Fleming calls it "placemaking."

John Fleming, Manager of Implementation Planning, City of London, Ontario, was interviewed by The London Free Press reporter Randy Richmond back in 2006. It is interesting to look at a development that was featured in the paper as an example of New Urbanism in London and discover what we find today.

A porch in the New Urbanism development.

First, Fleming does not like the term New Urbanism according to Richmond's story. Fleming prefers "placemaking" as the term for developments where the cookie-cutter approach is out. Where porches wrap around the homes so that the street "gets a view of something architecturally interesting."

Richmond tells us that there are dozens of ways of turning subdivisions into more walkable, pleasant neighbourhoods.

I hate to break this to Fleming and Richmond but my neighbourhood, despite its crescents and cul-de-sacs, has sidewalks teaming with folk. They are out walking their dogs or simply strolling for the sheer pleasure of it. We don't need a special trail for strolling. No one does!

Heck, on my court the strollers don't even need a sidewalk.

And in my neighbourhood we don't need wrap-around porches to enjoy our paper, a coffee, and a chat with a neighbour. All the porches need to be is large enough for a chair or two. That's it.

In fact, the perfect porch may be the simplest porch. With no railings to rot and no roof to maintain, simple porches will not grow old, deteriorate and be demolished rather than repaired.

When I was a photographer with the paper I was surprised to learn how many older homes I visited for the Homes section originally had rather grand porches. Now, those porches only exist in pictures.

Personally, I like the cookie-cutter look. It is too bad that Richmond and Fleming don't. I like the condos that are part of the development The Free Press featured as an example of New Urbanism. I'm not disappointed but I wonder how Richmond and Fleming feel. Betrayed?

One feature of the New Urbanism development that didn't get deep sixed is the walking and jogging trail - an example of placemaking in action. It runs behind some homes and condos. A recent visit showed the trail was well used but not well maintained. The asphalt was cracked and blistered with plants pushing their way up and pushing the asphalt apart. Who is supposed to maintain this trail? The city?

John Fleming calls it "placemaking" rather than smart growth. I now know why. Smart growth could refer to weeds and not to the proposed developments that turn subdivisions into more walkable, pleasant neighbourhoods with the ultimate goal of a little more soul, a sense of place.

You know, I can't even write those words and keep a straight face.

A Recycled Blog

I'm shutting down my original Rockinon blog and I am moving some of my favourite posts to this site. I'm not being lazy; I'm recycling.

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It’s a weird world when David Gough, the blogger covering environmental concerns for The London Free Press, comes out against a bylaw designed to stop the practice of idling a car for more than a minute.

Gough wrote: “Five minutes makes sense, one minute just seems to be cutting it too close.”

He goes on to argue that dropping his son off at the arena might easily force him to idle his car for more than a minute while his son putzes around undoing his seat belt, turning off his video game and getting his hockey bag from the trunk. Gough says he could see his son costing him money.

Dave, the idea is to turn off your car. It’s easy. It’s fast. It’s green. And, it’s old fashioned.

That’s right, old fashioned. When I was a boy, my father never let his car idle for more than a minute — not even in winter. He had been told by a mechanic that the manual choke made the carburetor fuel mix richer and this could cause a soot-like build-up on the plugs. This dirt, the mechanic said, caused engines to run-on when turned off.

Furthermore, the mechanic said the engine oil pump was not efficient when the car was idling. It worked best with the car underway and the engine reving higher.

Four decades ago, my father taught me: If you are stopping for more than a minute, turn off the car. If my dad could do it, we can all do it. And, my dad wasn’t even green.

Hot enough to fry an egg . . .

Monday it was hot enough in London, Ontario, Canada, to fry an egg. I thought of using the hood of my car but, I didn't. I'm curious but not that curious. I used my wife's car.

I considered going to the wrecker's in order to find a flat, black painted car panel but it was too far to drive. I don't have that kind of spare change.


