I don't even know where my great-grandfather Thomas O'Hara was born in Ireland or exactly when he arrived in Canada. He was married in Ottawa (then Bytown), Ontario November 6, 1843 at the age of 25. So he possibly arrived about 1839, in time to escape the Irish Potato Famine. It would be nice to know something of his trip up the Ottawa River from Montréal or did he come via the Rideau Canal? And what about his experiences as a pioneer in the Ottawa Valley? I can infer something of how he prospered by reading his will. Thomas O'Hara's descendents are all across North America as are the descendents of my mother's side of the family.

Maybe in years to come someone related to me will wonder what my life was like, spanning most of the 20th century and into the 21st. As a matter of fact, there probably are things about my life that I have not considered important enough to tell my own children. So, in case it is of interest to anyone, here are some of the highlights.

I was born in a mining town called Silver Centre, about 35 miles from Cobalt in Northern Ontario. My mother said the log house had cracks that the Winter wind whistled through. In the mid 1960's I went on a camping trip with my family to that region and tried to find the town. I found the general vicinity and there were still signs of a mine but the bush had grown up and I could not find where the town had been. It gives a person a sense of his impermanence!

My father worked for my mother's brother and his wife who owned a wholesale and retail grocery business in Silver Centre. My uncle's name was Hubert Brennan. He must have been proud of his name, judging by the sign on the roof of their store.

My parents moved further north and opened a grocery store in a place with the unlikely name of Swastika. My first memories are from there.

This is me aged 2      

Unfortunately, my father was too kind hearted with credit when the Great Depression of the 30's hit. He lost the store and was lucky enough to get a job working five miles away at the Lake Shore Mine in Kirkland Lake . Lucky is a relative word. I can remember my mother pounding my father's back to get the muscles to relax. He was not used to "mucking" which is what they called shovelling rock underground in the dark and dampness for an eight hour shift in a gold mine. He peddled a bike back and forth the five miles to work. Imagine that in the freezing cold of a Northern Ontario Winter. He liked to write poetry but there is nothing from that period.

In the middle of the village, next to the railway station was a very small garden in the middle of what might have been called a traffic circle, had there been enough traffic to warrant it. In the centre of the little park (about five yards square) was a flag pole with the Union Jack flying. Of course, at that time Canada did not have a flag of our own. We were all British subjects. The station master who happened to have been born in Germany liked flowers and had time to spare so he thoughtfully created a very attractive swastika of flowers, with the flag pole exactly in the middle. Very attractive to the train passengers and the townspeople. No one thought anything of this before 1939 and when the war came along no one could tell the station master to change the design and if he did it would have appeared that he actually had Nazi sympathies. The paradox continued well into the war when they changed the name of the town to Winston. The garden was not nearly so interesting after that. After the war the name Swastika was re-instituted but not the flower garden.

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Connecting the Dots at Clear Lake Camp, @ 1937

Even well into my 80's, I'm still learning and some of the lessons still have an element of surprise. Why didn't I see or understand this years ago? For example, I attended a barbecue at my niece's country home. Wandering through the crowd of relatives and friends was a very large dog, a breed I'd never seen before. My brother, Jack, identified it as a Zimbabwean Razorback. "In Africa, the Razorback is used to hunt tigers and, as a result, is bred to be utterly fearless," he said. This Razorback looked docile and behaved with total calm and serenity. "That," Jack pointed out, "is because it has no fear. Haven't you noticed how small dogs make lots of noise to pretend they aren't afraid?" It's so obvious. Why had I never connected those dots?

It reminded me about something that happened when I was about 9 years old. It was in the Dirty Thirties. Most people were poverty stricken, and my family was no exception. We lived a very basic life in the mining town of Kirkland Lake in Northern Ontario. But that summer, my father came into a bit of money, I think by selling some gold mining claims. My parents used some of this windfall to send my 6-year-old brother Brian and me to a summer camp for boys near Ottawa. Bill and Tom, two of our Ottawa cousins, joined us. (That's Bill in the middle and Tom to his left in a photo taken several years before.) It was an exciting adventure in the South for two boys from the North.

Brian and I had already done lots of camping, but it was wilderness camping with a prospector's tent, fishing, berry picking, canoeing, swimming, learning how not to get lost in the bush, and how to withdraw safely from unexpected encounters with bears. Mother took my three younger brothers and me to a lake and deposited us for the summer. Dad joined us on Sundays; he worked six days a week.

This camp was entirely different, partly because the activities were organized for groups and supervised by adults and partly because the dynamics of groups are so different from being on your own in the bush. Brian and I enjoyed this one-time-only treat and remembered the highlights for many years.

One thing I didn't remember at all was what happened during the first few minutes after we arrived. It was my cousin Bill, some 30 years' later, who asked me whether I remembered beating up the camp bully who tackled me as soon as I got off the bus. Why he chose me, I have no idea. Maybe it was because I was the tallest and skinniest of the new group and he needed to prove his superiority. He couldn't know my father had taught me how to handle bullies, when I was just seven and harassed by bigger, meaner boys on the way home from school. The key is to drive a fist into the solar plexus hard enough to reach the backbone or as close to it as you can get. Then, as the bully bends over gasping for breath, bring your knee up under the chin hard enough to try to lift that bully right off the ground. Then, and this is important, look around and ask calmly, "Who's next?"

I didn't remember the incident at the camp at all. For a kid from the North, it was no big thing. But I did remember what happened when I reached the cabin where I'd been assigned. There were six double bunk beds and all the most desirable top bunks were already spoken for. Disappointed, I said to myself, "Gee, I've never slept in a top bunk." Six boys jumped down and urged me to take theirs. "What a congenial bunch," I thought, or words to that effect. They certainly were more polite and thoughtful than the kids in Kirkland Lake.

I chose one of those nice top bunks and settled in. It wasn't until lights out that I discovered why everyone wanted a top bunk. It was so the occupants could spit down on the luckless inhabitants of the lower bunks. I thought this was pretty gross and said so. The spitting stopped immediately. For good.

It wasn't until last week-end when, thanks to Jack, I finally connected the dots. And now that I think of it my father's lesson stood me in good stead, literally and figuratively, at many times in my life. It is a matter of inner confidence. When you know you can take care of yourself, when you are confident of your abilities, you don't need to huff and puff and brag and bark. You will meet life's challenges with quiet effect. Once in a while, though, a braggart or bully will buck the odds, and you'll find yourself dealing with the situation without even having to think about what to do. It's sort of like the magic of compound interest only better because no one can take it away from you. Once you have it, it's yours for life.

1944

In 1955, I volunteered to speak to school students about my time in the navy. The Memory Project, with whom I volunteered, asked me to submit a short article. Here it is.

Marching as to War

World War II taught me some vivid, lasting life lessons and brought me face to face with fear and mob rule.

In 1939, I was living in Kirkland Lake, Ontario, a 13-year-old who sometimes had trouble collecting from customers to whom I delivered The Globe and Mail. One owed me for six weeks' worth. When I saw him marching off to war with 100 or so other recruits, I gave chase, hoping to embarrass him into paying me. He promised to send me the money, but he never did. Only now do I understand how financially desperate he must have been to stiff a kid for $1.08.

