Write your own moral stand

and designate it as the high road

Cut away from those who don't walk it

Enjoy your heady view

Your standpoint allows it and your ramparts seem secure

and

You are worthy to gather up the crumbs

You think you are worthy to eat the whole loaf

But

Your concrete doesn't bind

The  stones loosen and roll

It's a long way to fall

All is vanity.

Who gets to eat the most, and why is it just or fair, and are they the same thing?  With justice you get what you deserve.  With fairness you deserve to get what they get.
      The pianist and I were sitting in the car the other day having lunch in Beacon Hill Park.  It was cold outside so we ate in the car rather than on the park bench by the flower beds.  Soon, the Mallards, man and wife, gaudy and plain, two striking looking seagulls and several funereal looking crows wandered around hoping for a free meal.  The crows were the first to identify the eaters in the car. When the pianist had the fill of her sandwiches she tore off her crusts to feed the ducks who were at first oblivious, but now the closest having been attracted to the car by the crows.  The ducks, despite their conjugality, began to vie with one another  politely and just ramped up the waddle to eat their fill.
        The seagulls rushed over, but the the safe distance in proximitry they allow to humans is further than the ducks do, so they were nearly out of range from the spoils.  Now , the pianist likes ducks better than seagulls, even if the gulls are admittedly more beautiful, but she is compelled to insist on fairness, called  sharing,  , not rewarding !  The result had her straining to meet the gulls cries with her throwing arm. The gulls may be beautiful but they are stupid,  so when food looms they sound off rather than shutting up and eating so when their colleagues inevitably arrived they had to fight them for the food tidbits. It's hard to call it justice when the benefactor has to strain to give you what you need and you summon your friends and then battle for it with them. The gulls scream , "Sea me, see me, see me !"  At least that's how it sounds.
        The pianist in the interest of fairness and accommodation took pity and hurled the crust as far as it would fly to them. I think this is concern for equitable distribution and a female characteristic arising from the matronly urge to meet the needs of the long and the short and the tall. I think justice would give the gulls zilch.
        The  cecophony from the seagulls drew more and more agitation from the crows who arrived in force,  but they have an even longer allowable safe distance from the attainable human food source. It was impossible for her to meet their need.  They looked forlorn as the pianist tried to break bread with them. They just couldn't outmuscle the gulls and couldn't cozy up to the humans like the ducks and the pianist couldn"t throw far enough to moving targets.
        Crows are smarter than gulls and faster than ducks, but if they want justice they are going to have to work at it like everyone else, use their brains and take risks to finesse the big guys! Or else eat alone what you can get1  Justice doesn't come without a price  !  For fairness you have to freeze the big guys !

  I often fished at Pedder Bay south of Lotus City, and the most productive  area was the mouth of the bay  around the Race Rocks where the sea life was in full swing , and the top of the food chain, the Killer Whales were abundant.
        At that time in the 70's a local entrepreneur  had developed a market for captured killer whales and Pedder Bay was used to create a holding pen for those herded Orca to be sold to provide  stock for marine shows throughout  North America.  Since our boat was moored in Pedder Bay often in the summer the whale enclosure was often a point of interest.
      Several Orca were confined in a good portion of the inner bay by submerged netting with surface floats that were well demarcated and the whales could be seen swimming at the surface of the pen. My friend Bill and son Robert and I were fishing one beautiful summer afternoon and I said to Bill who had not been to Pedder Bay before,  " Have you ever heard of the Corral of the Killer Whales before? "  " No ", he said .
       I told him we would drift close to it so he could take a good look.  On the way back from the fishing at the mouth of the bay I cut off the engine when we were near the pen so we could sit at our leisure and watch.  Big mistake !  I was not prepared for how fast the tide was running and since we were without power the boat slid gracefully over the netting and into the center of the corral. The whales had company.
       My boat was a displacement hull and the propeller was three feet below the water line. I could envision in that instant ripping out the netting with my propeller creating enough of a rent in the pen to allow several million dollars worth of whales make their escape.  I was on my own. Bill went to the cabin to make a cup of coffee, Robert was happy to be with the whales. The whales were content to swim around us in greeting but they may have thought the savior has arrived.
        A savior I couldn't be, but it crossed my mind:  Ruskin's Pathetic Fallacy. Realty would come forty or fifty years later to people when the Orca are revered for different reasons than Marine Show Stoppers.  I couldn't chance powering over the edge of the net with a running propeller so I started the boat engine at the end of the net and raced to the other side cutting the engine at the last minute and gliding over it , thank God. I struggled to hear what they had to say as I left and I think I heard ,  " Freedom ."  It's easy to now-a-days indulge in Pathetic Fallacy.

