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Dusty, cobweb-covered, maimed and set at naught,
Beauty crieth in an attic and no man regardeth.
O God! O Montreal!
Samuel Butler, 1884
It was one of the biggest Board of Trade luncheons I have ever attended: 1200 business types flocked to Hotel Bonaventure last Friday to hear Lucien Bouchard. They had the longest head table I have ever sat at, too: there must of been 30 of us.
During the meal, Serge Menard showed Premier Bouchard a March 21 Washington Post article entitled "O Montreal, City of Exodus" that luridly exposed how separatist tension and urban sprawl were devastating Montreal's economy, leading to another Anglo exodus. The reporter had followed in the heels - literally, as she interviewed the same people, including me - of a March 4 Maclean's article about "Anglo Angst". 
It's one thing to have our dirty laundry displayed to the rest of Canada, but to have the Washington Post trumpet "Separatist tension, weak economy, drive Montreal into steep decline" made Menard and Bouchard wince. Well, I'm not unhappy about reality concentrating their minds, although I, too, hate negative reporting on Montreal.
Bouchard's speech was upbeat, conciliatory, and larded with three big hunks of English. He even mentioned how much Montreal owes to the Molson family. I can't help but compare his speech to the two that I heard given by Parizeau at the same Board of Trade; the former premier was opaque, aloof, and rarely a word of English soiled his lips.
(So far, my theory holds: there was never a dialogue possible with Parizeau, as his goal was sovereignty. For Bouchard (according to my theory), sovereignty is a means to an end: the end being the preservation of Qu‚b‚cois culture in North America. As long as we English can agree with that goal, we can at least open up a dialogue with him.)
On Friday, Bouchard did not even mention the "S" word. He even said he actually talks with Paul Martin and Jean Chr‚tien. But on Sunday in Rimouski, as a kind of political counterpoint, he was quick to deny any apostasy. Sovereignty with or without association was still his creed.
During Friday's lunch, I chatted with Bouchard. He said there were far too many municipalities in the region, saying that is one problem the PQ can't blame on the federalists. We agreed on the linguistic distortions caused by urban sprawl, as francophones flee to off-island suburbs, resulting in an eventual francophone minority on the island.
The above quote from Butler referred to a statue, but I think it can also serve as a metaphor for Montreal's condition: we need to uncover to the world the beauty of Montreal. But there's lots of housecleaning to do first.
A figure in Botticelli's Spring has flowering sprigs sprouting from her mouth, while dancing Graces form a handholding triad. Chaucer talks about April with its sweet showers and small birds making melody. Here in Westmount, what is the symbol, the Litmus test that Spring is here? Well, it's probably our lawns.
Two weeks ago, our lawn was a beige expanse of frozen tundra. Rakes just bounced off its surface of matted thatch - nature's Kevlar. A week later Spring was almost here: the Trent turf was a gelatinous squidgy bog. At this critical stage in its metamorphosis from rigid to resilient, walking on a lawn can leave indelible spoors, imprints that will remain as fossils traceable to early Spring.
(Another sign of Spring really drives me nuts. When the time of the singing of birds is come, the voice of the leafblower is heard in our land. The incessant whine of those useless machines, wielded by contract gardeners too lazy to rake, also signals the blowing of dirt and debris into the street. At least I got a law passed restricting them to the months of April and October. I would have liked to ban them outright.)
On April 3, I actually saw some yellow wildflowers in bloom on the sunny side of Sunnyside. Did you know we have a microclimate here in Westmount? According to Perron's, it's the mildest zone (6a) in Quebec.
But the formal harbinger of Spring is Westmount's Annual Spring Flower Show. Last week, we held our 64th. The inside of the Palm House was full of the earthy and flowery smells of Spring. There were 15,000 bulbs, with 32 varieties of tulips. The rabbits ambled, the fish silently swam, and spirits were universally raised.
At the suggestion of Tewfik Kamel and Councillor Bercovitz, we started the tradition in 1994 of inviting new Westmount residents to the Spring Flower Show reception. (With this Council, if we do things twice, it's a tradition.)
It's a nice idea to invite newcomers to a flower show when they are just putting down roots themselves. To continue the horticultural theme, and to get newcomers to mix with more established residents, we also invited the winners of the "Maisons Fleuries" contest to the reception. Each got a plaque with a photo of their winning garden emblazoned on it.
The reception itself was done in Westmount informal: wear what you will, take a glass of wine, and munch on delicacies artfully presented, by George! And you know, our dowager Victoria Hall doesn't look half bad when the lights are turned down.
So Westmount does not escape the the changing of the seasons. Like parantheses, the Spring Flower Show and the Autumn Crysanthemum Show bracket the warmer seasons, reminding us all of the immutable rhythm of nature. And the transience of our lives.
