Shucking Oysters: Expected Tourists on Road

July 17, 2025

By Alex Allen

Visitors. Tourists. Citidiots. Tourons. Call them what you will, they have arrived. And before I embark on my tirade, let’s be clear, like everything there are good and bad versions of humanity. Acceptable and unacceptable. Appropriate and inappropriate. Reasonable and unreasonable. Mindful and unmindful. We’ve got them all. And we think we know where we fit in the intelligence spectrum.

It never fails, every summer we read or hear about some blatant example of human ignorance. The amount of wild fires started by idiots is depressing and scary. Every random human being is a walking fire bomb. Illegal camping remains popular. On Canada Day weekend, a large group of people, with canopy and five tents, camped at Kennedy Lake Park. The signage? Day-use only and no overnight camping. A resident returned to the site after two days and cleaned up the garbage. Acceptable or unacceptable? Apparently, a $25,000 fine does not seem to be much of a deterrent from engaging in stupid behaviour.

Over on Hornby, we have our share of the unenlightened. The guy who parked his mega truck at the air hose and car vacuum and then went shopping across the road. The gaggle of conversationalists blocking paths and grocery aisles. The zombie-like individuals, walking erratically, staring at their dumb phones. The woman who pulls out of a side road with no regard for the safety of oncoming traffic. The man who parks his car on the wrong side of the road, idling with his high beams on so oncoming traffic can’t see. The couple who leave their dog in the car for over an hour. This one is far from unenlightened, it is grossly negligent and stupid and you shouldn’t even have a dog. Dogs in hot cars can suffer from potentially fatal heat stroke in as little as 15 minutes, even when a window has been left open or water has been left in the car!

So, what does summer mean to you? Going to the beach day after day? Endless parties and BBQs? Mojitas and other smart cocktails? Does summer wrap its arms around you like a warm and soft blanket? Or maybe you suffer from Tourist Syndrome, a condition of the nervous system that causes involuntary tics. Not sure? The tics can be physical or vocal. Some examples of physical tics include raising eyebrows, shrugging the shoulders, or jerking a middle finger. Examples of vocal tics can be humming, clearing the throat loudly, or yelling out a word or phrase. Sound familiar? It affects those more severely who work on the front lines and need to get from A to B.

The sounds of summer have arrived in my neighbourhood. It’s like our house was suddenly dropped into the middle of a provincial campground. Everything happens in the great outdoors – twenty-four-hour-games, music and hoots – except, we can’t go to the campground hosts and ask them to tell campsite 23 to keep it down.

And the bicyclists. I feel like I’m in Zandvoort. Like the paddle board, every second person (both locals and visitors alike) has an Ebike. Don’t get me wrong, this is great. But with the influx of more visitors, the more bikes the more safety issues. Riding in the middle of the road seems to be the only option. No one uses the bike trails. Are tree roots or pine cones really that scary?

Gone are the two cyclists riding side-by-side enthusing loudly about salsa macha, and how it’s the perfect accompaniment to roasted vegetables. Visitors seem to prefer to ride in clumps of six or more. As a seasoned driver, I can tell you that it is easier to go around one or two bikes than a group of seven, with a dog on leash and three kids in trailers. And then the random cyclist, like a deer, that suddenly appears out of nowhere. If there is one tourist, there may be another following. The signs should read “Expect Tourists on the Road” not deer.

If I have sounded harsh, or somewhat intolerant of tourists, you’ve misunderstood my intentions. As I keep on saying, would you rather have four or 20 individuals turn up at your front door? Yes, it’s our bread and butter, but it doesn’t have to be 12 loaves of Wonder Bread and 36 pounds of butter. It’s not just the carrying capacity of the island, it’s the carrying capacity of those who live here. Do we want to preserve the rural character of Hornby Island? To protect the reason why people want to come and visit? As Edward Espe Brown asked in his Zen teachings, “If there’s an uneven, rocky road, do you want to cover the whole path with leather, or do you want to put the leather on your feet?”

Are human beings inherently good? Are we built with an internal moral compass, or is morality entirely the result of socialization? Is the value of a human being based on the sum of their actions, or do they have value no matter the actions they take? At what point do your actions give your life less value? So many existential questions and so little time to ponder. Maybe we should just answer the other questions: Is there a liquor store? Are these today’s newspapers? How do I get to the beach? Is this coffee fresh?

The plan was hatched with the meticulous detail only children with too much time could devise.

July 17, 2025

Little girl lying on large tree, eats red apple and reads the book.

