Monday’s vultures

Around noon Monday I was reminded once again by a city dweller that I belong to the breed of vultures.

You see it was the final scheduled council meeting and I was gathering ordinary Calgarians’ opinion of the current council which will soon be dissolved.

The fella looked decent. He was reading a newspaper when I approached him at the Olympic Plaza.

He let me explain to him what I was writing about before he told me off.

“I don’t talk to reporters,” he said.

“You vultures!” as he started to walk away.

I grabbed the paper he was reading and went after him.

“You forgot your paper, something that vultures like me produced,” I said with a smile.

He grabbed it from my hand.

“You vulture supporter!” I said as I walked past him.

I expected he’d call my bosses to complain and I was glad to be out in the field scrounging for carcasses.

July 26, 2010

Sunday’s wrappings

We didn’t see the newlyweds open our present, because we were late coming to the bride’s house for opening the gifts.

But we heard how they were both so excited when they saw the box the containing the items we bought for them.

“Wow! It’s a paper shredder!” exclaimed the groom.

But that was only the box. What’s inside were kitchen and bathroom items.

I can’t help but reflect how deceiving wrappings or boxes can be, which also apply to people we meet along the way.

It’s difficult to immediately get to know someone, because people come with a whole bunch of wrappings, masks.

Some people come in a rough wrap, but inside they’re polished and refined.

Others appear shiny, attractive and beautiful, but once you take a look inside there’s nothing desirable.

Some folks come to you wrapped in red, but deep inside they’re actually blue.

However, there are people who come with no wrap at all and you can pretty much see through them.

But they are rare.

They’re the ones I really desire to be part of my life.

I know I’m still in the process presenting myself, unwrapped, unpretentious, unvarnished.

Like I said, it’s a process, and sometimes it takes a while.

July 25, 2010

Saturday’s wedding and ghetto thoughts

Weddings are an event I rarely attend, although I have witnessed several when I was still training to become a priest.

On Saturday my partner and I were invited to one by family friend in Saskatoon.

It was our friend’s daughter who got married, in a simple but beautiful setting of a Lutheran church.

At the reception we were assigned to a table where those who have immediate connections to the family are either work colleagues of the bride’s parents or parents of the bride’s friends.

“And so how did you know the family,” an elderly woman beside me asked.

“My partner and the bride’s dad work together,” I said, pointing to the empty chair beside, because my partner went to get drinks.

“Your partner?” she asked, looking baffled.

“Yes, he’s my partner,” I said.

There’s a period of awkward silence that ensued.

After some minutes, she broke it, by asking what it is that I do.

I told her I work for a newspaper as a reporter.

She seemed to have perked up, because there’s something we could talk about. Her ex-husband is a journalist.

We kept talking about newspaper business, while the rest of the table joined in the conversation from time to time.

The table talk shifted to more mundane topics such as when we’d get a chance to get our food.

As the night progressed, the atmosphere became more relaxed, as one of our the women at the table asked to see my crucifix ring.

“Where did you get this,” asked the woman, as she showed it to her friend.

I told her it was a present from my dad and was bought in the Philippines.

“It’s really lovely,” she said.

The dance had begun by then and some couples were tearing the dance floor.

I had wanted to take my partner and dance with him.

I know that our friends wouldn’t be offended.

But I wanted to be more considerate.

We didn’t need to make a public display.

Some people might get put off.

Apparently, I’ve been putting people off lately, by being bold and pushing the envelope.

I think I’d take a break, contemplate and identify who my genuine and real friends are.

For now, I’d dance with my partner in the privacy of our home, and keep my crude and unappealing writing circulated only in our ghetto where rainbow colours are divine.

July 24, 2010

Friday’s plea for funeral help

Fridays can be crazy with stories coming out from every way possible, and I had hope this one to be quiet.

We are heading to Saskatoon early Saturday morning and I didn’t want to be too tired the day before.

My days started with a piece on a young woman upset about her prized car being wrecked by a roadway speeder, who didn’t care staying at the scene, instead bolted at the first opportunity.

Well, the speeder told the young woman to pull over to the side of the road, and then drove away leaving the victim in shock and tears.

Then a couple of video opportunities came along.

I don’t turn down video shoots. It’s my cup of tea.

Just when I was wrapping my stuff up, the relative of the Medicine Hat baby got back to me telling me  the parents are willing to do an interview with me, release the baby’s name and give us a copy of her photo.

This was the first time the parents would be talking about the death of their baby.

Everything halted for me.

That was my important story of the day.

It’s a scoop and I couldn’t focus on other stories I was working on.

I sat by my phone as if it was going to give me the best story ever.

The 30-minute wait turned into two hours.

I was supposed to receive a call from the parents.

I didn’t have their number, so I must wait.

It was a tad past my shift when the important call came.