As soon as I turned 18, now living in Brantford, I enlisted in the Navy, hoping to transfer into the Fleet Air Arm. (I desperately wanted to fly as my father had during World War I, but the Air Force had enough pilots.) I still remember the look of pride mixed with deep concern on my father's face and my mother's shock and tears when I announced the news.

Two weeks into basic training in Montreal, Quebec, we raw recruits were roosted from our bunks, issued bayonets in scabbards, warned the weapons were just for show, loaded into open trucks, and sent to quell a riot at a Dorval dance hall.

As we arrived, the sailors poured into the dance hall. I stood to one side hoping to stay out of trouble, but one zoot suiter armed with a knife came straight for me. I managed to disarm him, then let him go. He and others tried to escape by climbing into the exposed rafters but were pursued by sailors who knocked the zoot suiters to the floor, then jumped on them. I can still hear the crunch of bones breaking.

Not yet satisfied, the sailors stripped the zoot suiters and forced them to run naked in the snow through the gauntlet of the crowd now gathered outside.

I picked up a wallet abandoned by a zoot suiter. Inside were his discharge papers. He'd been wounded overseas. Some coward….

After basic training, I took a five-month signals course in St. Hyacinthe, east of Montreal. I'd opted for it to get as far as possible from something I really disliked-the noise of big guns. I learned how to send Morse code using a lamp, semaphore with hand-held flags, and flag combinations run up a mast.

As soon as I graduated, I was sent to Halifax, Nova Scotia, to await a ship. The day I arrived, a Canadian frigate was torpedoed just outside the harbour. Every available vessel was dispatched to sink the German submarine and save our sailors. Our ships needed to maintain a certain speed to avoid being torpedoed themselves. They couldn't slow down, but they could throw rescue ropes. Later, a would-be rescuer told me they could see and hear sailors calling for help, but the water was so cold, they soon lost the strength to hold on to the ropes. None survived.

A few weeks later, the War ended and the German submarine surfaced. Its crew surrendered and the submarine was conducted to the Halifax dockyard. It felt very strange to stand beside this deadly thing.

On VE (Victory in Europe) Day, Halifax erupted in a riot, thanks to the Navy brass decision to close the dockyard beer hall. The celebrating sailors, already inebriated, poured into the streets, commandeered a streetcar, smashed its wooden seats, and sent the car off the tracks. Energized by this act of vandalism, the sailors continued on foot, heading downtown. Curious, I followed.

Soon, the mob found a liquor store, helped themselves, and continued their quest for who knows what. Civilians joined them. When the crowd reached Eaton's, someone used a large pole as a battering ram to smash the department store's windows. The sailors seemed more interested in the act of destruction than theft, but I saw many civilians carrying armloads of clothes and filling cars with furniture. It was an ugly scene.

Why didn't I try to stop the mob? In retrospect, I decided it wasn't fear that held me back; I just didn't know what to do. Next time, I decided, I would do something.

Recently, I had an opportunity to act on my resolve. I saw a very big man beating a very slight woman on a side street in Toronto where I now live. A small crowd had gathered to watch. As I approached, I shouted, "Call the police!" The man fled and the woman was able to escape. Doing something, even if it seems very little can make a difference. Thanks to my time in the Navy, I learned this life lesson early. I'm grateful.

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1948

I took advantage of the government's re-establishment credits for ex-service personnel to go to university. I graduated with a BA from the University of Toronto. Looking back, it is difficult to believe I was so "wet behind the ears". I didn't give much thought to what I might do as a career and there were no guidance counsellors in those days. I sure could have benefited from some advice. Well, eventually, things worked out not too badly but it took a number of jumps before I landed on my feet.

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A letter from my father from his death bed, 1955

As I write this segment, the date is January 31, 2003. Last weekend I had my two daughters (Lyn and Kathryn,) to my place for dinner. The occasion was a visit from Lyn who now lives in Sedona, Arizona. She came to Toronto to see her brother Andrew who is in a palliative care hospital, dying of cancer. These are emotional times. I was reminded of a letter I received from my father at another emotional time. I received the letter the day after I got news of his death. The letter gives a good idea of who my father was. It was difficult maintaining my composure as I read it to Lyn and Kathy.

The Ottawa General Hospital
Bengere St.
Ottawa, Ontario, December 17-55

(He died on December 26th)

Dear Austra & Frank:

I have long neglected writing to you and am sorry such is the case but believe me I have often thought of you and wished you well.

I have had a bit of a slow down with my heart which, if I thought of it at all, deemed indestructible. But things proved otherwise and now I am confined to bed and will probably be here until after Christmas. It is not very seriously impaired and the Dr. says if I take it easy it will last for years. But I will probably have to have absolute quiet for about a month. I had electrocardiographs. The first showed it was injured and the second will tell if it is healing or not. I have had no pain since it first hit me.

Gerry has been accepted into the RCMP and will leave for Regina in the 28th inst. I am glad for his sake, although we will miss him but it has been his goal ever since he was ten years of age. One must let everyone live his own life I suppose.

Alma was here this afternoon and she said you were coming here around the first of January. We will be so pleased to see you and our grandchildren. I hear Lyn has turned into a little beauty and Tommy is a quite a boy now. It is very nice for you to have a very nice home to raise them in. Alma tells me it is very nice. We will look forward to your arrival.

Jack is coming home around the 1st of Jan. for two weeks and you will probably be here at the same time. Jack is a good raconteur and he will probably have some amazing stories to tell, some true and some out of pure wool. It is hard to tell whether the colored threads are true or straight off the sheep's back. They make us enjoy the picture true of not and I am looking forward to his arrival. He used to get a great kick out of some story he would tell his mother just to get her going and she would wind it all up by saying, "Oh you darned fool."

I have made a lot of starts on poetry and finished a few. I see the picture I want to paint but it is awfully difficult to pick the right words to paint it. I can understand that no poet or painter or artist is satisfied with his work. Only Divine aid could inspire the great poems, music and paintings which the centuries produced. For instance I can see a mist rising over a falls to disappear and reappear in a cloud which the wind blows to some parched place and starts a new growth. In my mind I can see a kind deed doing the same thing for universal benefit. Or love given to one, spreading out like the mist to disappear and come back in an unexpected place or form. Does not the happy sparkle in a child's eye put a sparkle in your own and spread out to a whole community. In the army it is called morale and where it is present men will laugh even under the most dreadful conditions. Could the crashing water coursing down its destined path sometimes calm and sometimes swiftly till it disintegrates into mist over the falls while nature roars with laughter when it rises into mist. Could this be the nature's poet telling us all about it and will I fall over my falls before I can rise in mist too? To tell the truth If I could I would. Perhaps that is why poets disappear so silently and their song is not heard until a generation or more has passed.

Perhaps this sounds despondent to you. If so it was not meant. In fact the contrary. it is just that I would love to write a poem with these thoughts in it but I think without God's help I'll never be able. Everything that exists does not have to.

Best of love,

Dad

My daughter Lynn (who now spells her name Lyn, the same way my father did, when she was learning to write her name practiced her writing on my father's letter. So she put herself in the historical record.

Click here to check out a couple of Lee O'Hara's poems.