Gabriel Jeroschewitz, June 29th, 2025, For Leslee

The plan was hatched with the meticulous detail only children with too much time could devise.

The summer sun, a relentless golden fist, beat down on Elm Street. Tar bubbled on the asphalt, and the air shimmered above the cracked sidewalks. This was when the only air conditioning most houses boasted was an open window and a strategically placed box fan. And outside, amidst that glorious, shimmering heat, lived the children of Elm Street.

From the shade of Mrs. Gable’s colossal oak, where I often found myself contemplating the profound mysteries of clouds and neighbourhood gossip, I watched them. They were a united crew, bound by the unspoken rules of childhood and proximity. Mikey, the self-appointed general of all outdoor endeavours, was perpetually sporting a scraped knee and a glint in his eye that promised adventure or imminent disaster. Jenny, the quiet one, usually had her nose in a book, but when she joined the fray, it was with a surprising strategic mind. Sammy, bless his heart, was the designated comic relief, a walking, tripping, accidental-slapstick machine. And then there was Little Timmy, the youngest, a human exclamation point of boundless energy and even more boundless naiveté, whose primary function was often to get lost or blurt out secrets at the most inopportune moments.

It began, as most summer Thursdays do. Did, with Mikey declaring, with the gravitas of a seasoned explorer charting unknown territories, “I’m bored.”

Jenny, perched on a wobbly tree branch, looked up from The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. “You know what Mom says,” she recited without looking, “You better find something to do before I find it for you.”

Sammy, attempting to scale the oak and failing spectacularly, ended up in a heap of dusty grass. “I heard that means scrubbing the baseboards,” he mumbled, picking a twig from his hair. “Again.”

A collective shudder ran through the small gathering. Staying inside wasn’t a treat; it was a punishment. The hose, gushing icy salvation, was their water fountain. And as for “something to do,” their imaginations, fueled by sugar and limitless daylight, were about to conjure something truly magnificent.

“We need a project,” Mikey announced, surveying his troops with a determined glint in his eye. “A grand undertaking. Something that will… acquire us a dollar.” A dollar. The very word hung in the humid air like a sacred promise. A dollar meant a paper bag, crinkling with the glorious weight of a dozen bubble gum cigars, candy cigarettes (which they meticulously puffed on with serious faces), and enough penny candy to induce a week-long sugar high.

“A lemonade stand?” Jenny suggested, ever the practical one.

Mikey scoffed. “Too slow. Too much squeezing. We need a product. Something already… available.” He fixed his gaze across the street, on Mrs. Gable’s front yard, specifically her legendary berry bush. Mrs. Gable, a woman whose stern expression could curdle milk from a distance, nurtured that bush like it was her firstborn. Its berries were plump, glistening, twilight colour, rumoured to be the sweetest in the county.

“The Great Berry Heist!” Mikey whispered, his eyes gleaming. “We make a pie. A gourmet pie. And we sell it for, like, five dollars!”

Sammy gasped. “Five dollars? We could buy the whole candy aisle!”

Jenny, ever the realist, pulled thoughtfully on a braid. “Mrs. Gable’s got that dachshund, Muffin. And she’s always out there, watering or pruning.”

“Muffin’s a pipsqueak!” Mikey countered. “And Mrs. Gable’s got a routine. She watches her soaps at 2 PM. That’s our window.”

The plan was hatched with the meticulous detail only children with too much time could devise. They would shed their “good clothes” for play clothes—Mikey’s faded T-shirt, Sammy’s perpetually grass-stained shorts, Jenny’s hand-me-down denim overalls. Little Timmy, already in his grubbiest, was assigned “lookout.”

“You just stand here,” Mikey instructed, pointing to a strategic spot near a fire hydrant, “if you see Mrs. Gable, you yell! Loud!”

Timmy nodded, solemn as a sentinel, then promptly got distracted by a shiny beetle.

Their “equipment” was rudimentary, but their resourcefulness was boundless: a rusty bucket for the berries, a discarded broom handle for leverage, and a walkie-talkie system made of two tin cans connected by a string, which predictably, only transmitted garbled static.

At precisely 2:05 PM, with the sun still intent on baking the planet, Mikey, bucket clutched in hand, gave the signal. “Operation Berry Blastoff! Go!”

Consulting an imaginary map, Jenny pointed to the berry bush’s left flank. “Sammy, you create a diversion on the right. A… a clumsy one.”

