I laughed. A Lot.

drt.

Well I have. For some while, I’ve been worried about my ancestors. Of course, my worries are things that may just be connected to my stage of life–but maybe something more sinister is going on. Maybe I can’t escape who my ancestors were–maybe I’m doomed to be just like them; to repeat their mistakes; to have the same flaws; to have the same fears.

It’s not that far fetched: I’ve a friend who read his grandfather’s journals, and then his great grandfather’s. He said, it was uncanny, that it was like he was reading his own journal; there before him in a script not his own, in ink that had long dried, were his fears; written long before his birth.

This instance in particular has gotten me to thinking about what my relatives were like and whether, or not, I’m just like them. It seems that I have at least a few prima facie reasons to think I am. My grandfather, for example, was a little bit eccentric. For one thing he waged a tireless war against weeds. Yes–you read that right, weeds. He, I’ve been told, wrote letters to the town works department about them; he would personally go and cut them down from fields, empty lots, and public spaces–then bag and burn them, so that no seeds could escape. He may have taken it so seriously that he marked on a map where “weed hotspots” were.

We don’t yet have that particular obsession in common, but he also used his living room table as a desk–and I can remember visiting as a child, and it being heaped with papers and books and other stuff. He, of course, had a study–and it suffered from the same problem–the dinning room was just the logical place to expand to. This, I’m afraid, we are likely to share. My desk is a disaster zone. It is stacked with books–I have countless little sticky notes that I write to myself about good ideas for philosophy papers or different ways to approach philosophical or mathematical problems. Do I ever return to them? No. But, I do keep them.

These, though, are trivial worries. Over the summer, as I was berry picking in a park, I was letting my mind wander. I may have briefly imagined what it would be like if Sweden’s national woman’s blackberry picking team just rolled up and started picking berries with me; they might, for example, have been in town for an international berry pick off. I thought I’d probably stand a pretty good chance of impressing all of them. After all, I was in shorts, so my muscular legs were showing, and at the same time I was demonstrating that I could stoically take the pain from the scratchy bushes. Chicks dig muscles, and men who can take pain that results from ridiculous self-inflicted injuries. Anyways, that particular imagining may have ended with, among other things, them feeding me berries–but I digress. The point, here, is that I was going to boast to them that I came from a long line of berry-pickers. Fraser, you see, is a Scottish name that is thought to originate in France–it may come from “Fraise” the French word for strawberry. I’m not sure where I’ve heard this, but it makes a great deal of sense since it seems to explain why we have strawberry flowers on our family crest.

Though, I will admit that this doesn’t do much for my ego. You see, for some while I’ve been wondering if maybe I’m soft, if maybe I’m cushy and comfy and pampered; if maybe there is a part of me that has gone wrong, or that is somehow not strong enough. Now I won’t go into why I’d be thinking these things because that’s not really the issue. The issue is that I have been thinking these things. And, as you can imagine, discovering that when the world consisted of hunter-gatherer societies that my male relatives were gatherers, doesn’t leave me with a lot of respect for them. Somehow the family motto, “Je suis prest,” or ” I am ready” is a little less inspiring when what follows is “to pick berries with the women and children.”

Maybe my genetic stock just isn’t very good; maybe I’m the product of a genetic line that is made up of centuries of men who were feeble, fragile, flimsy, cowardly, faint-hearted, and gutless. How can I rail against that? How can I be different? How can I combat what is in my bones?

Well, history seems to say I can’t–and maybe that I’m willing to accept that makes me flimsy, cowardly, and gutless–maybe a stronger man would rail, and continue to rail, despite failure and frustration.

Well, worry not. It turns out that the history I’ve portrayed above is grossly inaccurate. Like a good journalist I won’t divulge my sources, but lets just get this straight: it’s not that my last name is just Fraser. I come from the Fraser Clan. That’s right, clan; we’re a kind of medieval gang. Or, if it helps you to fully grasp the clan concept, you can associate us with another famous clan: the Footclan; but we’re real.

So, I did get part of our story right–our name does come from France–from Normandy specifically. Why Normandy? Because it’s Norman. Don’t know very much about the Normans? Well, then, it’s history lesson time.

Lesson 1:The Normans may not have been very nice people. They may, for example, have had their ancestry in those viking raiders that did that whole raping and pillaging thing on an assortment of parts of the collapsed Roman empire. In case you take raping and pillaging to be soft, let me assure you that the Norseman weren’t the cuddly kind of vikings. How prickly you ask? Well, for over two centuries prayer-books may have included this plea: “Oh Lord, spare us from the furry of the Norseman.” You know my ancestors were serious if people were praying about them.

Lesson 2: Rollo “the walker” (he was too big to ride horses) and his henchmen promised to stop raiding Frankish lands and to convert to Christianity, in exchange for land in the area that is now known as Normandy. The Frankish king agreed. Hence, the Norsemen came to live in Normandy.

Anyways, in case this simple generalization about the Normans isn’t enough to convince you of my superior stock, let me let you in on a few more tidbits about my ancestors. Wikipedia claims:

“During the Scottish Wars of Independence, Sir Simon Fraser, known as “the Patriot”, fought first with the Red Comyn, and later with Sir William Wallace and Robert the Bruce. Sir Simon is celebrated for having defeated the English in three separate engagements at the Battle of Roslin in 1303, with just 8,000 men under his command. Along with the Clan Fraser, the Red Comyn’s Clan Comyn, and the Clan Sinclair are known to have fought at the battle, which took place on 24 February 1303. At the Battle of Methven in 1306, Sir Simon led troops along with Bruce, and saved the King’s life in three separate instances. Simon was allegedly awarded the 3 Crowns which now appear in the Lovat Arms for these three acts of bravery. At the end of the day, he was captured by the English and executed with great cruelty by King Edward in 1306, in the same barbaric fashion as Wallace.”

That’s right–Braveheart–it’s practically about me.

Here’s another tidbit:

“In 1544, the Frasers fought a great clan battle, the Battle of the Shirts (Blar-ne-Léine in Gaelic) against the Clan Macdonald of Clanranald, over the disputed chiefship of Clan Ranald. The Frasers, as part of a large coalition, backed a son of the 5th Chief, Ranald Gallda (the Stranger), which the MacDonalds found unacceptable. The Earl of Argyll intervened, refusing to let the two forces engage. But on their march home, the 300 Frasers were ambushed by 500 MacDonalds. Only five Frasers and eight MacDonalds are said to have survived the battle.”

If only five Fraser’s survived, then I have to come from that stock; what you should henceforth refer to as the “kicked-some-MacDonald-ass” stock.

Anyways–I’m sure by now you get the point.

War and violence: it’s in my bones. In a way, though, this may explain why I’m such a great Risk player, or why when playing games that present the option of diplomacy, or amassing a huge quantity of troops and then ruthlessly crushing an opponent, I opt for the later.

drt.

P.s. I now feel that I can be more confident about the strawberry flowers: it’s pretty clear that they’re on the family crest because in-between battles, we were doing the brave and noble thing: protecting women and children from lions, and tigers, and bears. Oh my!

Enjoy.

Disappointment; it’s not good for a man to lose for too long. It does something bad to his soul.

Today is one of the harder ones.

It’s not so much the words (though it sort of is), as it is the tone:

Inevitably, other days will be good:

And, it’s those days that it’s important to hold on to.
drt.

Dang, philosophers are smart.

drt.

drt.

Don’t deceive yourself into stupidly thinking otherwise.

drt.

Here is a good one that should provoke some thought. I must admit that I have Catholic sympathies, but only feel comfortable ‘going Anglican.’

Everywhere I go, crows don’t seem to like me either. For the past three summers a crow on our block has started cawing and dive bombed me every time I walk under/near it. In what I imagine to be typical cowardly crow fashion, it doesn’t dive bomb me from the front–but waits till I’ve walked by and then swoops down close to my head, so I hear this flurry of flapping and cawing getting closer and closer to me, only to see it glide safely out of my reach.

Maybe it’s payback. As a kid I remember shooting lots of birds with my pellet gun–and I’m sure there where at least a few crows along the way. Maybe all the crows in the world get together and talk about the dumb kids who try and shoot them, and put out a hit-list. Maybe I’m doomed to suffer the curse of the crow for the rest of my days.

Which is fine; crows are ugly.

However, on a more realistic note something funny does seem to be going on. You see I just moved yesterday, and already I’ve had a new crow harassing me. Less than 24 hours in a new neighborhood and I’m already a victim. Recently, I went to Washington and the same thing–I’m walking and some crows start diving at me. In fact, I seem to recall having this experience in Guelph and Korea too. Weird.

Maybe the crows feel threatened. Maybe they, like you, read my blog and have found out about my flying dreams. Maybe they’re worried I’m going to develop a device that lets humans fly by flapping their arms–allowing us to take to the air and master it, like the wheel has let us master the earth.

[Aside: in the process of writing this blog I took a break to let 'the new guy' into my old house--I walked a total of three blocks. And, was accosted by a crow.]

Perhaps I’m just afraid of crows; perhaps this is all in my head. That scene from Mel Gibson’s “The Passion,” where a crow rips out the unrepentant thief’s eye on the cross still makes me cringe. I’ve never seen Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds”–but I do know they swarm and kill someone; I’m willing to bet it was a crow’s idea. Maybe I forget about all the sparrow, bluejay, and robin attacks I undergo. If birds really are out for revenge, it’d be best if I never go near a barn again; being slowly pecked to death by barn swallows isn’t how I want to go.

In mythology the crow has an important role to play. Straight from Wikipedia the source of all truth:

Long ago, near the beginning of the world, Gray Eagle was the guardian of the Sun, Moon and Stars, of fresh water, and of fire. Gray Eagle hated people so much that he kept these things hidden. People lived in darkness, without fire and without fresh water.

When Raven saw the Sun, Moon and stars, and fresh water hanging on the sides of Eagle’s lodge, he knew what he should do. He watched for his chance to seize them when no one was looking. He stole all of them, and a brand of fire also, and flew out of the longhouse through the smoke hole. As soon as Raven got outside he hung the Sun up in the sky. It made so much light that he was able to fly far out to an island in the middle of the ocean. When the Sun set, he fastened the Moon up in the sky and hung the stars around in different places. By this new light he kept on flying, carrying with him the fresh water and the brand of fire he had stolen.
He flew back over the land. When he had reached the right place, he dropped all the water he had stolen. It fell to the ground and there became the source of all the fresh-water streams and lakes in the world. Then Raven flew on, holding the brand of fire in his bill. The smoke from the fire blew back over his white feathers and made them black. When his bill began to burn, he had to drop the firebrand. It struck rocks and hid itself within them. That is why, if you strike two stones together, sparks of fire will drop out.
Raven’s feathers never became white again after they were blackened by the smoke from the firebrand. That is why Raven is now a black bird.

Hmm. If there was any possible way for me to blame the weirdness of crows on Grey Eagle’s daughter I would–but, alas, it seems like Raven is the hero of this story and the daughter of marginal importance–so why are his descendants all up in my face?

Maybe I need to bring my pellet gun back to Vancouver. Though, I don’t know that your average tree-hugging, nature loving, granola eating, bike-riding, recycling, hippie Vancouverite would approve.

Technically, though, I wonder if it would violate a bylaw…

drt.

It would seem that if there are no good men to do it, good women will.

drt.