The Call that Never Came

I am standing in the checkout line at the grocery store when I feel the tears coming. I am trying to fight them off, determined to not cry in the middle of Safeway, but I can't stop them. I pay for my groceries through a veil of tears, the cashier looking at me with alarm, and blindly push my cart to my car, unloading it and climbing inside to cry alone for a moment.

I am a habitual and compulsive email checker, and so it is in the grocery checkout line where I find the email from my sister saying she is sorry to hear about the crash of a Bearskin Airlines flight close to my former home of Red Lake, Ontario. That email stops my heart and sends me racing to the internet for details, where I learn a flight has gone down, killing five including the pilots, and leaving two survivors. For most it is probably just news of another crash of a plane from a remote airline flying in the wilderness of this country, but not for me. For me it is devastating, because I was a Bearskin Airlines employee for years, and Red Lake was my home base.

Bearskin Airlines was the first, and only, airline I have ever worked for. We were quite the gang even back then, a maverick and upstart little airline that flew into cities like Winnipeg and fly-in only reservations like Pikangikum. We were co-workers, and friends, but we were family too, a collective of people who lived in the north and loved it, and who loved everything to do with airplanes and flying and that part of our vast country. I felt like part of a brotherhood back then, a collective of pilots and staff who shared a common lingo and a common turf, and who worked together, flew together, and grew to care for each other in profound ways.

The pilots were an ever-changing cast of characters who had come up from flying bush planes and floats, who flew with us for awhile and then went on to fly "the big planes" with larger airlines. I trusted them implicitly and with my own life, flying with them dozens of times and always knowing my faith was well placed. They were bold and brave and certain, and I never doubted them, not for a second.

I remember too, though, the dark days of winter when the snow would begin to fall heavily and I would wait alone in a remote airport near to my home in Cochenour. I was not only passenger service agent but radio dispatch too, and so I would wait to hear from the flights as they neared the airport to report of their impending arrival. And I remember late nights when they hadn't radioed in yet, waiting. It would be dark, and the snow was falling down as if the heavens had opened and every snowflake in existence was falling right there. Dispatch from Sioux Lookout would call and ask "Have they called in yet?". No, I would say, no, not yet, wondering where they were and worrying.

And then the radio would crackle, and it would spit out "JVFlight 311 to YRL".

"YRL to JV 311, there you are. There you are! What took you so long?" I would joke, and they would tell me not to worry, that they had been momentarily delayed by dealing with another matter and hadn't hit the radio yet. And then they would land and call me "Mother Theresa", telling me I worried too much and that they were "flyboy and flygirls" who didn't need "mommying", but they would laugh and smile as they said it, and I knew they appreciated my worry even though they didn't want to admit it.

I recall one pilot who left us to fly overseas, and one day a fellow pilot told me of the news of his death during a takeoff in Africa. I was so overcome I had to sit down, because I had adored this young pilot. He was one of the best and brightest, and he had captured my heart with his smile and his sweet manners. He died doing what he loved but his death hit me hard, and as my time with the airline wound down I knew I couldn't work for an airline again, because of those nights spent sitting beside the radio, waiting for that call, and always fearing it would be the night the call never came.

My heart hurts today, for those lost last night, the two survivors, the families involved, and all the employees of Bearskin Airlines, past and present, who must be in shock just as I am. I am lost in memories today of all those late nights at a remote airport in northern Ontario, staring at the radio and willing it to crackle to life with the sounds of an incoming flight, signalling that all was well and they would soon be safe on the ground. I am profoundly grateful that in my days at Bearskin that call always came, and we never lost a soul during that time. But I always knew there was a chance that one day that call would not come, and my heart would be broken. Last night I wasn't the one waiting beside the radio at that remote northern airport - and yet today my heart is still shattered by the call that never came.

Why My Poppy is Red

Last night I was talking to a friend about my post from yesterday. Somehow it developed into a discussion on guns, and I shared that I have never, in over 40 years, touched a gun. Never held one in my hands, never fired one, and certainly never pointed one at a human being with the intent to hurt or kill. I have seen them certainly, having grown up on the prairies, but my urban life has never included guns. This same friend and I also discussed the white poppy controversy, and how it has become a point of contention as those who don the white poppy say they are avoiding the red poppy as it "celebrates war". I didn't see the connection between my never touching a gun and the red poppy until early this morning when I woke out of a sound sleep and suddenly realized why I wear the red poppy - and it's not because it celebrates war. It isn't even solely to remember those who fought and died for this country. It is because those who lie under crosses and headstones far from home under a sea of waving red poppies have given me the freedom to never touch a gun. You see, they fought for me so I didn't have to.

