Author: mckillop_vfr@yahoo.ca

April 2: A friend recently started an on-line course for creative photography using his Apple iPhone. It has been fun watching his skill improve and see the results of his effort. As he got better, he started posting batches of pictures to Facebook, and actually developed a devoted following. I realized that, if I was to continue to see his work, I would need to consider joining as well.

To say the least: I was reluctant, but after some thought, I decided to take the plunge. On entering the site I was asked for a bunch of personal information which would presumably be used to “make my experience more enjoyable”. Data related to age and sex, schools I attended, where I worked and a personal photo were all sought, and ignored. Once I became a member, I was asked to download Messenger and started to receive news items and advertising that looked suspiciously like some things I had already seen on my own searches. I got a long list of “friends” already on the site – some that I had not seen for many years and for good reason –  and asked to “like” them so that we could chat on Facebook.

After a couple of days on the site, the story of the Cambridge Analytica data hack broke in the news. A small avalanche of stories appeared in the papers about the subtle effects of electronic devices on our daily lives, and more specifically, the loss of privacy on-line. They pointed out that people now use their cell phones to capture an image of a place or an event, rather than taking the time to experience the place or event first-hand, and to then take an image as a reminder. On-line groups of friends have replaced actual live friends, and their “like” provides an endorphin hit that becomes mildly addictive. Like-minded communities become insular and inward-looking, receiving a stream of information tailored to their viewpoint. More extreme views were often reinforced with feeds from dubious sources.

Much of this was not news to me; it mirrored my view of many of the sites most of my friends used. My photographer friend often said that he spent several hours a day on electronic media including Facebook and Instagram. While I sometimes felt like a bit of a Luddite for not being more active on-line, I had no desire to follow his example and shortly thereafter, I uninstalled Facebook.

In reaching that decision I needed to balance the convenience of having access to my friend’s pictures against the obvious incursions into my privacy and personal data sought by on-line sources. I am already very aware of being tracked, and the potential for loss of privacy or worse, and being on sites like Facebook only seemed to magnify those threats. While I will continue to use this site to share my miscellaneous ramblings (with the security ratcheted down as tight as I can get it), I’m off Facebook. I’ll need to find another way to enjoy my friend’s photography.

Perhaps.

The crows and cardinals, and red-winged blackbirds have all migrated back.

I’m still waiting on the first rabbit of the year to appear in the courtyard.

There are shoots appearing in the garden which hold the promise of these blooms, shot in my neighbourhood grocery store.

The days are getting longer, and the quality of the light brighter and stronger, yet the temperature remains a solid 5 degrees below “normal” – whatever that might be in these days of climate change.

So I remain hopeful that Spring will appear for real when we pass the vernal equinox this week. I can only hope it’s soon.

March 18: George Carlin, one of my favourite comedians, used to do a monologue about stuff: the stuff we own; the stuff we collect; how we store our stuff; how we ultimately become prisoners to our stuff. It was very funny, and very insightful.

Lately, I have been thinking a lot about my stuff. When I moved 3 years ago, I was forced to go through my stuff and decide which pieces went with me, and which would be jettisoned or left behind. There was a certain amount of stuff thrown out or recycled, and most of my paintings remained in Marisa’s basement. So I moved here with a relatively small burden of stuff. Yet it has continued to grow.

The problem is that we tend to define who we are by our stuff. The house or condo we own, the clothes we wear, the car we drive all make a statement about our personality. It’s hard to imagine a life without a collection of stuff. That said, I am finding that stuff that was important to me at one stage of my life, is less important, or perhaps even irrelevant right now. For example, everyone has a collection of books. They got read at some point in time, and were kept because they were entertaining or insightful. They look good on the shelf, but in most cases, they never get opened again. I have three shelves of books that I haven’t opened in recent memory. Why keep them ?

And so the question becomes: how do I decide what stuff to keep, and what stuff to pitch out ? I recently heard someone say that we should only retain the stuff that has emotional resonance in our lives. The rest is clutter – stuff we can do without. So the crystal vase I was given by the Etobicoke staff when I got married is a keeper; the glass decanters that look good on the sideboard are recyclable.

It’s an interesting perspective, and one that I am using to consider cleaning house. That may be more difficult than I think. After all, I kept this stuff when I moved because I felt some level of emotional response to it. Yet it has recently begun feeling redundant and superfluous to my life, so the time feels right to begin the process of assessing my stuff to try and reduce the overburden of stuff I carry. It is a job best approached with perspective and a sense of humour. I think George would be gratified.

February 19: It seems that each day brings new allegations of sexual misconduct by actors, businessmen or politicians. While it is obviously necessary and appropriate to address these charges, there are aspects of the whole movement that leave me a bit uncomfortable.

To be clear: Sexual assault is assault and it is a crime no matter when it occurred. What I am considering here are the seemingly more frequent and nuanced interactions that include harassment, inappropriate or unwanted touching and comments. These seem to me to be on a sliding scale of severity and the intent needs to be closely examined. When does a supportive arm across the shoulders after a bad day become unwanted contact ?

