Canada’s trade unions have long claimed a prominent place in the struggle for social democracy. From the earliest years of that struggle, the labour movement’s press has been on the front lines. Radical Rag tells the colourful story of those pioneer days, recounting the war for social justice fiercely waged through the pages of...
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Why another cookbook? Why not another cookbook especially one that is infused with so much tenderness, thoughtfulness and a deeply maturing love. We are writing a cookbook for lovers, young and old, but particularly for those of a certain age, a mature age. These recipes will appeal to lovers of good food, good stories...
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Dad had taken a miss the past two years of the district fall fair vegetable-growing competition – squash category. Always a green thumb and always a solid competitor, he had been discouraged when his 41-pound giant won a blue-ribbon second prize, forfeiting the red-ribbon first prize to a smaller but apparently better squash.
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Wild fires still raged around Moscow in mid-August and the smoke clouds above Red Square hung heavily over the brown marble block that sits below the ominous red walls of the Kremlin. This is the final resting place of the leader of the October revolution, the event that changed the world in 1917.
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The noble savage is dead. Long live the noble savage. That seems to have been the view of many politicians, land promoters, frontier boosters and historians as the nineteenth century drew to a close and western settler society clinched its hold on former aboriginal lands forever. At least that is the view that was...
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The Age of Aquarius was dawning. A radical, rebellious and sometimes illegal phenomenon was demanding attention - and getting it. Springing up everywhere, like a communal kick in the face to the Establishment, were 'alternative' or 'underground' newspapers proclaiming freedom and declaring war - freedom for a new generation of idealists, heroes and hippies;...
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"He’s dead. She’s dead. Him...him...her...him...they’re all dead." We we’re hunched over a glass-topped coffee table looking at a school photograph with my Uncle Earl. His Grade 11 class, he said. But I know he didn’t get beyond Grade 3 or 4. He speaks in clipped sentences. After...
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I heard the tinny strains of the marching song from Bridge Over the River Kwai and thought I heard Sir Alec Guinness flicking a speck of dust from his pin-neat uniform as he barked orders. But the voice I heard coming from the radio speaker in our ‘soft sleeper’ train compartment was not his.
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Nowhere Boy is playing in cinemas now and the critics are savaging it for not being accurate enough about Beatle leader John Lennon’s teenage years. The New Yorker claims that Richard Lester’s A Hard Day’s Night is a better film about the bands early days. I disagree. Nowhere Boy attempts to fill some gaps...
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