I would consider myself a pacifist. I believe in peaceful resolution of conflict, and I believe in peace as a concept. I also know, however, that on occasion there are things that are worth fighting for. I know that on very rare occasion there are even things worth dying for, because those concepts - freedom, democracy, and human rights - are ones we cannot take for granted as there are those who would abuse them.

I think it is so easy for us to revise history. We think about wars of the past and they cease to even be real in our heads, and we can't even imagine what those days must have been like. Last night my friend and I talked about it, trying to imagine being in a trench for days, waiting to kill or be killed, and the fear that must have been so real you could taste it. We talked about how it must have felt to go to war, to ship out to a foreign country and not know if you would ever return. And we talked about white poppies and red poppies, because we have the freedom to discuss such things and to explore these ideas...because someone, somewhere, died for us to be able to talk freely, engage in open dialogue, and even think about white poppies versus red.

A long time ago people in the country where I claim ancestry wore a different badge on their lapel. They wore a gold star. This was not a choice for them, and there was no option of gold star versus black or any other colour. They were forced to do so because an evil regime had taken power, and they were being singled out to bear the blame for all that the regime thought was wrong. They wore that gold star until they traded it in for tattoos that identified them, and then, for millions of them, mass graves where they would never be identified.

I recall once in Toronto when I was at dinner with an older Jewish gentleman. His sleeve slipped up, and for the first time in my life I saw one of those tattoos, a sequence of numbers inked on his arm. I raised my head and looked into his eyes and all he said was "I was just a child, I don't really remember it much", and yet I could tell from the look in his eyes that he remembered every damn thing that happened to him in that horror. This was not some distant past to him, but a memory as fresh and clear as mine from yesterday.

You see the red poppy doesn't celebrate war. I don't believe anyone celebrates war, actually. I think we acknowledge it may be necessary, and I think at times we understand why it has to happen, like when we glimpse a series of numbers tattooed on a dinner companion and suddenly realize that what is simply a history lesson for us was real life for them. We wear red poppies to remember those who willingly and freely gave their lives so no one was ever forced to wear a gold star ever again, so no one was ever tattooed like cattle ever again, and so no one would end their precious life in a gas chamber. We wear red poppies to remember all those who never came home, and all those who came home forever changed by the experience of touching a gun, and firing it at another human being. We wear the red poppy because we have a choice to do so, because we can even discuss wearing a different colour, because others fought and died for our right to make such choices. We wear the red poppy because in Flanders field the poppies blow, between the crosses, row on row - crosses marking the lives of those who fought and died so we could make the choices we make every single day, including whether or not we wear a red poppy, or white.

I have never touched a gun, I have no numbers inked on my arm, and I have never been to war. And that is why my poppy is red - and it always will be.

The Plan

"My school has lockdown shutters," she says.

"What?", I say dully. I have heard her of course, as I hear every word she says and some she likely wishes I wouldn't. My heart stopped at the word "lockdown", though, as it always does, a small knot forming in the pit of my stomach. "What?", I say again, my forkful of food interrupted halfway on its journey to my mouth.

"Lockdown shutters. You know, if there is a shooting the shutters can be activated and then the shooter can't see in or get in through the windows". She says it so casually, as if it is just another tale of her day at school, like a story about one of her classes. "We had a lockdown drill but we need to do it again, because we were too noisy. Kind of defeats the purpose if we are loud enough to let a shooter find us," - and then she laughs a little, amused at how her classmates and she failed this lockdown drill because they are a giggly group of teenagers who could never imagine they would be on the wrong end of a rifle.

I actually feel my body temperature rising, and my eyesight going a bit dark. I swallow hard. This brave new world is so beyond what I knew growing up, when no one went into schools with guns and shot children, when that sort of act was so bizarre that one couldn't even comprehend it. But for my daughter it is so much a part of a routine that it has ceased to even be unusual.