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1990

 
This is a photo of the four O'Hara "boys", (Brian, Gerry, Frank, Jack) as the people up north called us when we visited our cabin in the bush near Kirkland Lake, Ontario. We were "boys" when we first started going up there, lo these many years ago. Weren't we a healthy looking crew in 1990? As I write this Gerry and I are still in the land of the living but we've passed the cabin and the claims on which it stands on to the next generation.

Business Career, 1953 - 1998

Following my graduation from the University of Toronto in 1948 I held a number of unsatisfactory jobs until 1953, when I joined Moore Business Forms Ltd. as a salesman. I spent some 16 years there and was quite successful as a salesman, sales supervisor and latterly a Toronto branch manager. Looking back, I realize that I left as a by-product of my marriage break-up. I joined my cousin, Tom McLaughlin, in a new enterprise that arranged to place audio visual projectors in Canadian embassies around the world. The object was to have communities, provinces, and the federal government place industrial development oriented promotional audio visual programs around the world. In a word, this was not successful.

I had had an interest in photography and with the above exposure to audio visual programs, in 1970, I launched O'Hara Management Services Ltd. In 1984, that company evolved into O'Hara Systems Inc. to produce multimedia programs (touch screen systems). We didn't set the world on fire but we did earn some international awards. This company happened to be at the very outset of the Internet. As a result, in the early 1990's we started to produce websites. So I pioneered multimedia and pioneered website development. Pioneers don't usually get as rich as the followers on. I qualified as the former.

In 1998 I decided to retire. This was an opportunity for me to 'see the world' but I didn't have the funds to do so in any kind of style. When I had O'Hara Systems Inc. I had staff who actually did the programming of websites. One opportunity to 'see the world' was as a volunteer. The Canadian Executive Service Organization (CESO) sends volunteers to developing countries. Most of the volunteers are retirees. I was probably the only one with expertise in website development. I knew about website development in general and certainly how to make good use of them but not actually how to program them. So I bought some html editing software and a graphics creation program and spent some months learning how to use them. There are several definitions of an expert. I hardly qualified as an expert but I knew more than my clients.

As you will see from the Volunteer part of this website, I did get around the world and enjoyed the process.

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2003

On a happier note.....

Marion E. Raycheba and I were married on April 2, 2003

I've had some bad luck in my life but then who hasn't. I am glad to say I've had some good fortune too. This is an outstanding example.

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2004

The Globe and Mail newspaper, celebrating its 160th anniversary on March 5th, 2004, asked anyone with something interesting to add to their annivesary issue to submit it for consideration. I wrote the following article and it was accepted.

Frank O'Hara, paper boy for The Globe and Mail, 1939

It was 1939. I had a Globe and Mail route in Kirkland Lake, Ontario. The Globe was running a promotion to sign up new subscribers, and we paperboys were invited to a motivational, kick-off dinner. Each of us was allowed to bring one guest, and I chose my brother, Brian, who, at 11, was two years younger than I.

Brian sat opposite me at the table. At some point, he committed a grievous faux pas in the etiquette department, possibly talking with his mouth full. As his older brother, I felt responsible for him. I found it necessary to draw attention to his manners with a kick under the table. Brian looked at me, his big blue eyes quivering with tears, and asked in a pitiful tone, "Frank, why are you kicking me?" I was of an age where I blushed easily. I believe I lit up the room.

In any event, I went on to win the contest for Northern Ontario but still fell short of signing up sufficient subscribers to win the canoe I craved. However, I did win two other magnificent prizes. One, a sum in cash, was sufficiently princely ($27 as I recall) for me to buy my first suit. The other was a trip to Toronto by train to visit The Globe and Mail's nerve centre on King Street, followed by a one-week, all-expenses-paid vacation at The Globe's summer camp at Port Dover on Lake Erie. I still remember the amazing image of newspapers streaming through the giant presses and the luxurious (by my standards) cabins at Port Dover. (I was used to camping in a prospector's tent in the bush.)

The Globe was put on the midnight train from Toronto, arriving in Kirkland Lake about 1 p.m. I traded with other paperboys in order to line up customers between the pick-up spot for the papers and my school. That way, I could deliver part of my route and still make it to school by the 1:30 p.m. bell. I had to walk very quickly, but I was seldom late. I was proud to overhear one of my customers brag that he could set his watch by the time his newspaper was delivered each day.

The other part of my route had to be delivered after school, which, in northern Ontario in the winter meant after dark and usually in sub zero weather. I remember coming home caked in snow to a cup of my mother’s much-appreciated hot chocolate.

I don't remember ever feeling sorry for myself. A child growing up in that environment takes it for granted. Being a Globe paperboy brought me much in addition to financial acumen and a sense of responsibility. It opened my eyes to the world because I was able to read The Globe every day.

My earnings—five cents from the 18 cents' weekly subscription price—was important income to a Depression-era boy. From the age of 12, I used it to buy my own clothes and, every once in a while, a treat. But since a chocolate bar cost five cents in those days, I always thought long and hard about the six days it took to earn five cents and the short seconds it took for the treat to disappear.

Many assume that volunteers joining the armed forces at the outbreak of World War II did it because they wanted to serve their country. I imagine that was true for many, but my sharpest memory is chasing a group of volunteers marching to the train station on the way to save Western civilization. One of them owed me for several weeks' worth of newspapers. As far as I was concerned, that was a pair of warm socks or an agonizing number of chocolate bars leaving town. Since poverty has no shame, I marched alongside my penniless customer and pestered him for payment in a loud voice. He tried to shush me by asking me to write out my name and address and promising he would send me the money. I did. He didn't.

Today, I am still an avid, daily reader of The Globe and Mail and, thanks to its informative and interesting pages, I am still learning.

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1967

Lynn 12, Andew 5, Kim 10, Kathryn 8, Tom 11

My son Andrew died while taking a nap on Sunday afternoon March 2, 2003. He had turned 42 on February 24th.

Andrew developed schizophrenia at age 19 when he was in his second year at university. He always thought he would be able to go back one day but his illness made it impossible. The last eight years or so were not too bad. He had a small apartment near the psychiatric hospital and was able to go to the hospital each morning for his medication. However, he was unable to do any work. He collected a government disability pension known as "Family Benefits". I had made arrangements for him to pick up his breakfast each morning at the hospital and get his medication at the same time. Prior to that arrangement, as is common with those with schizophrenia, he would go off his medication and end up in the hospital for about a month while they stabilized him. He went through literally dozens of boarding houses on that basis. He was a big fellow, at least 6' 2" and over 200 pounds and could look intimidating but he was actually quite gentle.

My daughter Kathryn was a great support at this time. We arranged to have Andrew's body cremated. My second wife, Jean, with her husband, Bruce Robertson were there with Kathy and me. In addition, a social worker from the mental hospital, Stephen Willoughby, who had worked with Andrew for some years came to the little ceremony. As well, two people who worked at the apartment building (assisted housing) where Andrew stayed, came along. It is wonderful that there are kind and considerate people like these who work in trying circumstances and receive little to no positive feedback. Saintly is the word that comes to my mind. There are many of these people who work on the margins of our society. Too bad we hear so much about the people who cause problems and not enough about the people who tend to the downtrodden.