Many of these events happened decades ago. When I look back on my own life, I am painfully aware of how misguided some of my opinions and actions would look if viewed through the lens of today’s values and mores. There were times when my behaviour toward particular women would be called inappropriate if judged by todays’ values. At the time, (we’re talking the 70’s and 80’s here), love ’em and leave ’em was much more prevalent and understood, at least by my own demographic. Yet viewed through todays value system, some people would see my actions as something more sinister than exploring sexuality. Values change and I’m not sure that we can use the values of today to understand the actions of the past.

If I was, in fact, confronted by my past, I wonder how I could respond. Most of the men charged in these cases have denied their accusers, yet it seems that they have already been found guilty and charged. The mere fact of the accusation makes it true in many minds. And if those charges are ultimately proven to be unfounded, I wonder if those men won’t remain tainted by them.

And how do we resolve these charges when they arise ? Absent criminal charges, which may be difficult to lay after years have elapsed, I believe that the only route available is civil action through the courts. I know from experience that litigation is by definition an adversarial process. It is combat. There are winners and losers and sadly, the truth may be a loser. The casting of doubt to eliminate the certainty of the charge can lead to many difficult and uncomfortable perspectives on the same event. What really happened, or was understood to have happened, can be less clear than we thought. “Reasonable doubt” arises. We need look no further than the Jian Ghomeshi case to understand how the system fails women.

It seems to me that most of these encounters arise from an environment where men held power and felt able to exercise that power to abuse others without repercussions. In a way, I find that odd because my entire employed life was spent working with, and for, women. During the last 25 years at the City, most of my Managers, Directors and Commissioners were women, so I became very comfortable with women in power. It was understood that they were equals, or better, and I can’t imagine any of them putting up with inappropriate conduct. Perhaps when there are more women in power, men will be less inclined to behave poorly.

January 19: I never really liked birthdays when I was a kid. I hated being the centre of attention and, to me, that’s what birthdays were all about: opening gifts while everyone watched; making appropriate approving noises at yet another pair of socks and so, for the most part, I have effectively avoided celebrating my birthday for many years.

This past week, I went to a small birthday celebration for one of my running buddies who is the same age as me. Over the last few years, he’s advanced from 5 km runs to completing his first marathon. Another friend in the same running group now has 2 marathons under his belt and is training for a third. He’s in his seventies. One of the younger women who run with us said that she found it inspiring that the “older guys” were running faster than most of the folks in the clinic, and while that’s a bit of a backhanded compliment – “You’re looking better since your face cleared up…” I took it as it was intended, and with some quiet satisfaction.

Both of these guys are role models for me. They are active in fitness outside of running. One volunteers at a shelter; the other is a great chef who loves swapping recipes. Both have many interests and are involved with lots of people. All of this reinforces the old cliché about being as old as you think you are.

My Mum passed away last Spring at 94. She was strong and in good health until the last two weeks of her life. She walked a lot and sang in a choir most weeks. As we cleared out her stuff, we came across a small bundle of death notices carefully cut from the newspaper. They included friends, relatives (4 sisters), members of the choir in which she sang and residents of the building where she lived. As I looked through this melancholy memorabilia, it seemed to me that she was literally the last of her generation left standing. How must it feel to look around and realize that you are alone, at least as it applies to life-long friends and contemporaries ?

From my own self-centered perspective, these questions have increasing relevance as my generation moves more rapidly than I would like down the great conveyor belt of life toward the sudden drop at the end. My friends and family are intact, at least for now, but we don’t know how long that might be true. My end is inevitable, and perhaps all I can do for now is to emulate my running buddies, run like hell and try to stay as interested and active in my life as I can. With luck, I too may live to 94 and have dozens of birthdays left to avoid.

January 8: Now that the “holidays” are over, I feel a bit like the cat in the picture. This would be understandable if I had actually had a busy agenda over Christmas, but that was not really the case. The extended family has an understanding that we don’t buy gifts for the adults, so the extent of my shopping was a 15 minute trip to get a toy for each of the three grandchildren. One store, in and out. I never went near a mall, and had a hard time understanding why anyone would when I saw the cars lined up on the 401 waiting to get into the parking lot for Yorkdale. It must have taken the better part of an hour just to get to the lot.

Parties, such as they were, included a family Christmas dinner with my Sister’s family and mine – always a highlight for me  – and pot luck dinners with the runners, the artists and the musicians ( I use the term loosely ). There was also time with my cousin Christmas Eve and New Years Eve – which I partly remember – and a couple of lunches with friends. Not a huge agenda, yet I feel like hibernating for the rest of the Winter.

This has been helped by the fact that the temperature has been abnormally cold. It was -24C for the run on Sunday morning and consistently so cold that it is unpleasant just to go outside. It’s also made the basement cooler, so I have noticed several spiders have migrated up and are lurking in the corners trying to stay warm. I think spiders are fairly benign, so I leave them alone unless they are really being a nuisance. Then I will move them to a more appropriate spot, or outdoors if the weather is warm. It did my heart good to see that a guy in Australia burned his house down when he tried to kill a spider with a blowtorch.