She was in a lockdown once, in Beacon Hill when a man went into a neighbouring school, bloody and saying he had been shot. All the schools in the neighbourhood locked down, and even the entire area shut down as they searched for the gunman (as I recall it was a personal dispute, and a pellet gun was involved). She was in Grade Two then, I think, and I am of course grateful that her teachers knew what to do and how - I am just beyond saddened that anyone needs this knowledge at all.

The casual way she talks of lockdown shutters and shooters hurts my heart in a way I cannot explain. It is just part of her landscape, in the same way that she doesn't remember a world before 9/11 or when terrorists were something that happened in other countries, not ours. She doesn't remember a world before Columbine, or the other school shootings that have imprinted themselves on our souls, and our society. She doesn't remember a world before cyberbullying, and teens taking their lives because they have been so tormented they don't see another way out. And sometimes I forget the generation gap, and the differences in our worlds until she makes a comment like this one and reminds of the great divide between us.

"If there was ever a shooting I'd pull a body on top of me," she continues. "I'm small, so I can hide and play dead underneath other people", she says.

I get up from the table and turn my face away so she cannot see it. I cannot tell her it's a bad idea, because it's not. I am just in such pain that she has even thought about it that I cannot look at her.

"I think I'd survive a shooting," she says. "I've got a plan."

I think it is that she has a plan that destroys my heart the most. The most precious thing in my world has a plan to survive if someone is trying to kill her. I am glad she has a plan, you see. I am just devastated that she has had to devise it at all. I don't speak as she finishes her supper, but I quietly scrape mine into the garbage, my stomach still empty but my appetite gone, and my heart and head heavy with unshed tears.

Taking a Hard Line on "Impaired Driving" in Fort McMurray

I had about ten other ideas for my blog post today. There are so many things to write about, building up inside me as I tend to the other things in my life (my job, my freelancing, my kid, my menagerie of pets, my house, my relationships with friends and family) and that get written on a note with the heading "future blog topics". But today they all got pushed aside, and not because of some "feel good" story with a happy ending - as while this story had an ending that was perhaps "just" it could have had a very different ending, too, and one which makes me tremble to even think about writing.

Yesterday morning the driver of a tractor trailer on Highway 63 was involved in a crash with another tractor trailer, plowing into the other vehicle after sliding through a stop sign. The RCMP had already been searching for this tractor trailer, as it had forced an RCMP cruiser off the road in an earlier incident, when it was passing traffic in an unsafe manner. I heard various reports of those who witnessed this semi-truck careening down the highway, and many reported close calls with a driver who seemed to be out of control. But when RCMP located the tractor trailer and the driver they found he wasn't just out of control. He was, in fact, impaired.

We have a lot of words we use for people who drive under the influence of drugs or alcohol. We call it a "DUI", in fact, or say they were "intoxicated" or "inebriated" or "impaired". We call them "drunk drivers", but I think the time has come to call them what they are. Individuals who chose to drive when they are impaired, intoxicated, inebriated, or under the influence are guilty of nothing short of attempted murder. They have made a conscious decision to have a few drinks or a few pills or a few lines, and then pick up their keys and step into a vehicle, and behind the wheel of an automobile that in their hands becomes just as deadly as a gun or a knife. They wield tons of metal as their weapon, and their potential for causing death is massive. So, let's stop letting them off the hook already and call a spade a spade.

The incident yesterday could have ended very differently. What if that tractor trailer had collided with a smaller vehicle? What would the likelihood been of their survival? What if he had created a chain reaction of accidents, where even more lives could be lost? He is being charged with impaired driving, leaving the scene of a collision, and dangerous driving but I truly think it just isn't enough. Maybe it seems draconian, but I think it's time to charge drivers like this with attempted murder - because in essence that is exactly what they have done.

I have a local friend who has gone through tremendous pain after her husband was gravely injured in a collision with a drunk driver. I have known others who have lost family members to drunk drivers. I have even sat in a courtroom once long ago and watched a family writhe in agony as the "drunk driver" walked away with some minor charges while they walked away with their beloved family member in a coffin. The inequity of it all enraged me then, and it enrages me now. We have been very lenient and understanding for a very long time, I think. We have run campaigns to reduce impaired driving, to educate on the harm of impaired driving, and we have increased the penalties for driving impaired. But clearly it just hasn't been enough, because in this province we continue to see impaired drivers taking to our streets at a worrisome rate, and they continue to impact our lives.