We didn't have any kind of conventional ceremony. There were only seven of us in the small chapel next to the crematorium. We talked about Andy. I was reminded of him as a child. When I find it I intend to display a picture of Andy when he was about 5 years old. He was fishing on the dock of our cabin up North. His attention was riveted on the end of his fishing line. It illustrated an element of his personality that remained even through his illness. He was also very neat about his room when he was growing up and, surprisingly, his apartment showed this quality still. There were too many odds and ends but each item had its place, even the dishes in his cupboard were evenly spaced on the shelves. As a youngster Andy was a trader. He was buying and selling used cars before he was old enough to have a driver's licence. For his apartment he was continually buying used items and trading up to better ones. He had a few eccentricities. For example, in the summer he almost always wore a flower in his lapel (lifted from nearby gardens). He had about a dozen hats and always wore one; his favourite was a "Sherlock Holmes" one, which he ported along with his "Sherlock Holmes" pipe (again one among many). He wore a scarf, even in the summer time.

Afterwards we came to my apartment where we toasted Andrew, reminisced about him and shared some food.

It would be nice to believe that Andrew has moved on to a better place. He certainly earned it.

Bad news about my son Tom

Exactly a week after Andrew died I received word that Tom had Lymphoma. Tom, too, had schizophrenia since he was in his early teens. He was born in 1955. To put it mildly, he had a difficult life after his illness. However, in his latter years he was quite stable, possibly due to a new medication. He lived in a group home North of Toronto for about ten of his last years.

This is a photo of Tom at about 3 years of age

I sent the following email to Lyn and copied my other "healthy" children, Kim and Kathy, after they heard about the situation and were concerned about my well-being.

Hi Lyn,

It is a shock about Tommy. Though, I went through several states of grief many years ago, both with Tom and with Andy. It was very difficult for me to accept the fact that first Tom and then Andrew would never again be normal. I had so many hopes and dreams. I still treasure the early times. For years I kept trying to make a difference by offering suggestions, etc. The tide turned one time when I drove all the way to a place near St. Thomas (past London) to see Tommy who was in a mental institution. He had been sent to the hospital in Penatanguishene for the Criminally Mentally Ill because they have an "open door" policy in the regular mental hospitals and he kept running away. It was a horrible place. I had to appeal to the Ontario Ombudsman to get him out and the only other hospital with locked doors was at St. Thomas. When I saw him I offered some suggestion about what Tom might do. He immediately got up and left. After driving for 2 1/2 hours I had about two minutes with him and then had to drive another 2 1/2 hours back to Toronto. I had plenty of time to think. I learned, the hard way, that I had to do what I could but accept the situation for what it was - with no likelihood or hope of its changing for the better. I learned just to be with Tom and Andy when I visited. Talk was not really necessary and didn't really help. Emanations of un-spoken love did. And it helped both them and me.

It might sound cold and unfeeling to say that I don't feel much grief at this point. I am sad but more for the unlived life and the unrealized promise than for the imminent death of Tom and the recent one of Andrew, although that finality will pile another rock or two on a pile that was built rather high many years ago. At least the pile will not grow any more. But neither will it go away in a hurry, if at all. We all want to live a full life but a full life has not only happiness but tragedy. We can and should take as much delight as possible from the happy times and we have the unwelcome opportunity to grow from the tragic ones. This is a difficult period for all of us. Let's continue to support each other and keep our spirits up, while we send our love to each other and particularly to Tom.

Love,

Dad

As I write this, several months have passed and Tom is taking chemotherapy. He is losing his hair but not suffering any other ill effects. The doctors say that his condition (Non-Hodgkins Disease) is treatable. So we are hoping for the best

It is now February 2, 2004. Before Christmas, Tom appeared to have fully recovered. Fortunately, he had very few side effects from the chemo therapy, other than losing his hair. However, now the disease has re-appeared. Tom is undergoing a series of tests to determine the extent of the re-occurrence and suitable treatment. We can only hope!

June 23, 2005 - Tom died today. His non-hodgkins lymphoma came back. He had some further treatments and it looked like he was recovering inasmuch as the obvious lumps on his neck, etc. had disappeared. All of a sudden he passed out at the place where he was staying, north of Toronto. They rushed him to the hospital but he died several hours later. He came down with a massive infection. With his weakened state because of the chemo-therapy, his immune system was insufficient to fight it off.

Unconventional burials

My brothers and I inherited several patented mining claims near Kirkland Lake in Northern Ontario. It's a long drive but the fishing is good and the quiet is intense. Our cabin is tiny but we have the end of Beaverhouse Lake all to ourselves. I felt that the lake in front of the cabin was a suitable place to deposit Andrew's and Tom's ashes.

I didn't spread them but simply dropped the boxes into the water. So they rest on the bottom, until the cardboard boxes disintigrate.

This year (2006) my brother Jack surprised me with a plaque dedicated to Andy and Tom. We installed it on a rock face below the cabin and facing the water. I was touched by Jack's thoughtfulness.

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Visit to Ireland

In September, 2005 I finally visited the land of my ancestors. Marion and I had the opportunity to experience what is known in Ireland as a Caeli (pronounced Kaylee). If you'd like to see a bit of it, click here. N.B. You'll need a high speed connection or plenty of patience. Marion volunteered me to participate in a little contest. (I won the prize!)

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2006

This has been a rather special year. First of all, Marion planned and executed a marvellous party on the occasion of my attaining the "estimable" age of 80. We had a wonderful time with speeches, champagne, great food and the opportunity to entertain my brothers and their wives as well as cousins from Ottawa and Quebec City, my children Kathryn and Kim plus Lyn from Sedona, AZ and a number of friends.

Frank & Marion

The brothers: Jack, Frank, Gerry

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Arrived in Amsterdam (That's a genuine relaxed look!)

With a couple from the USA we put together a song to thank the crew on our last evening on board. Fred (the American) and I did the crooning. Click here to see it. (It is a 6 minute video and may take a while to download, depending on your Internet connection.) Return to top

2007

The MetroTones

Two other people (younger and much more professionally musical than I) and I have formed a trio. We perform at seniors' residences and such places. It's fun and the audiences enjoy our efforts. I sing, Anita Gaide plays piano and Andrew Zarins plays clarinet and saxophone. Click here to see the flyer we've developed. As of fall of 2009, we are a quartet with the addition of a second singer, Pat Huff. That evens things up with two males and two females.

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2008

Starting in January, I took upon myself the task of spearheading a movement to make a neighbourhood "desert" presentable, if not beautiful. It's in front of a police station next to our condo building. It has taken all the persistence that I practised as an entrepreneur and now looks like something good will happen. It is surprising how many facets of the municipal government can be involved in such a project. I've been in touch with all of them - so far as I know.

There are particularly good reasons for beautifying this area. Anyone taking the subway to the Art Gallery of Ontario (AGO) or Ontario College of Art and Design (OCAD) needs to walk across this "desert". It would be wonderful to have a European style plaza here with some appropriate touches of the arts.

I sent this article to a local free newspaper in the hope of lining up additional support. I took the photo from the roof of our condo building.

