Glenn Kubish

Cam Tait leaned into me after I introduced myself. "So...do...yoooouu...know...Gorrrrd?" Each word was a small battle up to the air from the back of his throat. Cam, then a sports reporter at The Edmonton Journal, was in a wheelchair. He was born with cerebral palsy and at birth couldn't sit up or speak. His limbs didn't work. His parents and family friends did. They employed a new kind of physiotherapy around the clock, and young Cam slowly learned to move a wheelchair and he learned to talk. And now here we were together upstairs at The Journal building downtown and Cam wanted to know if I knew his friend Gord Steinke, the main anchor at ITV, where I worked as assignment editor. "Yes, I know Gord, Mr. Tait. Yes, I work with him at ITV. Is there something you want me to tell him? A message you want me to give him?" I leaned a bit closer to make sure I didn't misunderstand a word of what he was about to say. I wanted to get it right for Cam an...

My father was a locomotive engineer. He hauled things for a living. We lived in the northeast end of Edmonton. From my bedroom I could hear the sound of trains at night. In my blood, I know the long-long-short-long of the crossing whistle. As a boy, I had trouble falling asleep.  My mom got some advice somewhere that it was okay if I listened to the radio and let the music pull me into slumber.  It was a thrill beyond words when Arlo Guthrie sang City Of New Orleans from the radio with the clicking numbers. It took me a long time to figure out City of New Orleans was the name of the train. And longer to realize that it could communicate. All along the southbound odyssey/The train pulls out at Kankakee/ And rolls along past houses, farms and fields I loved the rhythm of that song. And the exotic words, like Illinois and Kankakee and New Orleans. The three of the houses, farms and fields was delicious. And this thought that a junkyard w...

Groat Road, Now Groat Ode (A haiku by kub on the imminent reopening to motorized traffic of the serpentine roadway) A pulse of auto Down the dammed Groat Road ravine Frees car reservoir. Then

One of the only things I was ever half good at was listening to intelligent people talk to each other. Tory Building, University of Alberta I was formed in this eavesdropping skill during my undergraduate years at the University of Alberta, where it was impressed on me, okay, hammered into me, that before I could arrive at my own opinions on the eternal questions, it was proper to develop a deep respect for the opinions of those with a right to their opinions.  And, so, it was more enlightening to try to compare what Nietzsche thought about justice to what Rousseau thought about justice, and both to what Plato's Socrates thought about justice, than it was to get worked up by what the Edmonton Sun editorial board thought about justice. Of course, there was some hermeneutics fictionalizing going on; indeed, how could you ever prove that a conversation across time would have been the conversation in time? But, the reflex has served me and has stayed with me. And, perhaps,...

Dear Land Rover, My name is Glenn. I'm the bicycle commuter you passed this morning on 102 Ave. I am writing you this short letter to remind you that you were supposed to turn right on 105 St. And then you were supposed to turn right on 104 St. And then on 103 St. And then I lost sight of you. You were trucking it pretty good. Take a look: You were supposed to make those rights because, at that time of the morning, the lane you were in, the curb lane, dictates that you not go straight through. Straight through at that time of the morning is reserved for buses, taxis, and, yes, bicycles. Times of the sign There are signs posted to this effect. They are easy to read and interpret. All you really need to know is the time of day. You have a clock on your dashboard to help you with this. If the time of day is, like it was when you zoomed passed me, around 7:30 am, then it's not legal to do what you did. And did. And then did again. These are the signs you ignored. (...

It's 1975. The Edmonton Eskimos have just scored a touchdown. The CHQT fire truck is about to start a victory lap around the Clarke Stadium infield, its riders skilled in dodging with some élan the rain of hot dog foil balls to be aimed towards them by jubilant fans.  Jogging onto the field is #26, Dave Cutler, the toe-tied place-kicker on his way to convert the touchdown. For Cutler, this is automatic. For those in the Knothole Gang, the fenced-off bleacher zoo in the endzone into which the football will be drilled, the real battle is about to touch off. Knothole Gang Patch The Knothole Gang was sponsored by Woodward's, the grocery-department store that, like CHQT, Clarke Stadium, the young Dave Cutler, and 1974 themselves, are no longer around. But then it is very much alive. Like anarchy is alive. And at that moment, with the convert about to happen, there is no collection of kids more alive in the whole north end, or the world, same thing. In your imagi...

#coffeeoutside attracts a crowd The view from the ground of a #coffeeoutside meeting in Edmonton is pretty cool.  I also imagine the view from above.  I see bicycle commuters pointing in from all directions of the city toward Faraone Park, or Government House Park, or to the gazebo at McIntyre Park in Old Strathcona, moving along the spokes of road and path toward the hub of our Friday morning community meeting.  We are a loose affiliation of people who love bicycles and coffee and the outside and what Edmonton is becoming as it becomes a little more tolerant of those who go no car or low car. It's a good scene As many Fridays as we can get a quorum (on some days that has been a gathering of one), we start in a park outside over coffee. Some bring coffee in thermoses. Others take some morning warmth from the communal thermos. Others fire up miniature stoves and brew on the spot. We're on the verge of one of us roasting fair trade beans right there. W...