When I heard the story yesterday I must admit I didn't think of the driver as intoxicated or inebriated. I didn't call him a "drunk driver". When I related the story to someone else I called him an "attempted murderer", because in my mind he attempted to murder every single person who crossed the path of his tractor trailer yesterday. He made a decision to get into his vehicle, start it up, and begin driving his weapon of choice down a highway loaded with innocent men, women, and children. Perhaps it seems pretty hardline of me to look at it that way, but I am so beyond tired of stories of "impaired drivers" who kill and mangle the lives of others. Maybe it is time to take a hardline, and today I am taking it.

Impaired driving is attempted murder. That's my hard line. And while I am normally an incredibly forgiving and understanding person in this case all my forgiveness and understanding have run out. If you drive drunk or high then you are guilty of attempted murder in my books - and I don't think any of us have any reason to forgive you, either. The time for leniency? It's over, because the second you make the decision to operate a vehicle while under the influence you stopped deserving any leniency. You became a threat, and a risk, and an attempted murderer. I just hope to hell you never succeed and become guilty of actually murdering someone with your vehicle, because in my world that means the gloves come off, and you are no different than every other murderer currently sitting in our jails - and I would be quite okay with seeing you sitting in a cell beside them, too. And for me that is the very bottom line.

On the Road to Fort McMoney

I hate the title of this post, but I have no choice but to use it since that is the title chosen for what I write about today. Some of you have likely heard about this or even seen the trailer, a web documentary and online game about Fort McMurray, and the oil sands. And, like me, the title probably offended you if you happen to call this place home, just as I was upset when weeks ago the filmmakers sent me the trailer in advance, with a note saying they knew the title would bother me but that they hoped I would see past it and recognize that they remained committed to a fair and balanced portrayal of this place. And the reason they sent it to me, with the explanation for the title, is because I was part of this project, and I gave it, and the filmmakers, a great deal of my time - and my trust.

The documentary filmmakers are from Quebec, and they contacted me months ago. They sent me an email explaining they read this blog every day, as well as my work on Huffington Post Alberta, and they asked if I would agree to be involved in their film project. I agreed to meet with them - warily - and so we did, our first meeting over dinner in the bustling Earl's downtown, sharing our thoughts over food, and occasionally laughing over struggles with language as while they spoke English well some phrases or words would escape them and we would have to work to recapture them so we could communicate clearly.

They told me they came here with the intent to spend a great deal of time and effort, and to interview a wide variety of people. They told me they came to tell the real story of Fort McMurray, the good and the bad, and all the things in between. And I was very candid with them, and I shared with them my story of life here, my excitement over our triumphs and successes, and my concerns over our issues. I trusted them, you see, knowing that there was a risk but also knowing that I had to do it despite any risk. And why?

Because others will tell our stories whether we speak to them or not. At least if we speak to them and share the stories of our life here we have some chance of influencing their opinion and the tale they tell - or, as someone said to me recently, "you miss 100% of the shots you don't take" - and so, despite the risk, I knew I had to take a shot.

And so I did, filming with them not one but at least three times, in different places, and finally culminating with an interview in a downtown hotel room. I had been very ill for days when the time for that interview came, and I was filled with trepidation by that point as the intensity of the project was becoming more clear to me. I was still unwell when I sat down with the three of them, and they turned on the lights and the camera.

I will be honest. It was a difficult interview, and while it covered things we had discussed questions were asked that we had not discussed, too. I felt I was being challenged to defend my community and my love for this place, and I suspect there are moments in the interview when my face likely betrayed the anger within, but I finished the interview. I recall very clearly going down to my car, climbing in, and calling a friend while crying, so angry and exhausted by the experience, upset enough that my friend was quite ready to confront the filmmakers and demand they hand over the footage and revoke my consent. But when I calmed down I explained that maybe the anger and tears were a good thing, because maybe that confrontation was what I needed. Maybe I had needed to confront those questions about pages of escorts ads in our phone book (not a section I've ever looked at, actually), and kits ensuring clean urine tests for those in our community who wish to hide usage of drugs. Maybe I needed to feel that hot flash of anger, and maybe that was the catharsis I needed, because I had been directly called on to defend my community - and so I did.