Well, as of the end of August 2008, we're making progress. The councillor for this ward, Adam Vaughan, has agreed to allocate development funds from a local project towards the cost of the square. Also, we have the approval of the police subject to some concerns for their security. OCAD (The Ontario College of Art & Design) one of our neighbours, has been supportive all along and have agreed to develop a design for the square and a budget. They will start to work on this in the fall. So the project, which we are tentatively calling Jane Jacobs Square, is becoming a reality. (Having heard that Beijing's Tianamen Square is the largest in the world and ours is possibly the smallest and the fact that we are on the edge of Toronto's downtown China Town I considered the name "Teenymen Square". Does that qualify me for a cornball prize?)

It's now April, 2009 and not much has happened. However, hope springs repeatedly in some people. Now another part of OCAD is involved and it looks promissing.

It's now 2010 and I'm still working away on this project. This Spring The Ontario College of Art and Design (OCAD), in response to my prodding, had a charette/contest for their graduating students to develop a design for the proposed square. Some 25 groups of students created quite attractive designs. Click here to access a number of the entries: http://www.ocad.ca/students/2010_design_comp_photo_gallery.htm

The city of Toronto has designated Dundas St. for upgrading in a serious way. 'My' project falls within their parameters. My hopes have new life. I'm to be part of a group examining various ideas. We'll see whether this is my great opportunity.

It's now 2012 and the city has promised to make the "parkette" a part of a project to beautify Dundas St. from University Ave. to Bathurst St. Time for another push.

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A visit with my daughter, Lyn, in Sedona, AZ

By 2008, Lyn had been living in Sedona with her husband, Michael, for over ten years. She has an interesting way of earning her living. She has clients in the U.S., Canada and Brazil with whom she deals over the phone. Lyn has a special capacity to relate to people's personal problems and to help them to resolve those problems. For more information on this you might like to check out her website at www.lynohara.com.

In case you are unaware of the unusual red rock formations that make Sedona such a popular place here are a few photos.

Volunteering in China

With the Olympics in China making news, I was asked by my good friend, Griff Thompson, to make a presentation at a local Kiwanis Club meeting about my work in China. With my background I couldn't simply talk about it. I had to make use of some of the video I shot in my 3 assignments (1999, 2001, 2003) and organize the facts and figures into a PowerPoint presentation.

It took a good deal of effort to organize the information; so I took the opportunity to present it at several other venues. Then I was asked to send the images of the facts and figures because many found them sufficiently interesting that they wanted to review them. Again, I couldn't leave well enough alone. The video part of my PP presentation was a rather big a file to include as an email attachment and some commentary was warranted to go with the factual images. I removed the video, added a few still photos and inserted some commentary.

If you'd like to have a look at this presentation, you can download it by clicking http://www.ohara.com/VolunteerinChina.pps If you don't have PowerPoint on your system, you'll need to download the PowerPoint Viewer. Click here. If you have only a dial-up connection, sad to say, you'd better give up now.

I graduated from the University of Toronto in 1948

Interesting how much hair is lost in 60 years
Interesting, too, how few from my class are still around!

2009

As a sort to Christmas card, I prepared a 'story' of this year's activities: vacation, voluntary work, etc. Click here to have a look.

On a not so pleasant note, my brother, Jack, died last summer. Jack was seven years younger than I. He managed with type 2 diabetes for 20 years or so. For years my three brothers and I spent a week each summer at our cabin near Kirkland Lake in Northern Ontario communing with nature, fixing up winter's depredations, playing chess and other games and even catching some fish. My brother, Brian, died some years ago and Gerry was less enthusiastic about the rustic life but Jack and I kept up the tradition by ourselves for the last ten years or so. It's a major change in my life not to take this annual excursion. My formative years were spent in Kirkland Lake. Now I'll probably not see it again. Not that there's much to see or that the cabin was anything but rustic, but it is a wrench to know that something fundamental is no longer a part of my life.

2010

The Family Council - What is it? What does it do?

For the year 2010, I was elected President of The Board of Directors of The Family Council, a not-for-profit organization funded by CAMH (The Centre for Addiction and Mental Health). The Family Council represents the voice of families (broadly defined) struggling to deal with relatives who have an addiction or mental health disorder. The Family Council also is an advocate at CAMH for the concerns of the families of the mentally ill.

Addictions and mental health in our society are not to be taken lightly. Some 20% of the Canadian population has a mental illness. The costs, financial, social, and emotional, are a huge burden, particularly the Canadian health care system.

I have prepared a PowerPoint presentation and welcome the opportunity to present it to your organization. You will find this presentation of facts and figures and videos both informative and interesting. Here are some of the points covered:

1. As a concerned citizen, you owe it to yourself to learn - just what is the impact of addiction and mental illness on our society?
2. If you are a parent, sibling, or friend of someone with an addiction or mental disorder, support is available.
3. If you've dealt with this type of family situation yourself, that makes you something of an expert. Would you like to help others who are struggling to cope?
4. If you would simply like to keep abreast of what is happening in this important area you can sign up for The Family Council free newsletter.

In the meantime, you might like to check out www.thefamilycouncil.ca.

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Marion and I have visited France quite a number of times. This year we decided to spend six weeks and to visit some of the places we had not yet experienced. Top of the list were the sites of Canadian participation in World War I.

We rented a car from the Paris airport and drove north to Ypres in Belgium. (Driving in France and Belgium is a story in itself.) Ypres was decimated by the war. Amazingly, they rebuilt all the medieval city exactly as it had been before the destruction. We used Ypres as a launching pad to visit many sites in southern Belgium and Northern France, including the famous monument at Vimy, that you see in the photo above.

Subsequently we spent several days in Bruges, a wonderfully preserved medieval city in Northern Belgium. Then we went south to such places as Giverny (Monet's house), Lyon La Forêt, Rouen, Honfleur, the Bayeux Tapestry, Mt. St. MIchel, Tours, Clermont-Ferrand, Nimes, Avignon, Lyon, Dijon and, finally, five days in Paris to visit the few places we had missed in previous trips, such as the sewars and the catacombs and several of the more obscure churches. Of course, we enjoyed the wonderful French cuisine, to say nothing of the wine and the cheeses and I had numerous opportunities to augment my French vocabulary.

I shot a lot of video so we can re-live this wonderful vacation any number of times.

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My wife, Marion, unbeknownst to me, nominated me for this Province of Ontario Award. Nineteen such Awards were conferred to recipients from across the province. I was the only one from Toronto. You can check out, below, the documents that Marion submitted. (They needed to be submiitted a year in advance.) I received the Award from the Lieutenant Governor in a ceremony at Queen's Park December 14, 2011.

Covering letter (read this first for an overview)

Nomination statement

Letters of support:

OCAD University,  (page 2) *  City of Toronto, *  Haiti,  * Centre Francophone,  (page 2)  

CESO/SACO,  (page 2)  * Family Council, (page 2)

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Frank O'Hara
&
Honourable David C. Onley
Lieutenant Governor Ontario

Over the Years....

Why I continue to improve my facility with French

Way back in 1965 I was in a serious car accident in Mexico. I had been travelling with my family through the USA and across the desert to Phoenix, Arizona, down the west coast of Mexico and across Mexico to Mexico City. All the time I was careful to wear a seat belt. I didn't bother to do it up, though, after stopping for directions to a famous archeological site just outside Mexico City. I was only five minutes away. A fateful five minutes. We had a head-on collision with a very large dump truck. My chest bent the steering wheel about 30 degrees and I shattered the windshield with my head. I guess it pays to be head strong. I survived, obviously. After several days in a jail-type hospital (Napoleonic Code: guilty until proven innocent) a young intern came to my bed. When he found that I was not a Gringo but a Canadian he said, "Mais je parle français beaucoup mieux que je parle anglais." (For the unilingual: "But I speak French much better than English.")

As a typical English speaking Canadian I did not have a working command of French. Lying on my bed of pain. with not much to occupy my mind I decided, since I thought of myself as a "citizen of the world" I ought to be able to speak at least two languages. Being a Canadian the two languages certainly ought to be English and French.

If nothing else I'm persistent. I've been working at becoming bilingual for all these years since. I've made progress, particularly since I retired. I belong to several different groups where I can work on improving my French.

Our monthly group we call the Franco Flaneurs. We meet once a month at one another's homes for a pot-luck Sunday brunch. I'm old enough to be the father of most of these fellow francophiles. It's interesting how a common interest can bring people together. Age is not necessarily important, certainly that's true as far as I'm concerned and I believe that's the case with the other Franco Flaneurs as well. In the summer we've often gone on a bicycle/picnic sojourn in one or another local park. Here's a photo from one of our outings.

I am also active in some other groups:

Top of the list is French conversation at the First Unitarian Congregation each Friday afternoon for two hours. Claude Marchand is the volunteer from the congregation who leads us through articles from L'actualité. We take turns reading a couple of paragraphs in French and then translating them. We also discuss some of the matters that arise from the articles. This is the most rewarding group to which I belong. Every week Claude makes a list of words that we found challenging. The next week we review these. This way, I should be adding vocabulary at the rate of 30 to 50 new words or expressions a week. If only my memory were that good!!

I also belong to Le Centre Francophone de Toronto. They have various activities organized around helping recent Francophone immigrants to Toronto. I mentor immigrants (one at a time) - helping them to prepare a good résumé and providing pointers on job-searching in Toronto - Central Library facilities, relevant websites, coaching for interviews, helping with their English, etc. The fellow with me in my office is Leki Ymele, orginally from Cameroon.

Twice a month I meet with a group at the Royal Ontario Museum. We visit one or another exhibit in the museum and are lectured on the content by a French speaking volunteer. That lasts about 1/2 hour. Then we adjourn to a room where we usually take turns reading from information on whatever we've viewed and discussing new vocabulary. I've been doing this for ten years or more. I ought to be an expert on the museum. We keep finding something new though.

After all these years I've only reached the point where, as they say in French, "Je me débrouille." (I can manage.) Nevertheless, I'm getting better. Given another forty years I should be quite bilingual, n'est-ce pas?

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Poverty

I know we were poor, certainly by today's standards. However, until recently, I never actually thought of our family as poverty stricken. Actually, that was normal in the "dirty thirties". In this photo I was in grade 2 but, obviously the teacher had a lot on her hands. (I'm in the middle of the front row, with blond hair and a big white collar.) No one would say we looked prosperous. Later, though, when we were each given a half pint of milk each day, I realized that some of my school mates usually didn't have breakfast. Our family was never quite that desperate but my parents had a serious and difficult job feeding and clothing four fast-growing boys.

My earliest memories were in a town called Swastika (named after the Indian symbol for good luck). Dad had a general store - one of the two in the town. When the depression hit in 1929, dad was able to carry on for a couple of years. However, he couldn't bring himself to deny credit to families with young children. The desperate families were not to blame for dad's not being able to pay his suppliers. Those were desperate and evil times. The competitive store didn't grant credit and survived.

Dad managed to get a job working underground in the Lake Shore Mine in Kirkland Lake, about 5 miles away. The mine ran 3 shifts a day, 6 days a week. Dad road a bike to work. Not too bad for the daytime ride - in the summer. The winter and the night were something else. I recall him crediting our prayers for not getting soaked in a storm. He claimed that it rained all around him. Probably the prayers were unreliable because we moved to Kirkland Lake. Dad could now walk to work. After a couple of years he managed to get moved to work on the surface where they framed the timber supports for the underground tunnels. Much less dangerous too. At school we would often feel the shudder of what was called a rock burst - a cave-in. Often this was just an area that was no longer being worked. But those of us with fathers at work underground had our own internal shudder.

It was common for stores to grant credit because very few had cash for children's shoes, food, etc. Pay day was not a happy occasion. The rent came first. There was never enough to pay for all the other debts. I vividly remember my mother crying every payday. The frustration of having to rob Peter to pay Paul happened every two weeks.

When I was about nine or ten years old my brother Brian (two years younger) and I scrounged for whatever money we could uncover to help with family. One job was to go through garbage to find six and eleven quart baskets that we could sell at the Saturday market. We got 3 cents for the smaller and 5 cents for the larger baskets. Women shopping at the market had to buy a basket because the farmers didn't provide any shopping bags. I graduated from that job to selling chickens. Farmers who sold eggs would often have one or two hens that were no longer laying eggs. I rented a stall and bought the "old-timer" hens for something like 25 cents each. I offered these at $2 but never expected to get that much. I learned to haggle from the Eastern European women who were real experts. They would fatten up the hens in the backyard.

One day a woman actually agreed to pay $2, not an Eastern European obviously. I was delighted and I'm sure had a big smile on my face as I handed her the live hen, upside down with legs tied. "No, no", she said, "I don't want it live." I'd never even been on a farm let alone killed a chicken but for $1.75 profit I was sure ready to learn. I borrowed an axe, took the hen outside, found a tree stump, spread the hen's neck out and swung the axe. I had done lots of wood chopping so the axe was not a problem. However, when the hen's head flew off in one direction and the body flopped all over the place in another I had a passing thought that I'd earned my profit. My first entrepreneurial exercise but not my last and never so bloody or so shocking.

The forest was not far outside Kirkland Lake; so it was not a particularly big job for Brian and myself to fetch the family Christmas tree. It was hard tramping through the snow though. We brought back two at once; so we could sell the second one to a neighbour. We learned that trees that look a normal size in the bush are far too big after the struggle to get them home.

The most regular job I had was as a Globe and Mail paper boy. The paper left Toronto around midnight to arrive at Kirkland Lake about 1 PM the next day. I picked up my papers at that time and delivered quite a few of them at a fast trot on the way to school, for 1:30. The rest I delivered after school. Delivering newspapers in Northern Ontario in the winter, to use an inapt phrase, is no picnic. First of all it is pitch dark after about 3 in the afternoon, secondly there are some fierce storms, thirdly freezing temperature is the norm. I remember coming home covered with snow and the comfort of mother making me a cup of cocoa as I warmed myself in front of the wood stove in the kitchen.

