For some reason, the local Conservatives invited me to host a meeting during the federal campaign to introduce their new candidate. I guess they assumed that because I worked as a speech writer for the provincial Conservatives 40 years ago, I must still be voting that way. I told them the Royal York used to be a good hotel, but that was then. They just laughed and said they would see me Tuesday and could I bring my wife?
As it turned out the candidate is a lovely guy who came up through the municipal system and understands that you can’t win this riding without a few Liberal votes so we all do our best not to insult them or their party. That’s another system that has worked pretty well over the years. Parts of this riding have been Conservative since Confederation.
A Conservative, by ancient definition, is supposed to be someone who wants to hang onto what is good. That works for me. The problem is I wake up in the morning feeling Conservative but by the time I go to bed I have veered into the ditch and become an anarchist. That’s usually because some inspector has turned up in my yard wanting to check my licence to own a chicken or measure the distance between the furnace and the furnace oil tank.
A few years ago I got a letter in the mail demanding an engineer’s drawing of my manure disposal system (I have 12 sheep). My wife suggested I send them an engineer’s drawing of a wheelbarrow, which I did. I heard nothing more. This week, the local abattoir advised me that my pig now needs an ear tag or a slap tattoo before it can be processed. I spent the morning on the phone to the pork authorities explaining that I am already registered for a producer number, a stakeholder number, a premises ID number and a tattoo ID number, but I don’t see why I should have to mail away for one ear tag or spend $150 on a tattoo system for a pig worth ninety bucks. The person I spoke to finally sighed and said: “I guess you could just write the tattoo number on the pig with a Sharpie.”
Really?
I suppose I should be grateful that there was a human being to talk to and an analog solution to my problem but it sure doesn’t give me any confidence that the consumer is getting much value for the millions spent on traceability. Of course, I was never a believer. Not since the moment 15 years ago when I made the mistake of trying to trace my own lambs using the ear tag numbers. The inspector told me that as soon as the lamb was slaughtered the tags went into the garbage.
The fact is, none of the local abattoirs have poisoned anyone in living memory because they are very anxious not to poison their neighbours. That is the best traceability system there can ever be. All the king’s producers and all the king’s stakeholders will not invent a system stricter than that.
My political meeting happened the same week Justin was being hammered for his brownface costume 20 years ago. It was difficult for anyone here to jump up and down with glee over that news because if the busybodies are now leafing through school yearbooks from the last century, it’s only a question of time before they come for us. It reminded me of those old swashbuckler movies and the big sword fight at the end where one guy trips over his shoelaces and drops his sword and the other guy gallantly kicks the sword back to him. He is saying, “I want to beat you in a fair fight, not because you dressed up as Aladdin in 2001.”
I wish we could be more like that. I wish more of our leaders could step off the platform, shake off their handlers and stand in line with the neighbours at the local supermarket to buy bread. Maybe then they would understand that identity politics and the carbon tax do not register in a rural neighbourhood that struggles with poor youth employment options, fentanyl deaths, crappy Internet, debt loads, punishing taxes, and long waiting lists for elective surgery and nursing homes.
Hanging onto what is good is still a noble pursuit. What is good about this farm community and many others like it across the country is that it still thinks we should all think more like farmers and neighbours, look after each other and practice stewardship.
Anyone who shows up at my door with that message has my vote.