Sammy didn’t need coaching. He stumbled over his feet, sending a decorative garden gnome tumbling, which knocked over Mrs. Gable’s prize-winning birdbath with a surprisingly loud splash. This was the distraction, but not for Mrs. Gable. It was for Muffin, the miniature dachshund, who emerged from beneath the porch with a bark that belied his size, a yapping, fury-fueled missile aimed straight at Sammy’s shins.

“Argh! Dog! Dog!” Sammy screeched, flailing his arms and tripping backward into Mrs. Gable’s meticulously cultivated rose bush. Thorns snagged his shorts, and he began a series of high-pitched yelps.

Mikey, meanwhile, darted for the berry bush, scooping fat berries into his bucket with urgent precision. Jenny, ever the pragmatic strategist, was already calculating the yield. “We’ll need at least three more buckets for a five-dollar pie!”

But then, the world stopped. A shadow fell over the berry bush. The distinct creak of a screen door. And then, the voice.

“Children,” Mrs. Gable said, her tone as dry and unyielding as a well-worn leather belt. She stood on her porch, a watering can, inexplicably, in her hand. Her “look”—that singular, piercing gaze that promised swift and undeniable consequences—was enough.

Mikey froze mid-scoop, with a purple stain on his thumb. Jenny’s calculations vanished. Sammy, tangled in the rose bush, whimpered. Finally shaken from his beetle-watching reverie by the commotion, Little Timmy pointed a finger. “Uh oh!” he yelled, far louder than he’d been instructed to for the “Mrs. Gable approaching” alert.

Mrs. Gable sighed. A deep, world-weary sigh that could deflate a hot air balloon. “You kids,” she said, her eyes sweeping over the scene: the half-stolen berries, the miffed dachshund, the birdbath askew, the boy stuck in the roses. “You want berries? Ask. And maybe,” she added, a hint of a twinkle in her eye, “help me weed this patch. And then we’ll make a pie. My way.”

The Great Berry Heist had failed. Spectacularly. But the punishment wasn’t a belt or a switch. It was an afternoon of weeding under Mrs. Gable’s watchful eye, learning the difference between a dandelion and a daisy, and then, the unexpected reward: warm, fragrant berry pie, fresh from her oven, eaten with their fingers on her back porch, Muffin curled contentedly at her feet.

They didn’t get their dollar for the candy store that day. But as the streetlights buzzed on, casting long, familiar shadows, and they sped home on their bikes, legs burning, cheeks hurting from laughing about Sammy’s thorny adventure, they knew they’d gotten something far better. They were tired, covered in dirt and berry juice, and completely free. That was childhood. Not curated, not connected, and just lived. And sometimes, delicious.

Cowboy Corner: The Badger and the Bee

July 17, 2025

One day in the forest a bee was buzzing about from flower to flower when it came upon a badger. The badger had a very sad face and seemed unhappy, so the bee said, “Why hello! How are you on this fine day?” Suddenly the badger burst into tears. “Actually, I’m very sad – you see, none of the other forest creatures like me – it’s because I have short stumpy legs and long claws and big teeth…they won’t talk to me at all and run away at the mere sight of me, and I always feel very very lonely. The bee thought for a moment and knew just what to say, for bees are very wise. “Why that’s not it at all”, said the bee, “In fact, I have a feeling I know why the other creatures don’t want to be your friend”. The badger stopped crying for a moment and looked at the bee and said, “Really? Well…what is it then?” And the bee said, “It’s because you’re an insufferable asshole on social media. The vast majority of us just want to go on the groups to see nice things and get information about people and events and there you are hijacking posts and yammering on about politics and climate change and nuclear fucking war all the time. You speak with great authority on topics you know very little about, and when someone calls you out on your bullshit, rather than apologize and self-reflect, you double down. Then you’re actually surprised that others have a negative reaction to your uninvited input and unpleasant personality. If it’s really happiness you seek, perhaps turning your life into an attention whoring minstrel show of smug self importance, snide remarks, and abject condescension probably isn’t the best move”. Then off he flew

Letter to the Editor – Deborah McCall

July 17, 2025

Excerpts from last week’s (July 10th/Issue #1692) Open Letter to Sam Borthwick and David Graham

“Many community members are calling for more proactive mandates to protect this island from further forest and habitat loss. A new advocacy group called The Friends of the Gulf Islands is pressuring the Islands Trust to implement stricter guardrails on development that impact the natural world. Private property owners across this Island, (and all the Gulf Islands) are “legally” clear cutting, and cutting trees on slopes close to sensitive riparian zones which eventually affect water tables, destroy essential wind and storm breaks, cause soil erosion, habitat loss and contribute to local climate instability.