However, it wasn't all hard times, besides, I never had anything to compare against; so I never felt hard done by. Needless to say, we didn't have a cottage. However, mother took us four boys camping when my brother Gerry (the youngest) was still in diapers. We had two prospector type tents. My uncle Tommy had a car and drove us out to one or another of the many lakes in the region where we stayed for most of the summer. Dad visited us most weekends on his Sunday off. (He worked six days a week for 13 years at the mine and never had a vacation. They went on strike for one week's vacation and lost the strike.) We cooked on an open fire, fished and picked berries and practically lived off the land. After that apprentiship, when I was about 12 and Brian two years younger, we camped on our own for a couple of years, hitch-hiking in to town each Saturday so we could go to Mass on Sunday and then hitch-hiking back with provisions for the next week. I didn't realize till much later that this was probably our parents' innovative way to prevent us from getting into trouble with some of the other young people in our neighbourhood. When I think of the protective attitude of typical parents today I wonder at the difference and suspect that we learned a lot about self-reliance.

This is my grade nine class in Kirkland Lake, 1939. That's me, age 14, in the back row - three from the left, to the right of the teacher. I had now graduated from paper boy to working part-time, first at Kresge's and then at the local A&P Store. My wages were a wonderful 24 cents an hour. However, in those days a good-sized chocolate bar was 5 cents.

At the end of my next school year, dad had lost the strike at the mine (for one week's paid annual vacation) and travelled south to find a different job. He went to Welland, Ontario where he found work as a carpenter. WW II was in mid-stride and that put an end to the Depression. That year, 1942, I turned 16. The family was still in Kirkland Lake. I joined dad for the summer on a construction site as a labourer. The only problem was that when it rained, we had to sit it out and didn't get paid. It rained frequently. After a whole summer's labour, at the sumptuous rate of 50 cents an hour, having paid for my board and room and my train fare back and forth I only had enough money to buy myself a $35 suit. Suits were de rigeur in those days. That was my second one. I bought my first with the money from a Globe and Mail subscription contest I won two years before. Actually, from the time I was about nine or ten years of age I bought most of my own clothes. I also paid for such things as dental work. A filling cost $1 in those days plus $1 if freezing were required. I couldn't afford the freezing. I guess that helped form my life-long habit of being careful with money and early practice with making difficult (even painful) decisions.

We were poor but we children did have a number of advantages. We had parents who really loved and cared for us and set a good example of honesty, kindness and responsibility. My parents, as far as I can recall, never used the word "love" but they showed it in their daily lives both for each other and for us children. Mother was careful to provide us a balanced diet, even if it was with the cheapest cuts of meat and a limited assortment of vegetables. I recall asking the butcher for a bone for the dog. I'm sure the kind man knew that there would be no meat left for the dog. We grew up healthy in body and spirit and learned how to "stand on our own feet". I am grateful.

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Why I Am Not a Christian or a Buddhist or a Muslim, etc.

When I was about 11 years of age I overheard a conversation between my mother and the priest who supervised the altar boys. I was one of his "stars". They were discussing how I would become a priest. I interrupted them to say, "But I'm not going to be a priest."

"Why not." my mother said, "Because I want to have children." I answered. They both laughed. "What's so funny?" I thought.

In retrospect, that was probably an indication of my not wanting to live by other's expectations. Another factor in my very gradual evolution away from my religious upbringing was my curiosity. Even as a very young child exploring the nature around our home just outside a village in Northern Ontario I was fascinated by the frogs, birds, etc. When I learned to read I haunted the public library in Kirkland Lake where we had moved. There was no money to buy books in those depression years, so the library's books were a great boon to my developing mind.

During secondary school years, my time in the navy and then at university I gradually questioned more and more of what I had accepted as "the truth". An analogy might be of a person held down by a thousand strings. Any one of them easy to break but all of them together quite capable of holding me firmly in place. It took a long time to break all the strings.

I found it difficult to accept everything on faith. Why this was the case I don't know. I remember discussing this with a priest, Fr. Sullivan, a much revered priest at St. Michael's College at the University of Toronto. "When you cross the street you have faith that you're going to reach the other side don't you?" He didn't find it a satisfactory answer when I replied, "Yes, but I avoid the traffic."

I well remember when I introduced my parents to, Austra, the woman I intended to marry. "But she's not a Catholic." mother blurted out. We got married in a Catholic chapel. Marrying a non-Catholic in a regular church was not permitted.

As a child I certainly accepted authority, whether of my parents, the church or professionals such as doctors or almost anyone older than I. When I was in the navy I felt, just because someone wore an officer's uniform didn't mean that he should hold power of life or death over me. Mind you, that didn't mean that I didn't avoid being sent to the brig. Gradually I arrived at the point where I questioned any authority before accepting it. Of course, that certainly doesn't mean that I think it is permissible to go against logical societal norms, like paying taxes, driving on the right side of the road or a thousand and one normal situations in daily life. I have a responsibility to support people with whom I agree and, at the very least, to avoid those with whom I disagree. For example, when it comes time for an election I investigate whom I should support and having decided do so, not just with my vote but by canvassing or whatever other means are at my disposal. A number of years ago, for example, I designed and produced a website for my federal MP and I canvassed on his behalf at each election.

My "belief system" involves doing what I reasonably can to make this world a better place. With that in mind I have volunteered to work in developing countries around the world. Mind you I also enjoyed travelling to exotic countries, meeting diverse people and helping them as best I could. I also believe it is important to do what I can here at home and volunteer to help newcomers to Toronto from francophone countries. Of course I benefit too with the opportunity to practice French. My wife, Marion, and I have also been able to help a couple of immigrant Chinese families. No improvement to our Mandarin, though. A percentage increase on zero is still zero!

It seems that most religious people find it difficult to impossible to believe that others could honestly not believe as they do. Christians in the later middle ages massacred 30% of the European population (30 Years War) on behalf of their "loving" God - the same one on each side! Militant Muslims believe non-believers, even non-believers of their particular sect of Muslim, should convert or die, just like the perpetrators of the Inquisition. Militant Sikhs feel it is OK to blow up a plane full of innocent people. However, I don't reject religion because some aspects of it are evil. I just cannot bring myself to accept the basic tenets of any religion. I do have a sort of "faith" though. I believe the world is evolving in a positive and realistic direction. There are days I despair, such as with Global Warming. If we can deal with that, though, it could mean that we are on a path towards a world that doesn't need the crutch of religion and with which we can have a genuine hope for a world dominated by "goodwill towards man", to coin a phrase. This doesn't mean that I'm against organized religion. It does mean that I'm against any role for it in government.

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My Politics

When I was in the Navy, towards the end of WW II, I had my first occasion to vote. I believe I have never missed an opportunity since, either federally, provincially or municipally. I have, at one or another time, voted for each of the major parties. I have also canvassed many times for my preferred candidate in my constituency. So I guess I qualify as a serious supporter of our democracy, as well as being a "floating voter", the type of person whom each of the parties must attract. I cannot be taken for granted like those who are "dyed in the wool" supporters of a particular party. I have also, on occasion, interviewed the candidate I might support. When I lived in the Don Valley West riding, for example, I met with Liberal John Godfrey, when he first ran for Member of Parliament. I was sufficiently impressed that I volunteered to create a website for him. That was when websites were the exception rather than the rule. I also canvassed for him during several subsequent election campaigns. More recently, I worked for NDP member Olivia Chow.