The phrase may be, "It's hot enough to fry an egg . . . " but truth is that it is the sun that does the work. Air temperature alone will not do it. Eggs need a temperature of 158 degrees Fahrenheit to cook.

When I was a boy we used to go swimming at Point Pelee and it was a long walk from the parking lot to the beach. The sand felt hot enough to cook an egg, it sure played havoc with our feet, but a egg would have been safe. I'm sure the sand didn't hit the magic 158 degree temperature.

Hot sidewalks won't do it either. Even if you could find a sidewalk that hit 158 degrees, the raw egg sitting on the concrete would quickly lower the sidewalk surface temperature. Sidewalks are out.

But cooking an egg on a clear-sky, hot summer day is possible. Check the picture. A fried egg. I accepted sunny side up. I wasn't going to push the moment. It was fried around 1 p.m. daylight saving time in London, Ontario, Canada, on August 17th, 2009, while some of my neighbours watched.

Frying an egg under the hot sun may be possible but there are some tricks involved. We are not talking cheating here but physics. If you are going to get this to work you need to think like a scientist and a magician. Consider why this is a still picture and not a YouTube video. A little banter while you cook will help folk from noticing the little things -- the very important things.

As further proof that cooking an egg is possible -- difficult but possible -- I submit this link to a site where a fellow examined the temperature of the hood of a black-painted car sitting in full summer sun. He got a reading of 160 degrees Fahrenheit.

Or check out this story from Las Vegas, Nevada. The reporter for the Review-Journal in the American desert city recorded a temperature of 190 degrees Fahrenheit on a black SUV driver's door and a couple of vehicles had dashboards hitting 179 degrees Fahrenheit when parked full in the sun.

This little bit of fun does have a serious side. Don't ever leave children or pets inside a parked car. Folks have have fried eggs inside cars. Don't fry your loved ones. This is not a joke. The Dallas Morning News took the temperature of a car, and not a black one, left in the mid-day sun with its windows rolled up. The air temperature inside that car hit almost 140 degrees Fahrenheit. We may live in Canada, not in Texas, but our summer sun must still be respected.

And if you like to sunbath think of my egg and then think of basal cell carcinoma, squamous cell carcinoma, and melanoma. Sunny side up is fine for eggs but not so good for people. I know; I've had treatments for sun damaged skin.

Cheers,
Rockinon

Addendum: Just learned from my wife that the children at the summer camp where she works were kept inside today as there was a heat advisory in effect. Guess I picked a good day to write my first weather story. And it wasn't even a slow news day.

The Deforested City

London likes to be known as the Forest City, even though the nickname may have originally been an insult. London, the city deep in the forests of southwestern Ontario — an unimportant, little hick town lost in the middle of nowhere.

The city is looking at how to improve the downtown. Nothing new here. Ever since I moved to London, more than three decades ago, the rallying cry has been, "Downtown revival!"

I remember when paving stones and trees in the sidewalk were part of the answer. Paving stones appeared everywhere downtown. Not only were they more visually interesting than concrete, taxpayers were told that in the long run paving stones would save the city money. Work that in the past would have necessitated the destruction of the sidewalk and the subsequent installation of a new concrete pad would now be completed by lifting out the paving stones, setting them to the side and when the work was completed the stones would be placed back in their original positions. This hasn't happened. The stones are lifted, scrapped and asphalt used to patch over the repair — all very messy.

I also recall when sidewalks lined with shade-giving trees were being promoted. Cuts were crudely made in the concrete sidewalks, steel grates to protect the trees, while allowing ample water to reach their roots, were installed. The trees were planted, sometimes multiple times. It appears now the city has given up, at least along this stretch of York Street shown on the left.

The paving stones have settled and to make walking safer asphalt has been used to eliminate the ridge that could trip walkers. In the centre where there was once a tree, there is now a circular patch of asphalt. The only green is supplied by weeds struggling through the steel grate.

