The Comment Factory

Earlier today, I tuned into The Business Network on telly. They presented a good piece of journalism about the financial crisis the world is facing today. Donald Trump recently stated that “…We’re in a depression, it’s just that it’s being glossed over…”. Mr. Trump, I haven’t always liked you but I agree that you are a smart financier and have demonstrated the power of money. In addition, The Business Network presented a segment about the United Kindom’s and the present state of its finances. I was shocked to be remined that Great Britain is the worst off in Europe and probably the worst of the Western world.

I began to think about many things. How secure are my finances? How long can I survive (as opposed to ‘live’) on what I have? What do I have to do to ensure that I can feed myself, feed my dog, maintain our health and keep a roof over our head?

Much of what I learned about surviving tough times, I learned through my mother. She was born at the time of the Great Depression; she grew up in rural Québec in the now defunct county of Laviolette with eight siblings. Work was scarce; her father worked in a lumber mill in Rouyn, hundreds of miles away. Her mother, my grandma, was both cook and dress-maker, doing the best she could to feed her children and keep a roof over their heads along with the money she received from my grandfather. While my grandma was alive (we always referred to her as ‘Ma’ in French; she was the matriarch of the family) I observed her in the kitchen and what she did. When she was too old to cook, her rocking chair was by the wood stove in my aunt’s home.

My mum taught me how to light a wood stove, how to clean it and how to cook on it. I yearn for toast made right on the stove-top. A wad of newspaper will modestly clean the surface. The stove my great-Aunt Berthe had was the biggest wood stove I’ve ever seen. It had a forty-gallon water-tank on the side so there was always hot water when the stove was in use. It was a beautiful peice of craftsmanship that speaks of a time long past. Most of the classic French-Canadian cuisine I know today, including ’survival’ cooking, my mum taught me, much of it on that wood stove in my great-Aunt’s home. She taught me how to take next to nothing and turn it into a feast. While so many young people today would cringe at the thought of using ordinary bologna as the basis for a meal, I learned how to make a delicious ‘ragôut’ using it and a few vegetables. To simplify, how to survive in difficult times.

I also thought about what would I do if I found myself along with thousands of others if suddenly we were displaced and lost everything that we take for granted in Canada.

I live in the neighbourhood I was born in and grew up in; It’s changed a lot. The street-car tracks on Church Street have been buried under almost a half-century of resurfacing, although on a hot summer day you can still see the effects of the steel rails resisting the asphalt above. The Sheard House is long gone. Maple Leaf Gardens is a ghost of it’s former self. Church Street Public School has undergone extensive additions. Dudley’s Hardware is sort of what it once was. Novaks Drug Store is kind of the same. The tumbled-down houses are mostly gone, although the “centre of the universe’ at Church/Wellesley still has vestiges of it’s working-class past. The faces of the people who live down here have changed – a lot.

Not far from my home are two grocery stores. They are not the big supermarket chains; rather, Pusateri’s is a small shop that offers a wonderful choice of fresh produce and items from the refrigerator case; some of the selection is quite pricey, albeit what I would call ’specialty’ items. Super Fresh-mart is a slightly bigger shop that has a choice of produce, dairy and grocery items. They too offer pricier specialty items.

I went into Super-Fresh earlier tonight to purchase a few things (Pusateri’s was closed); bananas, tinned sardines for my dog, a bag of spinach. I had about seven items. In front of me at the check-out counter were two young women; pretty and quite representative of todays young adults in their early 20’s. It was a very cold night and they were dressed in smart coats, mitts, hats. One of them was talking non-stop about something I really didn’t pay attention to. The cashier announced their total; forty-some-odd dollars. The woman doing the talking, she stopped; looked at the items waiting to be bagged up, “WHAT?” The other woman exclaimed “Oh my God!” The cashier picked up two bars of chocolate and said, “Your chocolate bars are over five dollars a piece” (I looked at them and they were wrapped up in rather expensive looking outer-packaging) and this is over ten dollars (“this” was some sort of drop-it-in-the-toaster pastry). Now, I find Super-Fresh to be a good shop for something you need or for something like bananas or whatever, but I know for a fact that a bottle of the laundry detergent I use is about three dollars more than I pay for it at Food Basics. The young woman, bank card in hand, said, ‘Oh, ok I didn’t know the price on the chocolate’; the boxed pastry seemed to not matter. They finished their transaction, continuing to gab away, seemingly oblivious to the cost.

I’m not rich. I’m also not having to walk Church Street or Yonge Street with a used paper coffee cup in my hand, looking for a hand-out of spare change (do people still have spare change?) But it wouldn’t matter if I had Donald Trump’s money; I still go to the supermarket with a slip of paper and a pen and keep a loose running tally of what I’m spending. If I spot a loonie on the side-walk, I pick it up. Sometimes a quarter. Like I said, I’m not (yet) worried about where my next dollar is coming from. But, I also work hard for my money and know that it doesn’t grow on trees. Sometimes the quarter I pick up I give out to the man on the corner asking for change. I guess it’s just a quirk of my personality.

Back to the two women in the shop. I really thought about that. Five bucks a bar for chocolate isn’t cheap. Neither is ten bucks for a box of six throw-it-in-the-toaster pastries. I’ll ask my readers to put this into the context of job losses and unemployment and Great Britain being in serious financial trouble. Canada, considered the best off finacially of the G-8, is having to tighten it’s belt. My home province of Ontario was issued a warning by our Premier very recently that we’re going into debt to try to keep Ontario working.

I cannot help but wonder what will happen to those two women if they suddenly find themselves out of work or if the entire financial system collapses. A five dollar bar of chocolate might convert into five dollars worth of produce and meats from the supermarket’s ‘reduced’ rack so that they can survive – not live. I wonder if they know how to cook ‘reduced’? Or if they even know how to cook?

I’m not being cynical towards them. They seemed quite nice women. I think they represent a growing segment of the Canadian population. In my community, I am part of a very small — VERY small — group of men in their fifties. Almost all of my generation was wiped out by AIDS. There is a big gap between twenty/thirty-somethings and mid-late fifties to older. I’ve been blessed with survival, to witness what will happen and how will this all play out in the end. “Competition” may become a serious reality for food, water, clothing, shelter. I don’t know the answer to this but I don’t see the ominous clouds clearing any time soon.

I was horrified to discover that ‘bail-out’ money was consumed by greedy executives in the corporate world. The taxpayer is bled dry to support the corporate will. I make my living in an honest way through honest means. I have a skill based on the premise that people have to eat. What they eat is determined by the times. In tough times, people go back to basics; my popular marinated wild BC salmon is replaced with orders for basics like beef stew.

The corporate executives and those two women in the Super-fresh are worlds apart but I see something in common. They haven’t heard the warning bells that are going off all around us.

On the way home from the store, I found a twenty-five cent peice. “Good” I thought to myself; now I have an even five dollars in cash which is enough to pay for a three litre bag of milk. While I have currency on deposit in the bank, I still use cash in my pocket.

Cash, it would seem, might soon be like those street-car rails buried under layers of asphalt.