Some of my concerns:

• In WW II we sent one million of our people overseas. That amounted to the removal of 1/4 of our workforce of about 4 million (from a population of 11,267,000). Nevertheless, for 5 years we produced ships, guns, planes, munitions, supplies, paid our army's salaries, etc. We generously gave our veterans free post-secondary education or money to start a business. Today, we can't afford up-to-date infrastructure ($123 billion behind!) nor enough money to fully support Medicare. Why? Why do we have so many homeless people? Why can we only afford less than 1/2 our commitment to .07% of our GDP on helping the destitute of the world? Why do we have the mentally ill begging on our streets?
• I have a problem with all our political parties. For example: I'm in favour of "green" legislation but I don't believe that we can make progress without nuclear power. That eliminates the Green Party and the NDP. I don't believe we need to increase the population. That eliminates the Conservatives and the Liberals. Of course the Bloc is not in contention but maybe we should form a Separatist Party in Ontario to get the attention of the federal government.
• A good education that is dependant on the wealth of parents is an out-of-date concept. A well-educated populace is the way to ensure a prosperous society. As such, I believe every Canadian should be able to complete an education as far as his or her capabilities will carry. Furthermore, the education costs should be entirely covered by the government, including board and room on a needs basis. Many countries offer free tuition, among them Denmark, Ireland, France, Germany, Spain, Sweden, Australia, and Cuba. In Canada, the federal government provided this support for veterans of WW II. It's what made it possible for me to go to university. It would have been extremely difficult, likely impossible, for me to do so otherwise. I believe I was able to contribute a great deal more to Canada as a result of having that education. My guess is the same is true for many other veterans and will be true for this and coming generations if granted comparable support.
• Children who don't get a good start in life are unlikely to make up for it later. Again, to assure our future prosperous society, we should provide Early Childhood Education as a matter of right. This would definitely not be a baby-sitting service but a means to prepare pre-school children for a head start on a lifetime of learning. Well-trained specialist teachers are essential.
• Every young person, probably at age 18 or 19, should spend a year or maybe two in community service. Those not qualified by temperament or education to perform this duty could spend their time in the military or something comparable. During the service, the young people would be paid a subsistence wage. Those attending post secondary education and with satisfactory marks would be allowed to delay their service until leaving school. Maybe some, such as physicians and teachers, could do their community service in the North or other under-served areas in Canada or even in Third World countries.
• According to Statistics Canada's 2006 census on income and earnings, the richest fifth of Canadians' income grew 16.4% between 1980 and 2005 while the poorest fifth of the population saw earnings tumble 20.6% over the same 25-year period. Earnings among people in the middle income bracket stagnated. It seems we live in a "trickle-up" society.
• The C.D. Howe Institute says the only way to keep the ratio of retirees to workers at current levels is to take in 2.6 million immigrants a year by 2020 and seven million a year by 2050. At that point Canada's population would reach 165.4 million. How ridiculous! Canada's land mass is mostly uninhabitable and it is questionable whether our major cities should get much larger. For example, the Toronto area has a population of over 5 million. Do we aspire to be double, triple or quintuple that?
• The only countries who have lived up to their promise of allocating 0.07% of their annual GDP to Third World development are the Nordic ones.
• A few of Canada's First Nations peoples take advantage of a post-secondary education (paid for by the federal government) and move up the ladder of economic success. But they are a tiny minority. There are some 2,200 reserves across Canada. Most are in despicable shape. Providing high quality Early Childhood Education plus support for parents struggling with social problems would, in my view, bring positive change over time. What is clear is that continuing to do what we're doing won't help any more in the future than it has in the past.
• Measuring our prosperity or lack thereof based on annual GDP is inaccurate at best. Money spent on gambling, golf club membership, cigarettes, liquor, and second or third homes, for example, is not an accurate measure of our general well-being. In one of the richest countries of the world, the very poorest are getting poorer. Over 2 million children are living in poverty. GDP takes no account of that.
• Criminal activities in Canada net them multi billions of dollars. No income tax! This is a good reason to increase consumption (GST) taxes and to lower income taxes accordingly.
• In fiscal 2006-07 the GST accounted for 13.3 per cent of total government revenues. Cutting the goods and services tax was universally regarded as unwise and smacked more of the Bush-Republican influence than sound economics or fiscal planning. Nonetheless, the tax cuts fit the Conservative game plan remarkably well. Starve the public sector of resources, render it seemingly uncaring and eliminate its fiscal room to usefully intervene in the economy, and the public will eventually believe the rhetoric that government is the enemy not the solution.
• The Canadian Federation of Municipalities estimates that the cost of maintaining, repairing and replacing Canada's municipal infrastructure has reached $123 billion. The organization breaks down this infrastructure deficit figure as follows: water and waste water systems (a $31 billion deficit), transportation ($21.7 billion), transit ($22.8 billion), solid-waste management ($7.7 billion) and community, recreational, cultural and social infrastructure ($40.2 billion). How are we going to take care of this?
• Canada's military budget for 2008 was $18.2 billion and it's increasing each year. I'm concerned about what we are denying Canadian citizens so we can maintain this expenditure. Might we not be a more positive influence on the world if we spent about 1/2 the military budget on improving the quality of life of Canadians? Some of the other half of the amount saved might be devoted to living up to our .07% of Gross National Income commitment, made in 1970 and never reached, to help developing countries. Our current figure is 2.9%, less than half. We do need a militia that can be called upon in case of a major catastrophe.
• Very rich Canadians park multi-millions of dollars in tax havens. We need to track and tax this money.
• Addicts, as well as the mentally ill, need to be treated, not criminalized.

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When we won't need human workers

In ancient times slavery was practiced universally. Supposing we continue to develop machines to replace human labour, will robots eliminate the need for menial labour to be done by humans? What about all the people who are unable to do sophisticated chores?

Actually, in Europe and North America (not including Mexico) we depend on immigrants to do the work that the rest of us avoid and that pays little. The only reason we still employee people to do many jobs is because they can do so cheaper than machines. I recall when I was a student working as a pick and shovel labourer. A group of us were leaning on our shovels when the straw boss came along and yelled at us. "Get back to work you #%^*s or that machine is going to do you out of a job." I thought, "What a good idea".

Of course, the problem was - I needed the meagre earnings. Nowadays, when was the last time you saw someone digging a foundation with a pick and shovel? That's how we improve productivity, of course and we want to improve productivity continuously. Think of all the work being sent off-shore to India, China, Sri Lanka, etc.

The logical end is more robots and more sophisticated robots. The Japanese are already working on them. Even very rich people have few servants any more. Fifty years ago John Kenneth Galbraith wrote The Affluent Society where he raised the basic question "For eons we supported the idle rich. Now we'll have to support the idle poor." But with increases in productivity, i.e. increases in overall wealth, must so many people be poor?

Probably we could afford to support the idle poor but not if the rich take up all the benefits of increased productivity. On the other hand, there are jobs such as caring for the elderly and young children, that are not likely to be done well by robots. How about paying a living wage to people doing such important work? Can we afford not to?

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