I believe this is a symbol, a sign — a sign of defeat. The ideas were, as they say, half-baked. The dream of a sidewalk beautified by a long, row of green trees is dead. On the right, the grate has been removed, as have the paving stones, and the entire square patch of earth asphalted over. Not even a weed will be allowed to grow.

Why didn't the trees flourish? Possibly, they died because the dream was never healthy. Before we plant trees in the sidewalk, maybe we have to plant trees in people's minds. And before that, maybe we have to plant the desire to create a better, a more beautiful downtown in people's minds. It is clear from the lack of care exercised in the cutting of the original concrete, in the lazy, oh-so-ugly asphalt maintenance, that even the city did not take this beautification program seriously.

Maybe the city had the right idea a few years ago when they opted for brightly painted metal trees, works of art, for the downtown. Oddly enough, some folk are again calling for the real thing. Before we change the trees, we need to change the attitude, the mindset, of Londoners.

Home Concert Featured The Laws

I'd never heard of home concerts. Friday night my wife and I attended one at the home of Christine Newland and her husband Walter Bietberger. Christine is the principal cellist for Orchestra London in London, Ontario. They are a cool couple and I'm not surprised that these two brought live music into their home and shared the experience with friends.

Christine and Walter's home concert featured The Laws, the husband-and-wife singer/songwriter team of John and Michele Law from Wheatley, Ontario. Their appearance, along with that of Nashville guitarist Brent Moyer, was not a one-off, unique event; no, it was part of a movement which is opening new venues to performers. One musician remarked Friday night, home concerts beat playin' bars.

There is a Canadian website, from the east coast, dedicated to home concerts — Acoustic Roof — but this is not simply a folksy Maritimes' movement moving west. I found references to home concerts being held everywhere from Arkansas, in the southern States, to various towns throughout Canada.

The Laws have performed on stages throughout North Amercia and have completed three music tours of Australia. They have been featured on Entertainment Tonight Canada and the PBS series Legends and Lyrics. The PBS site compares The Laws "to some of the greatest duos of all time... The Everly Brothers, The Louvins and Emmylou Harris and Gram Parsons."

In the words of host Christine Newland, it was "an incredibly magical evening."

And now, listen to The Laws . . . and if you only have time for one, my choice is Away about Michele sleeping in her husband's shirt when he is away. My wife smiled when Michele talked about the obvious inspiration for the song. My wife liked to iron my shirts when I was away on an out-of-town assignment, or simply working the night shift.




Visit Reverb Nation for more of the music of The Laws and to purchase. Enjoy.











Addendum:

Where were you when. . . ?

"Where were you when . . . ?" This is the question posed by editor-in-chief of The London Free Press, Paul Berton, in his Saturday column. Maybe I could be so bold as to answer his question with a warning, equally original: "Be careful what you wish for . . ." or in this case, "what you ask for."

Berton asks the expected: "Where were you when you heard President Kennedy had been shot?" Where was I? I was between classes in high school, waiting to enter Mr. Allen's French class. The exiting students whispered the news to us. Some of the young girls were sobbing as they left Mr. Allen's room and all the young boys were stone faced. Some were wet-eyed.

My wife was in her high school cafeteria. Her high school principal announced the event over the school's PA system. She recalls the boys sat quietly numbed while the girls cried openly.

Paul goes on to ask: "Do people still find out about big breaking stories from newspapers, the way they probably did about the attack on Pearl Harbour, the bombing of Hiroshima, or even the assassination of JFK?"

This is my answer: Ever since the first historic radio signals crossed the Atlantic early in the last century newspapers have been losing ground. They were rarely, if ever, first out of the gate with the big story.

The assassination of JFK was a radio and television story. And after they broke the shocking story, word of mouth quickly made all the world aware. When JFK was shot in mid-day in Dallas Texas most newspaper presses were sitting idle, the press rooms empty. Newspapers were not slow out of the gate, they were not even in the race.

Try googling Paul's question. It's interesting. It appears that no one, absolutely no one, first learned of Kennedy's assassination from a newspaper. From my admittedly shallow research, it appears radio gets the nod here. A quick investigation into Pearl Harbour sees radio declared the winner here, too.

