Because I do this every year:
I want to see great herds of bison grazing on freeway medians and, in stampede, spilling down the clover-leafs like a mudslide. I want to see rush-hour traffic paralyzed by them, and goggle-eyed commuters forced to get out of their cars to wonder at the great noble mass in before them.
I want to see long-legged wolves loping through shopping mall parking lots like punks looking for trouble, so that the yappy Shih-Tzus of chic matrons cower in their SUVs and fear for their lives.
I want to see flocks of blue-birds and painted buntings and scarlet tanagers braiding in and out among the hydro lines, and then roosting there, as bright as strings of car-lot pennants!
I want the fairways of golf clubs to revert to wildflower meadow, and see a thousand picnics bloom there. I want the lawns of suburbia to grow as high as a horse’s withers. I want milkweed and Queen Anne’s Lace and dandelions never to be thought of as weeds again, and to take their lordly place among the pampered, brainless annuals in our gardens. I want blackberry thickets to have their way, throwing up fountains of fruit-heavy can by the gas station, a city hall, by the neighbourhood Starbucks. I want to eat the blackberries.
I want to see the rivers so fat with fish the water silvers with their splashing. I want to see the oolichan return, because the world needs the word “oolichan.” I want beds of oysters to bejewel the stinking outfalls, and the crabs left alone to grow as big as serving platters. I want the Chinese river dolphin that was declared extinct last month - the year’s saddest news - to have miraculously found a home in the Fraser. I want to hear the spring peepers sing their old lullabies again, as they did when I was a kid.
I want to see more butterflies, everywhere.
I want parents to play with their children, rather than farming them out to little league. I want soccer moms to be moms, period, and to get in there and kick the ball around. I want fathers to tackle their children in games of touch football, because a father can’t have enough excuses to hug his children. I want shinny instead of hockey. I want fun to bloom and Sport to wither.
I want to see a Scientist of the Year on the front page, instead of a Sportsman of the Year. I want children given lessons in tree-climbing, Hide-and-seek, Red Rover, Frozen Tag and Things-Your-Parent’s-Shouldn’t-Know-About-You-Because-They-Are-Probably-Dangerous-For-You, such as blowing up anthills with firecrackers and balancing along the tops of fences like tightrope walkers. I want to see children allowed to play outside until the street lights come on. I want parents to let their children go out and play and not to worry about them for the rest of the day. I want anyone who would harm a child first given over to a roomful of vengeful parents armed with whips and blunt objects, and then put away for a very long time.
I want the real narcotizers of our culture - television and the cult of celebrity - declared dangerous substances. I want Brad and Angelina and Tom and what ever her name is to put more art into their art than in their public relations. I want reality rather than reality TV. I want people to stop looking at the pretty faces because they are afraid to look the world in the face.
I want to see the death of unquenchable appetite. I want a new definition for “progress.” I want - to quote, from all things, from the opera Nixon In China - a time “when luxury dissolves into the atmosphere like perfume, and everywhere the simple virtues root and branch and leaf and flower.”
I want to see hope in vogue again. I want fatalism and cynicism frowned upon as uncool. I want to believe in the future. I want to wish you a Christmas as rich as the one I can’t buy, but one day hope to afford.
- Peter McMartin, Vancouver Sun: Dec. 23, 2006