Whenever Spring cleaning comes around, and I'm supposed to throw things out, I rationalize and temporize, but do not exorcize. I keep the oddest things. If I were a bird, I'd be a magpie. If I were a rodent, I'd be a pack-rat. (Note my use of the subjunctive, please.)
For example, I never use after-shave lotion. But for some reason, I've kept a few bottles from the distant past. Had they been claret, I could understand it. But cologne? I have a bottle of Arden For Men (circa 1965), Jovan Musk-oil For Men (circa 1970): both virtually unused. I also hang onto some "Hawaiian Surf" my sister gave me when I was 18. It came in a cork-covered bottle, looking like those floats the fishermen use to hold up their nets. I suppose the idea was, if your Kon-Tiki raft capsized, your cologne would float on the surface of the sea, and you could slap some on to attract rescuers.
So if any of you Hawaiian Surfers out there want to get your hands on a real collector's item, let me know. Meanwhile, it'll probably stay in my medicine cabinet, along with the little boxes of hotel soap from Brown's, the Stafford, and weird places like the Due Torri in Verona. We try to use up these soaps by cleverly placing them in the powder room, but it seems our guests are singularly unhygienic.
I have the same reluctance in getting rid of ties. Thrown up as some kind of silken flotsam and jetsam from my slow sartorial progress through life, my collection starts with my father's cricket club tie, then a vivid green and yellow number from Carnaby Street, followed by flashy Liberty paisleys, a raft of geometric early 80s Chanels and HermŠs, some sturdy Dunhills - then the Italians took hold of my neckwear.
I thought these ties were all so artistic and the height of good taste at the time; now, most of them look like strips of upholstery that have been too near a window. I do try and give them away, but they seem capable of auto-generation. At least I no longer have the oh-so-thin ties from the early 60s, nor the woollen 70s jobbies. I still have a few pseudo-regimental ties that were the staple of a gentleman's dress for decades. (They're called "rep" ties in the U.S., where the stripes in ties go the other way. Really.)
And to round out my collection, I still have tie pins and clips, collar pins, and clunky cufflinks bestudded with jewels never found in nature.
Then there's the magazines. Architectural Digest from the 80s, Guitar Player from the 70s. Horizon from the 60s. Country Life from the 50s. And auction catalogues. I even have my old pipes, including a hookah and a nice little hash pipe. But I never inhaled, to be sure.
For people like me, these useless articles are like sandbags piled up to stop the erosion of time. They are harmless. And they're things a burglar will leave alone. After all, I don't collect cars like Councillor Laidley.
I just hope we don't have to move for a while.
In last Saturday's La Presse, the new Minister of Municipal Affairs, R‚my Trudel, floated the idea of expanding the Montreal Urban Community's territory to include Laval and Longueuil. Although I had met with him the day before, he did not mention such an idea. What he did tell me, though, is that he is less enamoured over amalgamations of cities on the Island of Montreal than his predecessor. Which is excellent news.
But expand the MUC? The reaction of Laval came fast: "no way!". Mayor Vaillancourt even pointed out that some Montreal Island politicians would like to see its role reduced. (Thanks for thinking of me, Gilles.) At least we'll have a chance to discuss the whole issue at a workshop retreat on "decentralization" called by the minister for the 23rd and 24th of May.
Before I give you my views on the matter, some history might help.
The legislation that gave shape and substance to the MUC and defined its powers was hurriedly cobbled together in less than two months after the notorious Montreal police strike of October 7, 1969. It was this strike and its generous settlement that caused the city of Montreal to convince Quebec to ram through legislation that would so radically change our local municipal scene.
The MUC was born of Montreal's desperate need to get bailed out of its parlous financial state. The MUC was not created through consultation, consensus-building, or careful planning. In fact, given the changed political climate, the MUC could never have been imposed today in the abrupt and cavalier way it was done twenty-five years' ago. Or at least, one hopes!
In 1982, under strong pressure from the Conference of Suburban Mayors, Quebec agreed to a major overhaul of the way the MUC was governed. We got parity with Montreal on the MUC Executive Committee, a double-majority vote in the Council, and other improvements.
Now, the initial indigestion caused by the swallowing up of local services by the MUC has mostly gone away. But some discomfort remains. While we got an effective remedy in 1982 to Montreal's overbearing power, no real change has been made in the MUC's make-up since it was born. In fact, the MUC has picked up some new responsibilities over the years.
I have always felt that some MUC services would be better handled by local municipalities. Some should be regionalized. The assumptions and conditions that led to the MUC being so hastily knocked together have surely changed.
To be fair, the chair of the MUC's Executive Committee - Vera Danyluk - has also proposed that the MUC take a hard look at itself. And she has managed to get its spending really under control. But whenever a public organization such as the MUC looks at itself, it usually does not contemplate doing anything too radical. Grooming is OK, but not major surgery.
More on the MUC next week.
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© 1997 by David T. Nicholson
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96apr.htm Sunday, January 17, 1999