Now, Paul's mention of Hiroshima raises other issues more complex than just "where were you when . . .?" A lot has been written about the press and the handling of the Hiroshima story. If you're interested, a good place to start is with Greg Mitchell's piece The Press and Hiroshima: August 6, 1945, republished from Editor and Publisher.

Paul goes on to share his recollections of the Challenger disaster and how he first learned of the explosion from the front page headline in the Toronto Star. Let me share my recollections of the Challenger disaster and how the newspaper coverage was not only bested by television but, in many cases, lead into embarrassing errors by an unearned faith in the accuracy of the televised image.

According to MSNBC the belief that ". . . millions of television viewers were horrified to witness the live broadcast of the space shuttle Challenger exploding 73 seconds into flight . . . " is actually a myth. "What most people recall as a 'live broadcast' was actually the taped replay broadcast soon after the event." (Many now argue the Challenger didn't explode, or blow up as apparently the Toronto Star reported, but I'll let you google that.)

But whether television broadcast the event live or not, what is clear is that newspapers were left out of the loop. Newspaper newsrooms everywhere scrambled to put together a story by following it minute by minute. Newspaper reporters and editors around the world were glued to newsroom television sets.

When it came time to place the front page picture, many newspapers were horrified to discover the AP image by Bruce Weaver showed the shuttle apparently exploding against a night-black sky. The disaster occurred against a blue sky; The editors knew this, they had watched the actual event on television. Editors across North America were howling: "The sky was blue, damn it! It wasn't night!"

Back then, in 1986, it took the better part of half an hour to receive a colour transmission at a newspaper. The entire process for publishing colour pictures in the paper was long and tedious. After a transmission, all that an editor had in hand was a collection of three black and white pictures called printers. The pictures were identical except in tone and the labels magenta, yellow and cyan.

These paper printers were labeled cyan, magenta and yellow and were sent to the back-shop by editorial to be proofed. As you can imagine a lot was necessary to transform three black and white images into a colour picture in the daily paper. To give editors and the press crew an idea of how the image should look when printed, a proof was pulled. This involved three, overlapping coloured images: one cyan, one magenta and one yellow and all on a transparent base. Making these took time. As I said, this was a slow, tedious operation.

By the time the editors had proofs in hand, they were sitting on deadline. The deadline at a newspaper is well named. If you are the editor in charge of the front page, you do not miss deadline. The press must roll on time. The papers must be delivered to the waiting trucks on schedule. Release your page late too often and the newspaper will release you.

Editors everywhere were in an awful bind. The Challenger disaster had to go front with art and they knew their front page picture, the one they must use, was incorrect. The sky colour was wrong. There was no time for a corrected transmission from AP and as this was in the days before Photoshop — there was no easy way to turn the sky blue.

The solution decided upon at The London Free Press was to take the magenta and the yellow printers and opaque the negatives. Opaque was a special water-based paint used in the back-shop on negatives. Once opaqued, an area would not print. The Free Press would turn the sky blue by using only the cyan printer.

This was a quick solution. Unfortunately there was no time to pull another proof. With fingers crossed, the colour plates were sent to the press room and the big Goss letterpress rumbled into action. As the press rolled and everyone saw the first papers, hearts stopped.

The editor in charge of the front page ran into the newsroom waving one of the first papers. "We've got dog shit on blue linoleum," he bellowed in anger. "We've got to replate for city!"

The flooring picture went out to the district but was pulled and replaced for the city edition. This time the original image was used as transmitted. The sky looked black but it was better than the alternative.

The truth is the blue-black sky is correct. It is an accurate representation of the image captured by many of the photojournalists shooting at the disaster. Transparency film, used by photojournalists at the time, records images differently than electronic television cameras.

Would all those editors have been panicked by the oh-so-dark sky if they had not viewed the actual event themselves on television? I doubt it.