I wasn’t leaving my desk until I’ve spoken to the girl’s family, there were so many questions I wanted to ask and this could be the last chance I have.

The voice on the other was expectedly tentative.

He was just about to answer questions related to the shocking death of his daughter and his inability to provide her a decent funeral.

The young dad gave me short answers.

I didn’t need long, convoluted pleas.

I just wanted him to tell what his family needs from others who can help and how he and his wife are holding up.

At some point he gave the phone to his wife’s uncle because he was too distraught to even talk.

The baby’s mom was there too, but she didn’t have the energy and motivation to talk.

The grief her baby’s death has caused is too immeasurable.

When journalists deal with stories like this, one must set aside his or her emotion.

It doesn’t mean one doesn’t feel for the victims.

A news reporter’s job is to relate the story accurately and without a cloud of personal bias.

“Can you make sure this woman, (the suspect) feel terribly bad when she reads the story?” the uncle of the grief-stricken mom asked me.

I didn’t respond to that, although I was tempted to say, “For sure.”

Here’s the piece I wrote and if you want to help out this family, just go to a TD bank branch and say you want to make a donation to a trust fund called Sarah Hemstra for Mercedes.

July 23, 2010

Thursday’s lead chase on a dead tot

It was a slow Thursday in the newsroom.

But that doesn’t stop us from finding stories.

We have a paper to produce.

I was tasked to write a follow up piece on the death of an 18-month-old Medicine Hat toddler, who was severely injured in a day home and later died in a Calgary hospital.

I needed to find out what the baby’s name is, get info about her parents, confirm the name of the woman accused related to her being injured and potentially her death.

I wasn’t getting anywhere, because police weren’t prepared to name the baby or release the cause of her death.

Medical examiner was still working on her autopsy report.

Officers weren’t also ready to officially name the suspect. They were waiting for more charges, more serious ones before they name her.

And then we received an e-mail from one of the baby’s relatives, telling us the parents need help, financial help, so they could bury the tot properly.

That’s a big lead for a follow-up story, because the baby’s relatives have not spoken to the media at all.

The big task for me was to convince the relative to give me the name of the baby and send me some pictures to go with the story.

The relative didn’t give me a phone number to call him.

Only thing I have was his e-mail.

Sometimes that’s enough, at others that doesn’t help.

I sent the man an e-mail explaining to him that it would be a more compelling plea if the paper can print the baby’s name and her photograph.

His initial e-mail to the paper indicated he wasn’t able to release the name and photo.

I had to explain to him there was nothing illegal about releasing those information as long as there’s permission from parents.

It won’t affect police investigation. It may actually help.

And it will definitely help trying to convince readers to help the family.

I also have to be cautious, whether this relative is for real.

I didn’t have any proof, he’s really a relative of the girl’s grieving mom, because I didn’t have the young mom’s name.

All we knew about her was that she’s a 21-year-old, minimum wage earner, who lost her daughter recently.

As a journalist, we always want proof that story sources are telling us the truth, and sometimes one e-mail just doesn’t do it.

I didn’t hear from the relative as my shift drew to a close.

July 22, 2010

More canola on a Wednesday

After sharing pho, the yummilicious Vietnamese soup, at one of our favourite restaurants in Edmonton, with my partner, I decided it was time to hit the road again on Wednesday.

My partner’s colleague asked me why I was in a rush to head back to Calgary.

“I’m going to shoot some canola fields,” I said.

“Canola? Also known as rapeseed? Isn’t that boring?” he asked me.

It can be boring yes, but that goes without saying for anything that one isn’t interested in.

A car race, no matter how high-octane can be boring to those who doesn’t care what adrenaline rush does to drivers.

An animated storytelling can be a bore for others if they’d rather see the words in a piece of paper and read them rather than hear them.

I’m not saying that there aren’t things or events that can objectively stir people’s interest, but people’s reactions to them vary.

Since I’m a photographer I like the explosions of colours when I see canola fields, against a blue sky, fluffy clouds and some touches of greens.

The scene always makes me want to stop, gaze at them and capture the beauty through my lens.

Although I worked in central Alberta for a year, I never had the chance to explore some areas in Camrose, and south of Hwy 21 to Delburne, Trochu and Three Hills.

So I did Wednesday afternoon.

I wasn’t rushing and made several stops whenever I found a new spot that has different possibilities for photographing canola.

At one stop, I saw a deer in the middle of a yellow field, but I wasn’t quick enough to put together my camera to capture the image.

The deer went hopping away from me when it noticed I was watching.

But that’s all right, some images are meant to remain embedded in one’s visual memory and not in a camera card.

The drive from Edmonton to Calgary usually takes about three hours, but since I was stopping and snapping pictures, it took about five for this trip.

I was satisfied and refreshed when I got home, ready for work the next day.