When I viewed the trailer weeks ago I did so with mounting concern. I heard my voice - and I know my voice well enough to recognize a tinge of anger - saying that we are more than money, more than oil, and that we are a community, and I saw my face at a Christmas event, glass of wine in hand, my braying donkey laugh (and no one hates that laugh more than me) interposed with a voice-over about oil barons and their lackeys (and to be clear I am neither oil baron nor lackey, so that juxtaposition upset me for days). I viewed the trailer with a fairly new sentiment for the most part, though - detachment.

You see, we cannot dictate what others will say about us, or what stories they will tell. I do not hope this documentary is a whitewash, portraying us as some utopia, as that is no more honest than one calling us the darkest heart of Mordor. I hope for a fair portrayal that shows our good and our bad, our successes and our failures, our bright spots and dark moments, because that is reality. I suppose I hope for the best, and am ready for the worst.

I did not participate in this project for personal gain, as I earned absolutely nothing from it, and as the potential risk far outweighed any possible gain. I did not participate to be seen on screen around the world, as may happen as it seems this little documentary project will be seen in many countries (and I am already troubled that my braying laugh may now define me). I participated because you lose one hundred percent of the shots you do not take, and I knew that I had to take a shot at sharing my story of life here because it was the only chance I had to influence the outcome of this project in some way. I await the finished product with a mixture of feelings, and I do not know how I will feel when I see it. I do know this, though: this is my home, it is Fort McMurray, and this is the first, and last, time I will call it "Fort McMoney". And while I will never again call it Fort McMoney there is something I will always and forever do - I will take whatever shot I need to take at telling my story of life here, and sharing with others the incredible community we are building - even if, in the end, I miss, because I would rather miss than have never taken a chance at all. I think I owe this place that much, and quite likely far more, because it has given me so very much. Now it is my turn to give back to it, even if it makes me cry in the process. I would say those are tears well spent, and I don't regret them for a heartbeat.

Fort McMoney

 

 

Connecting with the Intrepid Junior Blogger

I am your usual mom - insanely proud of my kid, and protective as a bear. I recognize we are all proud of our kids, and justifiably so - but in some sense I do think we know when our child has a talent or a gift, and our pride is thus not only natural but very well placed. I was reminded of this recently when the Intrepid Junior Blogger sent me a story she had written.

The IJB loves to write, but she hates to write non-fiction like I do. She prefers to write tales of mythology and lore, filled with mysterious creatures and characters. This time, however, her Language Arts teacher presented her class with a challenge - to write a "real life" story, no zombies or werewolves, no dragons or orcs. The IJB was flummoxed for a bit as "real life" stories are dull in her view, far too close to what we do every day and far too lacking in imagination. But she decided to write what she knows, and when she sent me the end result I was amazed.

I submitted the story for publication in a local magazine, and when I learned this week that it had been rejected by the guest editor I was mildly disappointed for the IJB but also pleased, as it meant that I could share it here. I don't have an issue with the rejection, incidentally, as they may have simply felt it did not fit with the theme of this issue, and since it is a blind process they could have no way of knowing it was written not by an adult but by a 14-year old young woman who already writes better than many adults two or three times her age.

I will be very honest. I think her talent easily rivals any that I have, and I believe with time and experience it will quickly overshadow my own, and I could not be happier as I think all parents want to see our children be even more than we are or could ever be. She has set the story in a small town in Ireland where we spent some time three years ago, and it clearly has impacted her deeply as she has captured the setting beautifully, including the glorious Rock of Cashel, a centuries old Irish castle that looms over the town, up on a hill and bathed at night in soft amber lights. The cafe in the story is inspired by a cafe we found in another Irish town called Kinsale, where we stopped one day for a hot chocolate that it seems will forever live in her memories of her time in Ireland.