We appreciate the energy and time that you give to your responsibilities as Trustees. With a strong committed community behind you, Denman Island can be an unflinching leader in environmental protection. We must act now to bring in stricter bylaws and regulations to protect forests and trees on private property, as well as send a clear message that Gulf Islands are not suitable venues for land speculators and developers”

The following community members have added their names in support of the Open Letter.

Brad Hornick, Heather Mclean, Rosa Telegus, Sandy Schafer, Eileen O’Brien, and Denman Islanders For Climate Action and Social Justice (DICASJ)

Trucks

July 17, 2025

Will Carney’s serious loosening of regulations on big business really set up Canada for the rest of the 21^st Century? Or will it push us back to the point when we ignored the environment except to create National Parks? Is he more inline with the disastrous rhetoric of Danielle Smith or will he recognize that what she asks for is based upon environmental denial? And are Canadians ready to forget environmental degradation in order to build an even more destructive standard of living? A ‘canary in a coal mine’ is a warning of danger. For a measure of social belief in climate change danger my ‘canary’ is the truck.

In 2024 Canadians purchased 1,918,861 new vehicles of which 1,671,656 were classified as ‘trucks’ and 247,205 classified as ‘passenger cars’. This represents a continuing decline in passenger car sales, so much so that Ford around 2019 stopped North American manufacture of all passenger cars except for the Mustang—if you believe that’s a family car. And no one asks why; they assume we individually decided we really, really want trucks. But that’s not why cars are no longer popular. The reason is one that Terry O’Reilly on the CBC’s Under the Influence answers every week, you are a willing victim of advertising. Now I, like everyone, else know for certain that I am never influenced by advertising but the evidence of such influence, as Terry demonstrates every week, is overwhelming whether we admit it or not. But why trucks? Well, back in the 70’s and 80’s when the Germans and Japanese demonstrated how to build better cars and complaints about shoddy American workmanship were rife, our car manufacturers, GM, Ford and Chrysler of the time, could have decided to compete as their free market beliefs demanded. But they didn’t. They saw an interfering government attempting to set safety and emission standards which would add to the cost of construction and they saw Ralph Nader attacking their products and policies. So they reached for a vehicle they could make that would be too costly for foreigners to manufacture—the truck. Why the truck? Because back in 1964 in retaliation for European tariffs on the importation of American chickens Lyndon Johnson passed a 25% tariff on pickup trucks built outside of North America, about 10 times higher than any then current American tariff and a tariff still in effect that quite possibly was inspiration for Trump’s weapon. Then in the 70’s the Corporate Average Fuel Economy (CAFE) emissions standards were passed but gave business a break with lower standards for pickups, now renamed as Light Trucks, which it was argued, were largely used by commercial owners. The lower standards meant lower costs and bigger profits on trucks than passenger cars; a GM exec estimated a decade ago that the average profit on a car was around 7% whereas profit on a truck could be as high as 35%.

And so the light dawned. If all vehicles are classified as Light Trucks our costs go down and our profits go up. Today Ford, GM and Ram account for 90% or more of current pickup sales, proving the wisdom of eschewing real competition by using the government to keep foreigners out of our market—an early example of MAGA. Canada, of course, harmonized with the U.S. standards. Pickups, crew cabs, SUVs, Crossovers, and vans; manufacturers classified them all as Light Trucks and then sold them to you by excluding the moderately more virtuous passenger cars from their advertising, presenting trucks as able to traverse any landscape—particularly one without any other vehicles in it—and shouting about the impossibility of electric vehicles matching the convenience of gas powered ones. What you don’t see, you won’t buy. Of total truck sales 68% are now purchased as passenger vehicles; trucks are now used to bring the children to school, to do the shopping at the mall, to take you to visit with friends which are all activities perfectly serviced by a passenger car or a station wagon. The box out behind the crew cab remains empty most of the time but every once in a while you will dump a bunch of camp chairs, paddle boards, blow up floating gadgets, coolers, bicycles into the back of your half, three-quarter, or full ton and bring it all to Denman and Hornby for a fun week.