Of course, it’s also the season of resolutions to exercise and diet. I am not immune. I’ve not had alcohol for the last few days, and I’m shooting to complete the month of January without it, as I have done for the last 2 years. More exercise is on the radar too, but I know from personal experience that I need to have a slot in my schedule that I can commit to working out or it will ultimately fail. With the painting class, a new sketching class, and the band all starting next week, I’m waiting a bit to see how it will all work out before I commit to heaving the weights around, or swimming.

Frankly, the thought of all these things makes me tired. I think, for now, the cat has the right idea. I’m going to sneak away and take a nap. Exercise and creative things can wait.

December 17:  After a relatively balmy autumn, the weather has turned frigid. The overnight temperatures are in the low minus-teens and the day-time highs not much warmer. It was -10C for my run this morning and, given these extremes of climate, I often wonder what possessed people to emigrate to this country in the first place. Thoughts turn to my paternal grandparents who emigrated from Scotland in the early 1900’s.

We really only have a very sketchy outline of how that came to pass. Grandma(Mary) and Grandpa (James) were both born in Scotland in 1881. As a young woman, Grandma  emigrated to South Africa. I believe that she may have been married there, and perhaps even have had a child. From there, she emigrated to Canada. Grandpa was trained as a machinist. He worked for a time with the Scottish railway and then left that country for Jamaica. My Dad suggested that this may have been due to his involvement with the union movement.

While in Jamaica, he was in touch with his 2 brothers, some of whom may also have been there. At that time, the sole method of semi-reliable communication would have been the mail, and the brothers were using the address of a rooming house as an informal post office. In time, the mail dwindled and contacts were lost. Now all we have left is the knowledge that there are several other branches to the McKillop family, but no way of knowing who they might be. (Many years ago my Dad told this story to an acquaintance from Jamaica and asked him if he knew anyone named McKillop. “I do indeed”, he said. “Of course, they’re all black….”)

Grandma and Grandpa were married in Toronto in 1909; they were both 18.  My Father was the youngest of 5 children by a considerable margin, and he was born in 1922. Grandpa was a machinist with the CNR and I have an abiding memory of visiting the roundhouse and climbing aboard steam locomotives with him and my Dad. Strangely though, while I remember specific sayings or events related to all of my other grandparents, I don’t remember much more about him. I don’t remember him ever actually saying anything to me.

The family lived in a small house on Sackville Street, north of Wellesley Street, in what is now Cabbagetown. It can’t have been easy for them, yet each of the children went on to have families and a successful life. Many of my relatives from that side of the family are now in Prince Edward County and I have not seen them for many years. It seems that we can lose touch without the help of Her Majesty’s Post.

And so the McKillop clan established itself in Ontario. As snowflakes drift by the window, I wonder what they must have felt as they arrived and spent their first winter here. Perhaps, had things been different, we all might have found ourselves on a beach in Jamaica and permanently avoided Ontario winters.

December 3: It was on this date in 1992 that the first SMS (Short Message Service) was sent by Neil Papworth, a 22-year old engineer. It was sent from a bar in Milan to a cell phone owned by the then-director of Vodaphone Richard Jarvis. Papworth used a computer since phones of the day were not able to send text messages. CBC News (quoting SKY News) reports that 151 billion SMS and MMS (Multimedia Messaging Service) were sent in 2012 alone. Since that year, traffic has generally declined. “When you send someone a text message you often lose a lot of the context that you might get when you are speaking face to face,” social media expert Toby Beresford told CBC News. “And that’s a real challenge for us in the new era.” Who knew ?

* * * *

A friend e-mailed to say that this site had disappeared and been replaced by a page from Bluehost, my provider. I had my computer cleaned last week, and told the tech that the one thing I was really concerned about was losing the site and all of the work that it represents, and apparently that had happened. I stumbled around the Bluehost site for a while in a fruitless attempt to understand what had happened and how to fix it. Most of these computer-based sites are written by people and for people with a level of computer literacy. I frequently find them baffling, and in this case, I finally logged in to their chat room seeking a fix.

I was connected with Smithla, who was likely in south Asia, and we set about fixing the problem. I provided login and password identification for the account that I had miraculously managed to keep at hand during the 3 years the site has been up. After a few moments, there was a response that the connection seemed to be pointing to the wrong IP. At this point, we could have been speaking Swahili. In any event, a further moment and the site was back, fixed remotely by a stranger likely half-way around the world manipulating a system completely foreign to me, and, I suspect, most people.

At risk of sounding like a latter-day Luddite, I am often alarmed by the many ways we put our trust in technology, and specifically the Internet. Where would we be without it ? I use it to access e-mail, do research, follow the news and do virtually all of my banking and investing. It’s all there and I seldom keep a paper copy of transactions because I have been told to think of the Internet as “secure”.

Thing is: The Internet was established to share information; it is inherently an open network that anyone can access and use for their own purposes. This is all fine if you are a Pollyanna and believe that bad people will not do bad things to us through the Internet. Yet who among us has not had e-mail hacked, or worse ?  What’s going to happen when “terrorists” seize all or part of the on-line monetary system and all of our on-line records vanish ? This seems to me to be only a matter of time. My only hope is that there are enough Smithlas in south Asia to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.

November 9:  

11:15 PM: