but most are proxy wars in the interest of power and profits.

As long as extremists are able to pay for arms those arms traffickers will continue to supply and destabilize modern democracies.

This is the result of a social order that has gone mad! One hopes that some new leadership will come along one day to revolutionize the current political and often corrupt thinking to do the right thing and deal with such issues in the interest of humanity and not insanity by ruthless despots.

Those powerful criminal groups, the likes of Yamaguchi-gumi (Yakusa) in Japan; the Triad in China; Bratva the Russian and Ukrainian criminal organisations; the Chechen and Georgian Mafia; the American Mafia; the South American and Mexican cartels as well as the Afghanistan poppy warlords have divided the world between them as partners in crime.

Despite their great differences, all those organizations have one thing in common: money laundering, drugs, prostitution, extortion, women slavery and the abduction of young girls and boys for sex trafficking, pornography, human organ sales as well as the sale of arms.

The sale of weaponry by far has become a lucrative source of income.

Those cartels have become so powerful no temporary government has been able (or dared) to stop them. In some countries they operate openly and do not fear the authorities; in fact they are the authority! Corrupt politicians and officials turn a blind eye to their activities and work hand in hand with one another.

They are highly talented organisations that use the latest technology and remain well hidden behind multiple

Andreas C Chrysafis was born at Ayios Ambrosios, Kerynia, Cyprus. He studied and lived in the UK and Vancouver, Canada for most of his life where he practiced his profession as an architectural designer.

He is a prolific writer of books, press articles including The Vanishing Cyprus Series and the Revolution of the Mind Series both published worldwide. Today, he lives between London and Cyprus devoting most of his time writing and painting works of art. info@evandia.com ACChrysafisAuthor ACChrysafisArtGallery @ac_chrysafis

25.

Rant Rant Amygdala Rules

I meet a lot of people who are afraid of revealing their support for the Donald Trump Presidency. Many of them are thoughtful, well educated women.

And the reason for their reluctance to verbalize their opinions is the fear of the bullying, smears and other ostracizing attacks on their person that would follow.

Many of these attackers are in fact not that well educated, even though they proclaim to be part of that so called elite. What they have is a sense of entitlement to the things that both men and women over the years have worked hard to attain, but they themselves refuse to do.

While it is true that the Trump Presidency will not be the panacea for every problem and issue, those anti-Trump forces do not want him to succeed at any level and will undermine by word or deed everything he does, even if what he does enhances their own lives. Failure is moral success, by their definition.

Four years of undergraduate work and a few years of post graduate work, do not an enlightened person make. As most employers know, this is only a beginning, and the years of success and failure that follow are the real hallmarks of a well rounded person who can make cogent

26.

By Hank Leis decisions that signify their ability to understand the concepts behind the terms accountability, responsibility, logic and reliability.

The arguments presented in the speeches by Hollywood actors revealed none of that. In fact their lack of education and comprehension of the system we live under were abysmal and even ominous in what they exposed about their own understanding and knowledge. What was also revealed was that their sense of outrage and hatred of the “enemy” was as vicious as anything they condemned on the far right. It goes to show that no matter how much education an individual has, the amygdala that regulates the fight or flight syndrome has not been eradicated by higher learning. The crazed animal still comes out when a threat is perceived, not the articulate educated analytical response that assesses benefits and deficits.

The definition of a ‘deplorable’ is of someone who operates outside the boundaries of human norms, which include as being normal, allowing preferences to be expressed and being content in acceptance of outcomes once debate is over. While the word may be applied to those Clinton intended to describe, it applies equally to her for saying it and those others who immediately embraced it. The contempt

by Clinton and her supporters towards the other half the U.S. population had evolved in increments that started with whispered suspicions that eventually lead to the hard held beliefs by the virtuous, who have no empathy for the uneducated millions abandoned to poverty because neglect of their issues was callously dismissed.

Democracy is the only political system that allows everyone to get their way, but not always and not at the same time. Having a formal education means nothing if this adaption to flexibility in responding is not attained. Suppressing other’s opinions does not demonstrate signs of intelligence or valid reasoning.

It merely illustrates that the schooling those who opine with such malice have achieved, really lack whatever claims they may make of being educated.

Hank Leis is author of The Leadership Phenomenon: A Multidimensional Model

La Dolce Vita

By Hank Leis

dresses held intense conversations with tuxedoed uncomfortable businessmen, while sipping champaign and eating caviar. We were the recipients of great stories from proactive, ambitious people with interesting lives to reveal, all of which we eventually hope to share with you, our readers.

Federico Fellini really said it all in his 1960 iconic film “La Dolce Vita”. For those too young to know the movie, I refer them to the more recent 2009 movie musical starring Daniel-Day Lewis in “Nine”. In some ways “the good life” has also become the life I chose or chose me, as well as that of my posse that surrounds or represents me at every event. But it is not quite as easy as what I anticipated it would be, when first I sought it and then later energetically began to live it.

Going to parties, meeting people and maximizing the experience is hard work. And there needs to be a reason for it, and it cannot be something as frivolous as just having a good time. The minutes or hours inside the “volcano” are relatively brief compared to the days and weeks of preparation and anticipation. And making friends and influencing strangers takes lots of energy.

The young handsome Trumps shared their presence, by conversing with the attendees and having photographs taken with them. Such poise and confidence I had rarely observed in young people. They were all in the presence of greatness, and but little did they know, it was us and not them, or so we grandly assumed. Perhaps that was the sense each person had of themselves or so it appeared. Being there is a phenomenon.

Joo Kim Tiah, our young handsome host, the CEO of the Holborn Group made the rounds, greeting his guests in time honoured ways. He exuded warmth and was welcoming and gracious to all he met.

Metanoia Magazine for us has become my motivation and those of my colleagues, to teach, perhaps unselfishly, stories about interesting people who provide, by example an education in the process of living a fulfilling life. But our altruism is not what our life is about. We love what we do, so it is more about the narcissism of being learned, rather than solely the desire to share the experience, although that also is part of the enjoyment.

Our last venture began with the usual meticulous preparations and negotiated arrangements, started weeks in advance. And when finally the day of the event arrived nine of us piled into a stretch limousine that had a bar with an assortment of goodies for our group to enjoy during the journey. Seven handsomely rugged men in their fancy tuxedos and two gorgeous ladies with long legs snaking revealingly through their glamorous evening gowns, hoping for a great night out without it being marred by the anticipated protests and riots, crowded into the vehicle.

“Let the fun begin,” we toasted.

We did not encounter any resistance upon our arrival. The security that surrounded the location was blatantly visible.

Too soon our limo arrived to pick us up and we returned to our other life; well only until the next event, and the planning has already begun. There is a song that Liza Minnelli sings in the movie Cabaret.

There were more police and secret service people than protestors.

The weather, perhaps also had something to do with it. It was cold and wet.

A beautiful curved staircase took us to the inner sanctum, where we were immediately offered an assortment of sumptuous foods and sweet tasting coloured drinks.

We were some of the first to arrive, but soon enough the rich, the famous, their friends and the posers began to fill the place up.

It was not unlike an “academy awards” evening. “We” began our “work” by meeting and greeting the revellers. All were gracious and eager to discuss their work, their life, their accomplishments and their hopes and dreams.

Gorgeous enthusiastic women with short skirts, stiletto heels, ballroom

“Life is a cabaret, old chum!

Come to the cabaret!”

And it is!

What good is sitting, alone in your room?

Come hear the music play!

Life is a cabaret, old chum!

Come to the cabaret!

Put down the knitting, the book and the broom It’s time for a holiday Life is a cabaret, old chum!

Come to the cabaret!

Come taste the wine Come hear the band Come blow your horn Start celebrating Right this way your table’s waiting.

Liza Minnelli - Cabaret

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SHIPS PASSING IN THE NIGHT

By Heino (Hank) Leis and Peter Storen

A few years ago I decided to become a member of the CHAMBLY COUNTY HIGH SCHOOL and the CHAMBLY ACADEMY ALUMNI ASSOCIATION. I had graduated in 1960 from CCHS, located in St. Lambert, Quebec and after joining the association, made numerous attempts to contact my fellow graduates, had only one meaningful response and that was from Peter Storen who had made his way to Australia and was now living there. We have been corresponding for a number of years, found out we had a similar lung problems and have advised each other of treatments and other matters for a period of time. We had not seen each other for over fifty years (although I have met Pat, his former, and their daughter on their recent trip from Australia to Vancouver), but now still think of each other as the sixteen year olds when we last did.

Very recently Peter sent me a story about his experiences in the Arctic, crossing Canada from East to West, his adventures in British Columbia, then his trip down the Pacific Coast and back to St. Lambert again. At first, because he had not attached his name to his writings, I thought he had somehow got hold of something I had written years ago. As it turned out we had both been to the Arctic at the same time, to the same places on sister ships (M.V. Eskimo owned by Canada Steamship Lines captained by W.M.H. Cowie and the CCGS (Canadian Coast Guard Ship) Narwhal after numerous renovations now called the Dubai, located in Dubai, also formerly known by the name Black Bart). We had been at the same northern ports (Padloping Island, Broughton Island, Pond Inlet, Fox Inlet and others) at the same time as well, only my ship carried the containers

and his, the hotel ship carried the stevedores to unload the cargo. At the time, I was the government contractor for the federal ministries of Northern Affairs and National Resources as well as National Health and Welfare.

Moreover, as coincidences go, or now as everything is explained by serendipity, we had lived near each other in Vancouver over the same period of time. We had also taken identical trips from Vancouver, south down the coast of California.

What follows is his story, but with some minor changes it could be mine as well: In this little tale, I will attempt to relate some basic details of a successful 8,571 mile trans-continental trip to “rescue” a 1953 Series 62 Cadillac Sedan in the summer of 1968.

Evolution of the CCGS Narwhal to the megayacht, Bart Roberts to the world’s second largest private yacht, Dubai

Interior of the Bart Roberts superyacht

Interior of the Dubai superyacht

The story really began in the autumn of 1965 when, having completed studies in Montreal and returned from a summer job which involved travelling by ship into the Eastern Canadian Arctic, I entrained for Vancouver, B.C. in search of more fresh horizons. I’d been badly smitten with “the call of the wild” in the Arctic –steaming along the east coast of Baffin Island forever altered my ideas about what was important in life, and there was no way I was going to become a “nine-to-fiver” at that stage. I really wanted to go to Japan, so I searched the Vancouver

waterfront for a fortnight without success to obtain a working passage on a ship to the Orient. I was ready to give the game away when an American doctor on a Chinese ship suggested I register at the Norwegian consulate as their maritime laws did not require their ships to employ unionized seamen. This I did and waited impatiently for another two weeks and as my funds dwindled, I started a job with the Woodwards Service Station in downtown Vancouver. I had accommodation in a rooming house at 1774 Nelson St, and upon returning home from my first day

of work, was informed by the landlord that there’d been a phone call for me about a job on a ship which had sailed at 4 PM. I’d missed the boat, well and truly, but as often happens in life, unforseen fringe-benefits can sometimes filter down through the cosmos. The first benefit came in the form of the straight, clean, and seemingly sound 1953 Cadillac Sedan- a dark green, no-frills (except for the Autronic Eye which actually worked for a week or so!) beauty which I bought for $120.

Imagine, thought I – a twelve-yearold car with virtually no rust. Cars in Quebec, of course, fared nowhere near as well and I was rapt as the signalseeking radio, the beautifully-quiet 331cu in engine, and the miraculous four speed Hydramatic serenaded me with their wonderful sounds. I’d missed the boat to Japan, but this landyacht was the finest consolation prize I could have asked for.

The next good thing to come my way was a chance meeting with a pretty lass from Australia who was on her way back home after working her way around the world. Patricia and I got along famously, aided and abetted by the ’53 Caddy, which was in my estimation, the ultimate “courting machine”. Although short in stature, Pat was an excellent driver and had no trouble handling the car on our weekend out-of-town excursions. However, when the next

seats, cleaned hydraulic lifters, and new gaskets. I saved the automatic transmission fluid as the Caddy’s Hydramatic had started to leak. I had a feeling that the end was nigh as a connecting rod bearing had started to knock months earlier, but adding the old fluid from the Olds spelled the end for the Caddy’s gearbox.

The once-proud car was not scrapped but towed to the science teacher’s farmyard to await appropriate recycling. Doug, one of my students, asked if he could buy the car, and the Caddy was sold for $10 and went off to Kamloops on his dad’s truck. It was a sad day in the Okanagan for me and Pat, but I don’t think the science teacher was too upset !

At the end of the school year, Pat and I and Baby Jenny returned to Quebec in a 1954 Pontiac 8 which I’d owned since 1960 and had left in storage in

Peter Storen, second from right on the Narwhal

Cargo ship, Eskimo

blessings appeared we parted ways temporarily in the autumn of 1966 as I’d been offered a teaching job at a boys school near Vernon, B.C., and Pat decided to remain in Vancouver to give birth to our Number One Daughter!

St.Lambert, my home-town (We’d returned there by train at Easter to collect the Pontiac as the school had enjoyed a 3 week break. Although the straight-eight took ages to start, once running, it didn’t miss a beat on the trip back to Vernon). On July 1, 1967, we crossed the bridge to Montreal over the confluence of the Ottawa and St. Lawrence Rivers. Our timing was perfect, for there to our north in the Lake of Two Mountains, we could see four or five canoes carrying the paddlers in the west-to-east Centennial Canoe Race! I’m not sure which province’s team won the race, but the sunlight’s reflection from the flashing paddles was a sight I will never forget. They must have been paddling 60 strokes a minute as I think the finish line was nearby.

The private school was run by an enlightened Irish couple who provided considerable flexibility in the school’s curriculum. Two of the after-school options were a basic automotive mechanics course and the restoration of a holed 35 foot canoe, rescued from a lengthy storage at the army base. I purchased a fairly straight but dead 1952 Oldsmobile 98 for $10 and the boys who were interested in things mechanical learned to lift out and disassemble the engine, clean the components and rebuild the engine with new rings, ground valves and

In the autumn of 1967, I secured a

teaching job at an elementary school in Kazabazua, which lies close to the Gatineau River and is located about half way between Ottawa and Maniwaki. I had never been to the Gatineau before but the beauty of the region affected me deeply. Lumbering had been the mainstay of the local economy and the bush continued to give up spruce and balsam for the pulp and paper industry for 100 years. The ’54 Pontiac continued to give faithful service, but Pat and I talked frequently about the ’53 Cadillac and how much we missed it. There was only one way to sort out this dilemma, so we called Doug in Kamloops to see how he was progressing with the Cadillac refurbishment. “Oh, I decided it needed too much work so I’m doing up a Valiant instead”, he replied. I was elated, and begged him to keep it for a few months longer, as I had discovered a 1952 Caddy sitting, ostensibly abandoned, in

Inuit from Padloping Island on the Narwhal

a farmer’s field near Campbell’s Bay, which lies on the Ottawa River about 40 miles west of Kazabazua.

The ’52 was a black, Series 62 nofrills Sedan with fairly low mileage and was badly rusted. It had been sitting for several months but fortunately, the cooling system had been drained. It started right up with a drink of fresh petrol, and had a satisfactory exhaust system and even boasted half-worn Double Eagle tyres. The purchase price was $50 , and what’s more, it moved!

Those really were “the good old days” as far as registering a car in Quebec was concerned. The vendor supplied the necessary paperwork and I supplied some cash to the country licence bureau operator (a housewife whose “office” was a tiny room off

the front porch of her home) and I was mobile in my ’52 rustbucket.

I inspected the brakes and replaced leaking brake cups, gave the car a well-deserved grease job, oil and filter change, checked the transmission and off we went. We had travelled about 200 miles into Ontario when on the

The car

second day, dirt in the carbie brought us to a halt. The fuel was getting to the carbie, but not through it, obviously, so I started to dismantle the carburetor as we’d managed to coast off the road, but were visible to passing traffic. I think this was probably the first time I’d dismantled a four barrel carbie, and in my state of anxiety, dropped a tiny, essential component into the valley. I could see it lying on the valley cover, but couldn’t retrieve it through the manifold. Just as I was thinking “Oh well, we can camp here overnight,” Joey Peck, a friend from Danford Lake (a village between Kazabazua and Campbell’s Bay) just happened to be passing by, had recognized us and pulled in to help. He was a travelling salesman who sold Raleigh’s Products and luckily for me, happened to have a telescoping magnet. He didn’t know anything about 4 bbl carbies, but his magnet on a stick sure saved the day. I found grains of sand in the bowl and a blocked jet and amazingly enough, the car started and ran after this very basic cleaning.

For cash-strapped motorists, one of the most endearing features of the early-fifties Pontiac and Cadillac Sedans was the design and construction of the front seat. In less than 10 minutes, an enterprising person armed with a Philip’s – head screwdriver and

a 7/16” spanner could create what had to be the most comfortable double bed imaginable for a weary family of three on the move. First, remove the 4 Philip’shead screws which hold the trim panel and robe cord to the back of the front seat. This panel may be placed with one end supported by the dashboard and the other end can sit on the top of the front seat. If the (preferably) little woman is in the driver’s seat, ask her politely to move the front seat as far forward as it will go. Secondly, remove the rear seat cushion and put it in backwards so the forward edge of the cushion abuts the rear seat backrest. Finally, remove the 4 X ¼” bolts ( which have 7/16” hexagonal heads) which hold the front seat backrest upright and lay the seat backrest on the floor between the rear seat cushion and the front seat cushion.

And presto! You have a very comfy bed for mom, dad and bub as long as you’ve remembered to pack the sheets.

It beats putting up a tent in the rain, this much I know for sure. There was one drawback with this procedure, however, as it related to the ’52. Field mice had invaded the cushions and became quite active at night. Baby Jenny and I coped with the rustling, but it took Pat a few sleepless nights to get used to their presence. Fortunately, it only took us a week or so to get to Kamloops, as the ’52 proved to be reliable for the most part. Exceptions occurred on the Praries when the stainless rocker panel strip came loose and started dragging along the road. There was no longer any way of securing it to the rusted

Padloping Island, Nunavut

body, so it was ripped off the remaining clips and left in the ditch. In the Rockies, it started to rain heavily and going up steep inclines, Dear Patricia had to lie on the transmission hump and manually assist the vacuum wiper motor. What a woman! Needless to say, she was delighted to hear me say, “OK Pat, it’s all downhill from here, dear!”

We arrived at Doug’s safe and sound, owing more to good luck rather than good management, but Doug’s father paid me a great compliment when he said, “I knew you weren’t afraid of much when you drove up in that thing!”

Come to think of it, where did all that youthful bravado go?

Doug’s parents extended wonderful hospitality to us and put us up in regal splendour. Doug’s Mom was a fantastic hostess who absolutely adored Baby Jenny and Pat had a lovely woman to relate to and was able to sleep easily at last. Doug and I swapped the engines and transmissions around but used the ‘53 carbie and 12 volt ancillaries. It was a bit sad seeing the ’52 being towed away with the worn out ’53 engine and transmission pointing skyward from the ‘52’s trunk.

Five days later, we went to Vernon to see the science teacher and his missus who had a brother living in El Monte, a suburb to the east of Los Angeles.

She gave us some boxes to deliver and all the necessary instructions and for some reason which nowadays escapes me, we decided we had to visit the recently-opened Disneyland. We made

it to White Rock, B.C. where, as usual, we camped in the car. It was with some trepidation that I faced the prospect of leaving the safety of my dear homeland, but the show had to go on. The ’53 ran beautifully with its ’52 running gear, and a few days later we were checking out San Francisco and just had to see what was going on at the intersection of Haight and Ashbury Streets. It was gratifying to see that a few flower children still existed happily ever after.

The only disconcerting moments of the whole trip occurred at San Luis Obispo. Some dark knight took it upon himself to hurl two large stones at the green dream while we were in camping mode, and one struck the stainless strip under the windshield. I called out to the brigand to come forth, but he rudely declined. It took me a while to get back to sleep, and fortunately, the rest of the night was uneventful.

The accelerator pump in the carbie was broken so I had to prime the system by pouring a fluid ounce or two of gasoline into the tiny dish in the centre of the air cleaner after I loosened

the wing-nut to get the car started. As a consequence, this 4,300 pound car returned over 20 mpg (22.4 on one occasion) when driven at 50-55 mph on those amazing California freeways.

We arrived in El Monte, I suspect, to the complete amazement of our hosts.

Their beautiful home was not quite their castle, however, as the man of the house slept with a .45 automatic under his pillow. His missus woke one night to noises in the bedroom and thinking it to be her man, turned over only to discover that her man was fast asleep beside her.

I think she lost some jewellery in the process. He, as it turned out, had been a car guy. He sold a beautifully restored Model A Roadster to a movie studio for a tidy sum, thinking that his car might become a four-wheeled star on the silver screen, only to discover that the car was deliberately written off in an “accident scene”. It was a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t have wanted to live there. The smog was so strong it made my eyes water.

We left late one afternoon and headed for Las Vegas. We drove through the desert at night as I wasn’t sure of

the cooling system’s capabilities. It was seemingly impossible to judge distances – it seemed to take forever to arrive at a town’s lights. We stopped in Vegas at 2 AM so Jenny could have a wee - we were operating in economy mode on all fronts. We visited the Mormon Church in Salt Lake City and then sent a telegram to the Secretary of the School Board at Kazabazua to ask if she could please wire $50 to us as we were running low on funds. She complied, thankfully, and we arrived home a few days later with $5 left in the kitty.

The dear old car purred faithfully all the rest of the way home. We were away for five weeks and travelled over eight thousand miles in two old Cadillacs whose combined value was less than $200. They don’t make them like they used to.

The Dan Walker Chronicles Beijing & Back

We took advantage of a day with no planned activity to have a late breakfast before catching a cab to the electronics district. We were lucky, within 15 minutes a taxi dropped someone off nearby and we dashed over and climbed in.

Lifeng warned us to be careful buying in this area, and she was right about the hustle. Marilynn knew exactly which camera she wanted to buy and the price on the internet, so we soon found ourselves being processed in a tall building full of everything electronic. There were loads of outlets selling Canon and everything else. For the special camera Marilynn wants we were escorted upstairs to a room full of seats with tables between them, each equipped with a calculator.

Marilynn tested out the camera and we came close on the price but left when they wouldn’t come down further. We walked a block before going into another Canon outlet. We were offered a lower price than the one we were willing to pay, but to get the camera we had to go to the same place we had just walked out of. The buildings are connected with walkways, and individual outlets all come back to the same controlling point. They wouldn’t sell for the price we were

offered, but after considerable discussion they came down to our price, but only for cash and we didn’t have enough we’d planned to use a credit card, so it was another retreat, this time to find a taxi back to the hotel.

In the evening we went through the procedure of flagging down a taxi again, this time for a 45 minute ride to the Da Dong Peking Duck Restaurant, located near the Regent Hotel where we stayed while our Rolls was in the Rolls Royce showroom. The restaurant occupies the entire 5th floor of a super upscale shopping centre, and the meal was beyond amazing. Lifeng was there, and so was James (our guide when we drove the Rolls across China) with his three year old daughter, who, though shy, was well behaved. Lifeng very kindly drove us back to the hotel where we had a beer before bed. A note on tipping. The Chinese tip tour guides, local guides, drivers, and possibly hotel employees helping take luggage to the room; however it is not customary in restaurants or taxis, which would explain why tips in restaurants were often refused.

Dan Walker is an adventurer, a businessman, and raconteur. He has visited every country in the world. His trusty Rolls Royce has taken him across many continents. He includes his grandchildren in some of his travels allowing them to select the destination.

Originally, he hails from Victoria, British Columbia, but now resides in Costa Rica. We are pleased to present the Dan Walker Chronicles.

37.

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day. I wrote down the details including those pertaining to the stolen cars.

Several days later, at about 11 p.m., I was flagged down in town by a motorist who reported there was a car lying on its side in the middle of #3 Highway approximately six miles west of town.

On arrival at the scene, there was no one to be found but the licence number matched one of the stolen cars listed I had written down the previous Sunday.

There was no blood in or around the vehicle to indicate injuries and at that time of night as there was little traffic,.I knew someone was either hiding in the bush or had been lucky enough to get a ride into town. Using a hand-held searchlight, I scanned the area. As I was alone, without radio contact, I clearly marked the vehicle with road flares and proceeded back to town to call the tow truck operator to pick up the vehicle.

We had very poor radio contact and none if no one was in the office. If on duty alone, as I was that night, we only knew a call had come in to the local telephone exchange if a red light mounted on the top of a telephone pole in the centre of town, was turned on. If we saw that light, we called the local telephone operator or stopped at the telephone office to get the information.

What A Ride A book by Len Giles

Continued from previous issue By the fall of 196l, I had been in Princeton for close to one year and things just kept on happening. I had gone to the local theatre eager to see the 9 o’clock showing of the movie “The Canadians,” and the results of our participation a year earlier. While filled with anticipation to see my movie debut, by the end of it all, I was not impressed. On leaving the theatre shortly before 11, I learned of a fire in an apartment on the second floor of a two-story commercial building on one of the two main streets in town. It was the scene of another fatality. About the time I arrived on scene, after a battle of an hour so, by the fire department and the fire crew, they were able to get inside. I assisted with the removal of a man who had burned to death. By the time I went upstairs, he had been placed on a basket stretcher to be brought out.

There he lay, naked, except for his leather belt which had not completely burned through. His body was a crispy

blackened hulk but his mouth frothed and bubbled. It was a grisly sight, yet another example of the harsh side of life. It was later determined he fell asleep with a cigarette in his hand and had been drinking earlier in the evening.

Also that fall, on a Sunday evening, I had been riding with Ron Cathcart, a senior Constable in charge of the Princeton highway patrol unit. Ron stopped at his home for a few moments as I waited in the car. While waiting, I heard the broken, yet decipherable, evening police broadcast from Vancouver Radio calling, “to all cars and detachments, stolen car report.”

This nightly broadcast advised of stolen cars and other incidents that had been reported during the day. As I knew no one was at the detachment to take down the details, I did so in the car.

The broadcast provided descriptions of two detainees––surnames Perako and Turner––who had escaped from the Haney Correctional Institute earlier that

After arranging for the car to be towed, it was after midnight and I did not want to get anyone out of bed to assist me. In hindsight, I should have. I thought the best course of action was to check all east-bound traffic and I began to do. At about 2:30 a.m., I stopped a vehicle with a young male driver and a passenger sleeping in the back seat.

I was suspicious and retrieved my clipboard from the police car. The descriptions of the escapees referred to tattoos so I asked the driver to roll up his left sleeve. Sure enough, it matched with one of the escapees and obviously it was his partner sleeping in the back. Both gave the impression of being resigned to having been caught and were co-operative, so I placed them both in the back of the police car.

I brought them back to the detachment, only three blocks away, where I searched them both and placed them in the cells. I called our night guard, Dave Bryden, a retired RCMP Staff Sergeant who said he would be right down.

While I waited for Dave, one of the prisoners began calling from the cells that he had something he wanted to give me. When I went in, I was shocked when the guy who had been the driver of the vehicle handed me a home-made knife about six inches long. It was a crude-looking weapon made from a car spring. It could have inflicted severe or fatal wounds if it had been used. He said they thought about using it on me when I had them both in the back of the police car. That would have been exceptionally easy for them to do for both of them were sitting behind me, not handcuffed. I had no handcuffs because none had been issued to me.

Although there were one or two sets issued to the Detachment, we seldom carried them. As a result, I had none as I drove that short distance to the detachment and there was no protective glass between the front seat and the rear.

I very quickly realized that as a young constable, I had placed myself in a very vulnerable position and I could not rely on the respect for the RCMP uniform to shelter me from harm. I thanked the prisoner and told him I would ensure that their honourable act in not using the weapon and handing it in would be noted in my report for prison authorities to consider in any action taken with respect to their escape.

When Dave arrived, I was wideawake from the adrenalin in my system so I decided to continue to look for those who had overturned the car on the highway. After the earlier experience, I took a set of handcuffs with me. I remained on duty all night and after checking only a few cars I saw someone run across the highway about a half-mile way from where I was parked. It was early dawn and in that light I assumed that person did not see my all-black police car. I approached that area very quickly and the terrain was such that the two individuals really had no where to go. Upon questioning them, one admitted they were the ones who had rolled the car west of town.

One had a badly-scraped arm which was significant evidence to support my suspicion and his claim. This time I searched both before putting them in the car and handcuffed them in a manner placing the right hand of one to the left hand of the other so when

seated in the back of the car, each of their outer hands reached across their laps where they were joined by the handcuffs. That was the best solution when faced with only having one pair of handcuffs. Shortly thereafter, I ordered a set of handcuffs from a U.S. police and military supply company.

I still have them, although they have never been used on duty.

Dave was somewhat surprised when I came in with two more prisoners. My total for the night was two stolen cars, two escapees from Haney Correctional Institute and two others for theft of the second vehicle. By this time, I knew the Corporal would be coming in as he always did at or near 8 a.m. I worked on my report until he arrived.

The Corporal could not believe I had achieved so much by myself. He was ecstatic and quick to call Chilliwack Sub-Division Headquarters to report my success. Nothing ever came of it other than when the Section N.C.O., Staff Sergeant W.C Wallace, visited the detachment several weeks later; he congratulated me on my excellent work.

Looking back on the incident where the knife was produced, I realized–– and was thankful––someone had been watching over me that morning. I also realized how naïve it was to take such a chance with two criminals. They were young and perhaps not as dangerous as they could have been. The fact they were from a correctional institute, rather than the B.C. Penitentiary, may support the view they were petty criminals instead of the more-hardened variety. It was a lesson well-learned from a mistake not to be repeated. Poor judgement was exercised in placing both individuals in the back seat of the car without first searching them first. As well, my eventual search in the office had been totally inadequate. Both were serious errors which reflected my inexperience, trusting nature and overconfidence.

Police work presents a broad variety of situations, some good, some bad, some ridiculous and others just plain hilarious. This is an example of the latter. On a quiet Sunday morning, I was riding with Jack Lawson in his Highway Patrol car on Highway #3, just a mile east of Princeton. It was

a clear, cold winter morning and the road was icy. We were about 100 yards behind a Volkswagen “Beetle” which was travelling under 20 miles per hour.

We assumed the driver was exercising caution due to the icy road conditions or the fact several cows were moving down a hillside on the right side of the road. We watched this slow-motion movie unravelling in front of us as the car and cows crept closer and closer to each other. Neither seemed aware of the other and neither changed course or speed. One cow sauntered onto the roadway and the Volkswagen––in slow motion––drove under the cow. We could not believe it. The Volkswagen, from the side, went squarely between the front and rear legs and the cow rolled up onto the hood. It stopped, on its back, at the windshield with all four legs flailing in the air, and then slowly rolled back down onto its feet and calmly continued to walk across the road. The Volkswagen sat idle.

It seemed to be watching the cow as it casually disappeared; as if to say, “What was that?” By this time, we were directly behind the stopped car.

Jack went to the driver’s side door and knocked on the window. An elderly gentleman rolled down the window, turned to look at Jack but remained silent. He had glasses that had to be close to one-half an inch thick, “like Coke bottles” as Jack later described them. The man had not been drinking, visibility was excellent, there was no other traffic, and there were no passengers in the vehicle to distract him.

As well, the brown cows were highly visible against a white background of snow. In his defence, the driver said he did not see the cow. Jack concluded, in a comment to me, “I think it’s time for this nice old man to turn in his driver’s licence.”

To be continued

Leonard Giles

The Institute is pleased to publish this exploratory approach to the analysis of Canadian educational policy. Mr. Wadsworth brings to his subject the point of view of an observer outside the organized structure of education.

From this vantage point he examines policy in education from three distinct but overlapping viewpoints, which he describes as the rational, the pragmatic, and the research approaches.

Such an analysis is of particular consequence today. Education costs have reached the point where the taxpaying public is questioning the entire educational structure, and at the same time, many within the structure have expressed profound discontent. The need for fresh analyses of our schools and school systems is paramount. Mr. Wadsworth’s study is being published in order that his ideas and recommendations may receive attention.

R. W. B. Jackson, Director.

The Ontario Institute for Studies in Education Toronto, June 1971

Continued from previous issue The Need For The Research To Be Selected For the policy analyst, and subsequently the policymaker, to derive maximum benefit from resources spent on research, it is imperative that the research be chosen strictly upon its potential for resolving the intractability or removing the uncertainty. While the actual mechanism will be some form of normative forecasting, it will involve a certain amount of potential benefit/cost analysis.

While any actual listing of research opportunities will depend heavily upon the concomitant potential benefit/ cost analysis, it must surely include

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research suggestions in the following areas: • the sociopolitical intractabilities associated with the control of education; • the nonformal aspects of education that promise the effective removal of financial constraints; • the transformation of the educational system into a less labor intensive organization; • descriptive analysis concerned with the effects of education.

It is tempting to identify what may be the ultimate intractability of attempting to perform policy analysis in the Canadian educational system.

The essential characteristics of the research, which alone has the capability to resolve the intractability

and to remove the uncertainty, are financial dependence upon the policymaker, connection with the policymaking decision process, and design that will produce maximum benefit for the policymaker. Is this not implying that, in order to discover how to control education in Canada, the present regional controllers of the education system will have to perform research on themselves so as to display to some federal body how they may be controlled? In other words, in order to learn how to control the total Canadian education process, one first has to take control of it.

If this is accepted, the inference then is that regional control of education is inviolable. In the Canadian context, no matter what the effects of education

are demonstrated to be, the regional educational systems may long continue to be used as political weapons or as desirab le systems for regional control.

5 CONCLUSIONS AND RECOMMENDATIONS It is to be carefully noted that the conclusions and recommendations below apply only to the attempt to perform policy analysis on the Canadian education system. The concluding summaries relating specifically to education are distributed throughout this report.

A purely rational approach to policy analysis reveals that there are intractabilities that make the educational system difficult to control, and uncertainties that conceal the effects of education.

A pragmatic approach to policy analysis focuses attention on the selfregulatory aspects of the educational system.

A research approach to policy analysis is realized to be the only approach with the potential for resolving the intractabilities and removing the uncertainties, and will thus permit a wider range of alternatives to be presented to the policymaker.

However, the research approach introduces another intractability: by virtue of the type of research needed and the regionally controlled nature of education in Canada, its potential to resolve all the intractabilities connected with the control of education in Canada will be limited.

The following recommendations arise from the preceding brief, tentative policy analysis of Canadian education: • There should be more sophisticated and deeper policy analysis of Canadian education.

• There should immediately be a list of research opportunities in Canadian education.

• The ultimate aim of these attempts at policy analysis should be the writing of proposals for a federally sponsored review of all aspects of Canadian education.

APPENDIX A A SUGGESTION FOR A SYSTEMS APPROACH TO COMPUTERASSISTED INSTRUCTION The proliferation of government activities within their aggregated programs is increasing the competition among programs for the limited extra federal resources currently available.

Since economic efficiency, taking into account social benefits, is a means of judging competing activities, a proposal for a new activity is in a somewhat disadvantaged position if not supported by some semblance of benefit/cost analysis. Although the demonstration of economic efficiency is essential, it would not in itself ensure successful competition since the relevance of the particular activity with reference to the department’s function is important.

The recently submitted proposal that the National Research Council enter the field of computer-assisted instruction was qualified by neither any measures of potential economic efficiency nor any description of its particular relevance to the National Research Council’s functions.

The purpose of this Appendix is to encourage the National Research Council to present its proposal for entering the field of computer-assisted instruction against the backgrounds of the educational system and RC’s total functions. Only in this manner can it hope both to identify the components of the system it wishes to influence and to make some estimate of potential benefits from such influence, compared to the costs of total federal government resources involved. Furthermore, such essential analysis will remove from the RC’s presentation value words and emotionalism that have served

to raise the bogeymen of Canadian industry losing the potential for billions of dollars involvement, Americanprepared curricula invading educational processes, and nonuniform computerassisted instruction techniques disjointedly proliferating throughout Canada.

The extant literature is vast in the areas of the economics of education and computer-assisted instruction.

Therefore, in the preparation of this Appendix, the author has leaned heavily upon the bibliographies of Hüfner and Hickey.

Mood, in qualifying some of the basic steps of applying systems analysis to instruction, has pointed out that the advantages of a systems analysis over a qualitative analysis are never so apparent as in the evaluation of the results of the analysis. The systems analysis, with its precise mathematical statements, is not an easy place to hide unconscious assumptions. Furthermore, a systems analysis can be subjected to a sensitivity analysis, which is a replay of the whole analysis with modifications in some of the judgments and estimates that went into the construction of the model. Frequently very many replays of the analysis are done with whole sequences of variations in functional forms and variations in parameter values so that the analyst can see how seriously the results of the analysis depend upon some of the less certain components of the analysis.

To be continued in the next issue of Metanoia

Left: The late Dr. Jack Wadsworth Centre: Julie Yap Wadsworth with daughter, Jackie Wadsworth Right: Hank Leis and daughter of the late Jack Wadsworth, Jackie Wadsworth Jackie Wadsworth was born on Jack Wadsworth’s birthday, 70 days after Jack Wadsworth’s passing.

Moments

By Bernard Schissel

I have often thought that each of us gets about 10 lifetime experiences that are so profound that they change the way we are and the way we view the world. I am not sure why 10 is the number I choose but it seems the best mathematical guess for my life given what has transpired to date. The experiences to which I refer not only make me smile but they destroy my tendency to cynicism and they often explain the inexplicable. They are moments with mystical qualities and their lessons outlast memory. When my grandchildren ask me questions about life, I will tell them the stories of these moments.

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Story 1.

I had the good fortune of teaching a graduate class at Nankai University in Tianjin China in 2004. After a particularly intense three-hour morning class, I took the opportunity to spend some time outside sitting on a bench beside a grassy quad, just relaxing and watching the activity around me. After about ten minutes, I noticed an elderly man approach the green area. He was dressed in typical Mao-era clothing, dark blue pants, coat, and hat. Like many people of his generation, his attire was simple and functional, meant to express common sense, modesty, and solidarity. But, his stature was striking. For a man in his late years,

he seemed taller than average with an upright posture that belied his age.

He walked to the middle of the grassy area and began a series of graceful movements that seemed both poetically gentle and clearly rigorous. This man had undoubtedly mastered the fluidity of Tai Chi over his long life, and his mastery had provided him with a stature and grace that held me spellbound and envious.

I, however, was not the only one taken with his presence. A group of school children, ranging in age from 10 -14 walked by and stopped. Given the cultural blinders that I had acquired after years of living in North America, my first thought was “oh please don’t

make fun of this man.� Then I watched as the kids gathered around him and started to mimic his movements, rather clumsily, but in an attempt at simultaneity. And it was then that I realized that they were not mimicking him at all but using his movements as a template for learning Tai Chi. He was the master and they were the students and the respect that they brought to him, while steeped in centuries of cultural nurturing, seemed so natural and, for a typical North American observer, so rare. Interestingly, there is a belief in Buddhist philosophy that when the student is ready, the teacher will come.

When my grandchildren ask me what it is like to be old, I will tell them this story.

one another having decided to put on a show. We knew, then, that we were experiencing a natural display of magic that we would likely never see again.

And we were right. We went back to the same spot at the same time year after year to no avail.

I know that such an amazing phenomenon is the result of a series of natural occurrences, explained rather mundanely based on firefly populations, moisture content in the grass, and weather patterns that are required for fireflies to flourish and display. But the science did not matter at that moment.

We had experienced the melding of the heavens and the earth.

When my grandchildren ask me about the universe, I will tell them this story.

Story 2.

My wife and I had the good fortune of being able to raise our boys on 10 acres of pristine and rolling prairie, a landscape that was marked by a neverending sky and glacial hills that turned from red to amber to yellow as the sun rose and set. We had a favorite spot in this bit of paradise at the top of a hill overlooking pastureland that seemed to go on forever. There, we had small fire pit around which often we gathered to remind ourselves how lucky we were.

One very dark June evening we built a small fire. It was one of those evenings when the moon had disappeared to allow the stars to go on display. The fire was tossing skyward bits of light that glowed for a second and then disappeared. At one point, I turned my head and noticed similar flashes of light behind and down the hill. My wife and I followed these flashes of light down an incline to a meadow that was the foyer to our garden. And, in that foyer, we encountered hundreds of tiny lights.

It was as if the stars had decided to rest upon the earth a bit. In fact, what we saw were fireflies that filled the small meadow with twinkling lights that would disappear and reappear as we walked down the path.

As we stood in awe and silence, we could see the stars in the meadow and the stars in the sky and it was as if the sky and the earth were mirroring

Story 3.

My wife and I tried to raise our sons with as much exposure to the beauties of the natural world as we could find. We did so, in part, by hiking in the Banff-Lake Louise area of the Canadian Rockies. After a long prairie winter without hiking, the urge to hike was so strong that we could almost hear the call of early season trails. My wife and I have always felt that call and always will, and we wanted our sons to experience the same type of fundamental connection to nature.

One particularly amazing earlyseason trail in the area follows Lake Minnewanka, a deep, cold mountain lake that, at least in local folklore, has no bottom and many ghostly spirits. We left the trailhead early in the morning.

After about three kilometres, the trail follows a scree slope that parallels the shoreline of the lake. While the scree slope is not steep, the trial is difficult to maneuver off the worn path. So, we stayed to the path and as we approached a sharp switchback, we stood face to face with a herd of bighorn sheep led by a ram with majestic horns that curled back towards his family. Included in that family were several females/ mothers and their children. While we stood in silence awed by the sight of something so wonderful, an amazing thing happened. The ram came up to us

and stood a few metres away staring at us and not moving. Moving off the trail was not an option, so we leaned into the hill and put our arms around our kids.

As we did so, the mothers and children stepped off the trail a metre or two and walked around and gathered on the other side, so close that we could have reached out and touched them. When they all had reached the other side, they waited and then the ram did the same thing. When he reached the others, he stopped for a few seconds, looked at us again, and then they all turned and walked on.

We were not frightened but we were speechless until a few moments later.

We talked about it at the time and we still talk about.

When my grandchildren ask me about wildlife, I will them this story.

Story 4.

Living on an acreage meant that our family had the opportunity and good fortune to bask in the wonders that quietness, big skies and movements of nature provide. Each spring we had the opportunity to hear the mesmerizing call of sandhill cranes in their annual flyover from the Gulf of Mexico to the Arctic. Cranes are majestic creatures, and once in a while a lucky observer might see a whooping crane amidst the flocks of sandhills as they strut about the fields in the morning and the evening. In a quest to see these beautiful creatures and maybe be lucky enough to see a rare whooping crane, my wife and I got in our car and drove toward the distant sound of a large flock of sandhills that grazed in a neighbour’s field. We headed down an abandoned road, one of those unplanned prairie lanes that exist because farmers use them to divide their fields and to access their crops. As we approached the birds, we both noticed a movement on the side of the road. We stopped and backed up to see three golden brown, six-week-old puppies laying on a ragged blanket several metres off the road.

We abandoned our quest to see the birds and gathered the obviously hungry brood onto a blanket in the

back of our van. We took them home where we cared for them with the help of our German Shepherd, Emily.

Interestingly, although Emily was a spayed female, her instincts made her a doting mother. It was fascinating to watch how she gathered them around her and how they stumbled and rolled under her feet.

We knew, however, that we could not keep the puppies so we put a simple ad in the local newspaper and within two days we had adopted them all out to remarkably appropriate people: a couple, one of whom was a newlyminted veterinarian and the other a master’s student in animal science; a veterinary professor; and a newly married couple who had just moved to an acreage and who were expecting their first baby.

We have always felt that what we experienced was a series of magical occurrences that came together to create a bit of a miracle—the odds of us going birdwatching that day, the odds of us driving down that abandoned road, the odds of us seeing three furry creatures as we drove, the odds of our family dog adopting them in an instant, and the odds of finding three amazing adopters within two days. Three new puppies would likely not have survived the night in the open prairie. What started as a cruel act of abandonment (or desperation at best) became a story that makes me smile and gives me hope.

When my grandchildren ask me about miracles, I will tell them this story.

Story 5.

On my second visit to China, once again, at Nankai University, I took some time to watch the amazing phenomenon of Chinese traffic. In China, traffic is a combination of endless bicycles, many vehicles, and thousands of pedestrians, all managing to get where they want despite very few obvious “rules of the road.” I watched this symphony of movement for quite a long time and eventually noticed an elderly couple ride by on a bicycle that

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had a wagon box extension. The box contained several gardening tools, and I assumed that the couple made a living tending gardens. What caught my eye mostly, however, was the connection between the husband and wife. He was riding the bike in a typically slow fashion with a characteristically upright posture. She was sitting pressed against the front of the wagon and as they passed, she put her head against his back and rested it there. It may have been an act of exhaustion—it didn’t matter. As they passed, I noticed that she moved as close to him as possible and left her head resting against him as they vanished into the world of commuters.

When my grandchildren ask me about love, I will tell them this story.

often rather myopically equates success with winning, the actions of the young Spaniard were not logical. But, in a world in which we would hope that doing the right thing can supersede fame and often fortune, this is a story worth telling over and over.

When my grandchildren ask me what a champion is, I will tell them this story.

Embedded in the experiences I have described are bits of wisdom that help guide my life. I said at the outset that ten moments would seem a reasonable expectation in a life. The actual number of course is insignificant but what is not insignificant is how meaningful such experiences are on emotional wellbeing. I am excited about unbidden moments yet to come.

Story 6.

This last story is one that I did not experience directly but it is a story that is so important to tell and one that has left a lasting impression on me, especially because I was compulsively involved in competitive sports at a young age. It is a life lesson about decency that is so simple and yet so powerful. It involved a Spanish long distance runner named Ivan Fernandez Anoya during the 2012 Olympic trials in Navarre. The race was coming to an end and the leader was a Kenyan runner who led by about 10 meters. As the runners approached the finish line, the Kenyan runner stopped before the line, clearly believing that he had already finished and won. As the young Spaniard approached him, he slowed down and directed the Kenyan to cross the line before he himself did, making certain that the race ended as it should. Later, the actions of the young runner were criticized by his coach and by members of the local and national sports communities, but heralded more widely though social media. Interestingly, a member of the coaching staff said that Anaya did not know how to handle pressure and this would always differentiate him from champion runners.

Now this may not seem like such a noteworthy act. In fact, in the eyes of the sports world, a world that most

Bernard Schissel is a Professor and Program Head in the Doctor of Social Sciences Program. His current books include About Canada: Children and Youth (Fernwood, 2011); Still Blaming Children: Youth Conduct and the Politics of Child Hating (Fernwood, 2006); Marginality and Condemnation: An Introduction to Criminology, 2nd (with Carolyn Brooks, Fernwood, 2008); and The Legacy of School for Aboriginal People: Education, Oppression, and Emancipation. (with Terry Wotherspoon, Oxford UP, 2003).

In general, his research focuses on the position that children, youth, and young adults occupy in western democracies and how law, medicine, politics and the economy often infringe on the human rights of young people.

MISSIVES FROM DONALD J BOUDREAUX

Beating The Zombie Horse It cannot be too often repeated, so I will repeat Adam Smith’s conclusion often: “Nothing, however, can be more absurd than this whole doctrine of the balance of trade.”

7 January 2017 Editor, Barron’s Editor: Frank Berlage’s warning of the alleged dangers of U.S. trade deficits is a montage of misunderstanding (“Why Fixing Trade Deficits Is Essential,” Jan. 7). For example, Mr. Berlage infers a decline in America’s “manufacturing base” from the decline in manufacturing employment. This inference is mistaken. As my Mercatus Center colleague Dan Griswold notes, “American factories and American workers are making a greater volume of stuff than ever - high-tech, highvalue products that are competitive in markets around the world. In the last 20 years … real, inflation-adjusted U.S. manufacturing output has increased by almost 40%.”* Manufacturing employment is down because manufacturing productivity is up, and not just in America. According to economist David Dollar, “job loss in manufacturing derives primarily from technological change, not from trade. Manufacturing’s share of U.S. production is quite stable, but its share of employment has declined at a steady rate because productivity growth in manufacturing is higher than in services. This trend can be observed in all of the advanced economies, including ones such as Germany that have large trade surpluses.”**

An even more egregious misunderstanding is revealed in Mr. Berlage’s proposal to impose stiff taxes on American consumers who purchase imports from any country with which America runs persistent bilateral trade deficits. Yet in a world of more than two countries, bilateral trade deficits are utterly without economic significance.

In this real world of ours with nearly 200 different countries, most of which are woven together into a single global economy, there is no more reason to expect that we Americans will over time sell as much to the Chinese as we buy from the Chinese than there is to expect that, say, General Motors will over time sell as much to Goodyear as General Motors buys from Goodyear.

And just as General Motors would be foolish to restrict its purchases from Goodyear on the grounds that Goodyear annually spends less on outputs sold by G.M. than G.M. spends on outputs sold

by Goodyear, it would be foolish for us Americans to restrict our purchases of outputs sold by the Chinese on the grounds that the Chinese annually spend less on outputs sold by us than we spend on outputs sold by the Chinese.

Mr. Berlage’s poor understanding of both the reality and the economics of trade make him unfit to be taken seriously on this matter.

Sincerely, Donald J. Boudreaux Professor of Economics and Martha and Nelson Getchell Chair for the Study of Free Market Capitalism at the Mercatus Center George Mason University Fairfax, VA www.cafehayek.com

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