Équiterre is a Quebec based, sustainable farm management non-profit with over 100 farms under its direction. Is is certified by both the Quebec and Federal governments to conduct energy audits and has a staff to do so. In a comprehensive report published in 2021 it was noted that between 2009 and 2018 greenhouse gas emissions (GHG) from light trucks rose 156% adding a 20.9% increase in emissions for all vehicles. They further note that there has been a decided increase in the average size of all vehicles; 25% in mass, wheelbase up 7.4%, length up 5%. And as to the classification of vehicles that is left entirely up to the manufactures and is a byzantine morass. A much smaller Hyndai Kona with significantly better efficiency measures is in the same category as a Lincoln Navigator—as of 2025 the curb weights of these two respectively are 3340 lbs and 6045 lbs. In conjunction with the Suzuki Foundation Équiterre’s latest report for 2024-25 states: ‘Between 2010 and 2022, the average per vehicle fuel consumption in Canada was reduced because of improvements in engine efficiency. But unfortunately, more than 80% of this reduction in average fuel consumption has been cancelled out by the increasing size of the vehicles on our roads across the country. . .’ Even when the engineers succeed the consumer isn’t buying.

And what to canaries have to do with it? Just as the coal mine canary announces danger for humans when it keels over, the massive increase in truck sales indicates danger for humans when it helps the climate keel over. Truckers may well agree that Danielle Steele gets a few things right as she continues to increase the venting of CO2 and announces the ever-coming carbon neutral production of her favourite resource. But she completely ignores the very real dinosaur in the room, to what use customers put her Alberta oil. But that’s not Danielle’s problem; it is a problem for the buyers of trucks who obviously are paying little attention to it while their dollars flow back to the corporations in the Alberta oil patch.

Don’t Take Instruction On How To Live Your Life From A Stark Raving Mad Society

July 17, 2025

CAITLIN JOHNSTONE

JUL 12, 2025

Listen to a reading of this article (reading by Tim Foley):

Don’t take instruction on how to live your life from a stark raving mad society.

This civilization is sick. It is genocidal. It is ecocidal. It is omnicidal. We are ruled by psychopaths, while the best among us are relegated to the fringes of the fringe. We are hurtling into totalitarianism and armageddon at breakneck pace while our attention is aggressively pulled toward the vapid and the inane.

You should share none of the values and priorities of this freak show. You should not let any aspect of this dystopia inform your decisions regarding who you should be and what kind of life you should live.

In this warped and twisted madhouse, we are trained to believe that “success” looks like making a lot of money, earning large amounts of esteem and adoration, having a certain body type, living in the right kind of neighborhood in the right kind of house full of the right kind of products to impress the right kind of people. We are trained to believe we need to rack up all kinds of accomplishments, academic achievements, promotions, impressive stories, social ascendence. We are trained to believe we must attract a certain type of partner who will be approved of by everyone whose approval we crave.

If we cannot achieve these goals, we are trained to believe we should feel bad about ourselves. That we don’t deserve happiness. That we should either spend our time stressing and striving for worthiness as defined by our crazy civilization, or go and join the ocean of miserable failures who couldn’t win the capitalism game and sedate ourselves with alcohol and entertainment waiting for death to carry us into the nothingness where we belong.

This is clearly insane. It’s a stupid game with stupid prizes. The only reason anyone takes it seriously is because we were raised and taught how to live by other people who take it seriously. Our parents have been indoctrinated into the power-serving worldview that has been forcibly imposed upon the denizens of the empire, and we want to make them proud. Our friends, families and acquaintances have been likewise brainwashed, and we want to impress them.

But to do so is to take lessons on how to live from a collective disease that is pointed at misery and dysfunction. It is impossible to lead a truly fulfilling life while also trying to live the way the people around us think we should live, because the society which shaped their ideas about how we should live is insane.

If you want to really live an awake and inspired life, you’ve got to blaze your own trail. You’ve got to unlearn everything you’ve been told about what a life properly lived would look like, and write your own rules. Because the rules everyone else has been playing by were written by madmen.

Find your own truth. Set your own values and priorities. Define your own idea of success. Define your own idea of sanity. Consider the possibility that just being present for the beauty of each moment on this wonderful planet is worth more than anything the imperial insane asylum has to offer you. Consider the possibility that your very next breath, deeply relished, would be enough.

We are destroying our planet and driving every living organism toward annihilation. The status quo has failed as spectacularly as anything could possibly fail. The old ways of doing things plainly do not work. So try some new ways.

Be different. Be strange. Be a freak. Do everything the wrong way. Disappoint your parents. Fail to live up to your potential. Transgress your family doctrine. Anger whatever gods you were taught to believe in. Nothing anyone has done has worked. It is therefore necessary to travel off the beaten path.

The world won’t get better until humanity changes its ways. Humanity won’t change its ways if it keeps insisting on trying the same failed approaches over and over again. Our survival as a species depends on diverging from our patterns.

Maybe we’ll succeed in surviving, and maybe we won’t. But at the very least we can rescue ourselves from spending one more day on this amazing blue world trying to live by the rules of lunatics.

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