This is the Intrepid Junior Blogger's story. I have not edited or changed a thing, because I didn't need to. I share it, I suppose, because on occasion we can all use something that is a bit of "real life" but not so real as to be mundane. There are no zombies or orcs in this, but there is something better, I think. There is a great deal of imagination, a lot of natural talent, and the soul of a young woman who observes the world quietly but closely. I present to you:

Connection

 I sat in my bed, hunched over the glowing screen of my MacBook Pro with my auburn bangs hanging in my face. A warm breath of midsummer air blew through my room, as I flipped effortlessly through my tabs. First I checked my Twitter mentions, finding only a spambot advertising ‘free followers fast!’ I rolled my eyes and reported for spam.

Next I checked YouTube and saw the new A-pop music video from Gunnarolla I had been waiting for. I clicked the link and while the video loaded I poked my head out the open window beside my bed, looking out over the familiar Irish landscape. For a minute, I admired the dark fields before me. Leaning back in, I saw that the video was done loading so I hit play. To my distress, the page, as well as all of my tabs, had suddenly gone blank.

I frantically checked each tab and tried refreshing the pages, all to no avail. I then noticed that my Wi-Fi signal was gone. I reached for the lamp on my bedside table and flicked the switch on it, only for nothing to happen. Uh-oh. Must be a power outage.

After grabbing the red lantern flashlight off my bedside table, I walked down the hall to the family room. Shining the light onto the wifi router on the table, I saw that all the little lights that usually blink randomly were off. I flipped the light switch experimentally. Nada. With a sigh I walked back to my room. Thinking over my options, I saw only two. I could wait out the outage, but who knows how long that could take. Or, I could head to the nearest town and go to the café there. They have wifi.

Back in my room, I prepared for my expedition. I changed out of my pajamas into jeans and a black Marilyn Manson t-shirt, with a purple zip-up hoodie on top. I quickly brushed my hair and laced up my pair of black Dr. Martens, before grabbing my navy blue backpack. I tossed in my laptop and its charging cable. I snuck downstairs and grabbed a couple cans of coke out of the fridge, throwing those in as well as a couple of chocolate bars from my candy stash. Lastly I threw my wallet into the bag and clipped the flashlight onto my belt.

I left out the front door and locked it behind me, figuring out the quickest route to Cashel in my head. If I just followed the road for a while and then crossed a few fields, I could be there nice and quick. I nodded and set off.

I walked along the side of the small, one-land country road, with squat and worn down stone walls on either side. The moon illuminated the long, winding stretch of road and the fields around it. I wouldn’t have to use my flashlight, at least not yet.

After following the road for a while, I came to a large field, filled with sheep. A hill stretched up beyond that, crowned with a crumbling stone watchtower. Once I had slipped through the fence I trekked across the long field, stepping around a sleeping ball of wool every now and then. Stopping at the base of the rather intimidating hill, I shifted my backpack and began to climb.

Finally reaching the apex of the hill, I turned and looked back at the land I had already crossed. In the distance I could see my house. I walked over to the ancient tower and sat on a large rock, pulling a can of coke out of my bag and popping open the lid. I took a swig of the sweet ichor within, and admired the gorgeous landscape before me.

Once I had emptied the can, I crushed it under my foot and tossed it into the rubble at the base of the tower. I peered around and saw the Rock of Cashel atop another hill, and the lights of the town just beyond it. I was so close! Now only a field and a small creek lay between my precious wifi and I. I began down the hill, a slight bounce in my step.

I reached another fence, this one taller and metal. I swung over the bars with ease as the moon slid behind a bank of clouds, plunging the world into darkness.

Swearing under my breath, I fumbled for the flashlight at my belt. At last I wrapped my hand around the handle and clicked the power button twice. It quickly turned on and switched to flashlight mode, then lantern mode. I sighed in relief as a glowing ring of light surrounded me, creating my own personal bubble of brightness. Continuing across the field cautiously, I headed towards the light of the town.

After walking for a while, I would’ve guessed I was about halfway there, I stopped and took the time to enjoy one of the chocolate bars I had packed. It was a cookies and cream bar, and it was very good. I speedily polished off the bar, then pushed to my feet and started on again. As I walked, I kept thinking I heard movement behind me. There couldn’t be anything back there, right? I hadn’t seen anything in this field. I mean, at least not yet. I nervously glanced behind my every now and then though, just in case.

I reached the creek at last, and I hadn’t heard anything from behind me in a while. Hopefully, I was in the clear. Looking up and down the burbling stream, I saw a path of stones weaving across. I took a breath, and easily hopped across via the partially submerged rocks.

