I read the column and re-read it and then again betwixt races at the annual Placentia Regatta on Saturday July 19.
With July’s sun beating down on the placid waters of the South East Arm and the gert big sea of Placentia Bay forever there, with the scent of the pine-clad hills (only a mile away from the bustle and bother of downtown Placentia) in my nostrils and the murmur of voices of 25 generations (25 times 20 years of age equals 500 years equals the time of John Cabot) of forefathers (on both the Old Man’s and Mother’s sides) to be heard on the gentle cooling breeze, my soul became epiphanated or is it epiphanized, my mortal flesh followed lest it lie in the dust too soon and I realized Tony Collins was right. (“Muskrat Falls is a go — get over it,” The Telegram, July 19.)
It is outright treason (is there any other kind?) to question Muskrat Falls. Because if it is not the high crime of treason, for the nay-sayers (selfish ones at that!), is it not vile and base desertion for Danny Williams, Kathy Dunderdale and Jerome Kennedy, senior officers on this ship carrying many old people and a few small children, to have abandoned their posts and made a mad scravel for the only serviceable life boat (provincial pensions and federal appointments awaiting)?
I was wrong. Forgive me. Perhaps it was my baptismal name that led me astray.
Wade Locke was not a mole working for Hydro-Québec or some vague competitor and I don’t expect to see him pop-up at one of Montreal’s grand colleges or being this years recipient of the Valdmanis Voodoo Economics Medal. You know, the one given annually for sticking it to the little Newfs.
I must make amends for the damage I have done and confess my associates.
Cabot Martin is not his real name. he was born Caboto Martini on the isla de Cuba and as a boy, a nino, he was with Fidel Castro and Guevara in the jungles around Havana. He arrived here in Spaniard’s Bay on a schooner bringing sugar, molasses and black rum from the West Indies. One of his first forays into public policy was to try to get the name of St. John’s first suburb changed to Che Heights.
Don’t believe me? Go on, picture Cabot wearing a black beret, Russian-provided jungle fatigues (it must be tiring with the weather never changing), black paratroopers’ boots or black and white sneakers, scraggly bearded, a bandolier of ammunitione and a smoking Kalashnikov held in the hand that would one day wield a mighty pen.
Still don’t believe me? Where do you think Brian Peckford got the cigars?
David Vardy and Ron Penney are as guilty of high treason to their king as were Thomas a Becket and Thomas More to theirs. There is that pesky doubting name again.
Dennis Browne and the others with the 2041 group are as pernicious and dangerous to our society as the Cambridge Five of Kim Philby, Guy Burgess, Donald Maclean and the two others who only John le Carre and Queen Elizabeth know by name.
Desmond Sullivan should be picked up by security forces immediately. With two Irish names on his driver’s licence, it is obvious he is a Fenian. Any student of the Irish language can tell you gnarley means a great time or a blast. If I were you, Mr. Policeman, sir, I would check his shed for fuel oil and potassium based fertilizer the ingredients for gelignite.
Maurice and Winston Adams have written about concerns with Muskrat Falls. Didn’t King George III and Lord North have trouble with a couple of members of the Adams family named John and John Quincy?
As a second generation contributor to The Telegram, Tony Collins should have no trouble getting rid of Russell Wangersky, Pam Frampton, Brian Jones, Bob Wakeham and Michael Johansen.
Now that I have finished laughing at Tony’s carnival barker antics (“Step this way. Right this way, ladies and gentlemun (sic). This way to see the egress”), I will leave him with a bit of advice. Never, never forget we are all of us descended from a people who thought it was a good idea to take a rest from participatory democracy.