Out of interest and curiosity I attended an Alternative Therapy Conference on back pain. It was an interesting experience to listen to the diverse opinions and the conclusions with which the proponents of the various treatments  described their results. At a break in the conference for lunch, I was seated next to a young woman practitioner of a discipline of which I was not familiar. We engaged in a short conversation as she seemed very pleasant and was surprised when I told her that I was a medical doctor.
       She replied, " Pardon me for saying this, but why is it that medical doctor's handwriting is usually illegible? "
         " Well " I said, " We are taught to write badly. In the second year of the medicine course,  " How to Write Badly 201 is taught. "
           " How can that be ? "  she said credulously.  I waited for a glint of humour in those eyes,  but it didn't appear.
           " Well, "  I said, piling it on, " We can't be held responsible for what we write, since no one can read it but us. "
          "  Good Heavens , " she said,  " I didn't know that ! "  I looked in vain for any sign of amusement in that serious mien.  So up the ante was my desperate way to deal with the matter.  Surely in that stretch she would see that i was joking.
          "  Yes "  I said.  ' And in the course in third year medicine, " How to Mumble 301," will complete the skill set, how to communicate without doing so .  That way  we avoid any trouble such as   " you said this or that. "
         "  Well"  she said, as she rose from the table,  " I'm glad you told me that. "
       I could see that I was in deep trouble. She didn't get it .  My humour fell flat . To disavow it now would be disingenuous, and reaffirm what she wished to believe, even possibly in the first place.  I had just trashed myself and medicine in the face of an attempt at ill-advised humour in the wrong arena. I could imagine the furtive looks of disgust from the assembly of attendees in the coffee hour later.  I slunk away and listened to the rest of the meeting chastened in the shadows.
      As many of my loved ones have said to me before,  "Why can't you ever be serious for once?  "
      

    This week in Canada is Thanksgiving  Day which  coincides with the Christian Harvest Festival and arose from it. Our daughter asked if we would bring some of our homemade fruit wine from the cellar for the dinner. It's not rotgut but it is not stellar either.
     I usually serve that wine with family, but why is it that we take the people we love most for granted and don't often provide them with what we prize the most. Why should we reserve the quality wine for the dinner party for friends who we like, but do not love, and settle for less with the most important people in our lives.
      Because we can !
      Our three children,  Robert,  Anne and Ruth  are our blessing on this Thanksgiving week. Their unique gifts have given us joy that  begs expression throughout the year but becomes countenanced on Thanksgiving Day for us when it becomes apparent that their goodness and grace and care for mankind has been taken for granted and Thanksgiving day is a time to show it by bringing the best to the feast.

When my youngest daughter was twelve or so the pianist sent her to Simpson Sears to pick up a prepaid package that had been ordered. The mail order clerk asked for some identification and the only thing she had in her wallet was the membership she had in the Archie Club. There was no hassle with this from the department since a member n good standing of the Archie Club is deemed to have some status and good taste in men.
   Archie was cool but also beautifully naive; a happy characteristic that endeared him  to hundreds of young girls. They never identified really with the macho, sly, slick type. Certainly  the clerk would have recognized a fellow traveler. however young. Even though Archie struggled with the usual trials and temptations  he seemed to overcome them with his continuing good nature.  What's not to love?
    Certainly today the Archie Club membership card will not net you much headway with the airport or the customs office but it tells us where your values lie.
      Even more beautifully naive was Beaver. He was younger than Archie but his most endearing characteristic was his candor that gave comfort and reliability. You could rely on Beaver to say what he thought about himself. He was a normal. In my daughter's day the kids classified themselves as baddy-bads, goody-goods  or normals. Mine always described themselves as normals, but I was not always sure about that from time to time.
        The Principal once said to Beaver,  " Why do you want to be a garbage collector Beaver when you grow up ?" 
He replied, " Well you don't have to wash your hands so much,  and people don't mind if you smell."
      Beaver was not ready for Betty or Veronica at that time but I wager that eventually candor and transparency will also win the day over slick and sly.