I had only walked a couple metres away when I heard splashing behind me. I whipped around and gasped when I saw the massive black bull wading through the water. We stared at each other for a minute. Then his nostrils flared and he charged. I’ve never run faster in my life.

Feet pounding against the dirt. Breathe in. Breathe out. I was terrified, and all I could do was run from the massive brute bearing down on me. I saw a metal fence ahead, just at the base of the hill leading up to the Rock of Cashel. I vaulted over the fence and ran to town, not stopping until I reached the café.

Walking in, I was greeted by the friendly “We have wifi!” sign and the smell of fresh baking. I ordered a hot chocolate and a cinnamon bun, taking my usual seat just as the sun rose. Pulling out my laptop and hitting the power button, I listened to the familiar start-up tone with a smile.

It was all worth it.

Social Media Free-for-All

Social media is an incredible thing. It is no secret I am a huge fan of social media, as I love the dialogue and how it connects us. It allows us to expand our world, and interact with people we would likely otherwise never meet. And, as I have blogged about recently, it is tremendously popular in Fort McMurray, with a huge number of people using Facebook and Twitter to connect, to debate, to socialize, and to network. Social media is such a free and easy exchange of thoughts and ideas, and at times it seems it has no rules, a free for all of "come one, come all" opinions and statements...except that it isn't, and right here in our community it is time to recognize social media usage comes with responsibility, including legal liability for the things said on it.

When I first began this blog I spoke to a lawyer. We discussed terms like libel and defamation, and we discussed how things I say on this blog, or comments posted, could conceivably be used in a court of law. We discussed the parameters, and we talked about responsibility, including using Facebook or Twitter to promote this blog, and how those social media forums are also open to lawsuits. And I suppose my caution in this regard is why I have been watching with mounting horror as individuals take to the local social media outlets and begin posting things that could land them in some serious, serious, legal predicaments.

The reality is this: the law is setting precedent in regard to social media right now. Social media has not been around long enough for much precedent, and so cases currently being tried are setting those standards. And the other reality is people are being sued for comments made on social media, just as people in the past were sued over comments made in newspapers and magazines. This might be "new media" but the growing trend seems to be that the old rules regarding libel and defamation still apply.

And maybe you are thinking that your account is anonymous and so you have nothing to fear...except that social media providers are being sued themselves to force them to hand over information identifying users so lawsuits of this nature can be pursued. Even those who are "anonymous" aren't nearly as anonymous as they might think, and often those who use fake names or identities put enough "real life" information in their tweets to be tracked down by sleuths intent on uncovering their identities. Anonymity is not exactly the foil some would hope it to be, and neither is the good ol' delete button.

Look, there is no such thing as erasing something on the internet once you've put it there. It has been archived somewhere, or someone has taken a lovely screenshot of it. Once it is out there it is out there, and perhaps that is why I am so horrified when I see people exhibiting such poor judgment and posting things that are defamatory and can affect someone's livelihood or reputation.

Perhaps you think these types of lawsuits rarely succeed, and it is true many are dismissed - after a lot of sleepless nights and hours spent with lawyers, time most of us would probably rather spend elsewhere (like getting a root canal, perhaps). At the end of the day that little tweet of 140 characters could cost you big in terms of money, trouble, time, and grief - so why do people continue to act as if there are no consequences?

I don't really know the answer to that, but I do know that it is only a matter of time before someone is sued locally for libel, as I am seeing a rise in the numbers of comments that are outright defamatory and most likely actionable. Social media is not some free-for-all wild west where anything goes, and if you wouldn't say it to someone's face (and even if you would sometimes) you probably shouldn't be typing it out and hitting "post" or "tweet". Maybe you should consider every single thing you say online as permanent, and as potentially coming straight back at you, as can and does happen.

And there are likely those who may reply that social media should be a free-for-all where anything goes and we are free to say anything we want, "freedom of speech" they cry - except that this is the real world, not some fantasy where that is actually true. My final thought is this: If you post it or tweet it be ready to own it, and accept that whatever fallout occurs is yours alone to deal with. Remember that precedent with social media and libel suits is currently being set. You don't really want to be the local test case, do you?