Then, I remember to call my mom who turned 61.

Her birthday falls on a Thursday, but since the Philippines is ahead by 15 hours I made the phone call.

She sounded happy although there was no grand celebration for her birthday this year.

I wanted to tell her about my trip to canola country, but I think she’d appreciate it more through photos.

One day she’d see one of those beautiful fields. I hope soon.

July 21, 2010

Tuesday’s canola explosions

It was Tuesday when I realized I needed a post-Stampede get away.

Off to north of Calgary I decided to go after I was done with my chores.

My partner has gone to work to Edmonton, I thought I’d go there as well although there was nothing I had planned to do.

I packed my cameras just in case, I got the inspiration to create images along the way or in Edmonton where I used to go around on my days off and shoot images.

I’ve only driven for 30 minutes outside the city when I hit the golden landscape that I used to love a lot when I was working in Stettler: Miles and miles of canola field.

I had been in Canada for five years before I was first introduced to canola, which others insist on calling rapeseed.

My friends from Saskatchewan were the ones who first told me about the beauty of these yellow blooms, but it was in Stettler where I deeply explored the many possibilities of photographing canola.

As I stopped beside a golden yellow field by the highway, memories of me getting bitten by mosquitoes, my clothes capturing yellow spots and my car windshield dotted with dead canola-eating bugs, all came back to me.

During my off hours in Stettler, I used to drive in the rural areas to find fields that offer different perspectives.

A lonely abandoned shack with growths of the yellow-flowering plant around it, a colleague walking around the field with some canola blossoms in her hair, rain coming down on the oil-producing flowers, were some of my favourites, but I don’t remember where I saved these images.

Sometimes I would get lost driving around central Alberta for hours and I’d be hoping that my gas tank could squeeze some more power as my dash signal light announced it was just about dried.

At other times, I’d be stuck chatting with farmers, who I thought didn’t have time to waste with strangers.

And there was an instance when I was chased out of a property, by an angry owner who didn’t care for a nosy reporter, no less a brown one.

But the charm of the golden yellow fields never ceases to attract me and distract me from driving.

I almost always had to stop by the highway and gaze at its mesmerizing and alluring explosion of yellowness.

And so I did last Tuesday and that made my day a little bit better.

July 20, 2010

Monday’s outburst

Monday was second to the last council meeting before the election in October and for the first time I received a public reprimand from the mayor.

It was a long day. I worked a 14.5-hour shift.

The meeting started earlier than usual, as politicians who wanted to be seen with at the Ralph Klein park opening, decided they’d start work 30 minutes earlier, so they could take 2.5-hour break right in the middle of the day.

The agenda was packed. Tons of notices of motion from one alderman, who’s running for mayor. The motions weren’t significant, at least to Sun readers. But I think to other news media consumers, because none of the reporters paid attention to the alderman’s motions.

When council resumed its meeting, they immediately went to in camera discussions (reads: we don’t want the media to know about them because they’re too important and potentially replete with salacious details).

The mayor told us they’d be behind closed doors no longer than 1.5 hours.

That was 2 p.m.

The next time we saw politicians again, it was already 5 p.m.

Patience is a virtue, so says Socrates. Did he really say that?

But patience sometimes is one thing reporters lack. Still we wait, and wait, and wait, until we couldn’t.

At 6 p.m. council was slated to go for another break and would resume at 7 p.m., but by law they have to stop the meeting at 9:30 p.m., although they could decide to keep going.

It’s an hour past my shift when they broke off for dinner.

I’ve written the stories, at least the skeleton of them by that time.

After dinner, I fleshed them out and wrote two items with anticipated results of council’s decision, so when they make the actual decision, I only had to do a bit of dusting and the piece goes to my editor.

The meeting resumed at 7 p.m. and it dragged.

My deadline was fast approaching and I still haven’t filed anything, it was close to 9 p.m.

When they finally made a decision on one item, which meant I could file the story, one alderman decided to challenge it with a motion arising.

And as the chamber went into a split-second silence, I screamed while inside my booth, “I’m not going to change my lead!”

The mayor basically told off the alderman and then said, “Members of the media up in the booth, we heard that.”

A colleague asked me immediately, “What did you say now?”

And a few minutes later, the mayor’s right hand man was in the booth, telling me the mayor sent him there because it’s been noisy.

OK, it wasn’t actually a reprimand, but when I’m tired and have bee working for several hours beyond your shift and my vision started to blur, I tend to go for the dramatic, that a reminder becomes a rebuke.

The mayor was right, chamber observers must remain quiet, unless they’re addressed.

But a spur of the moment reaction usually is beyond one’s control.

Perhaps my booth needs more sound proofing.

July 19, 2010

Sunday I realized I used to love the Stampede

Just like the proverbial adage, the show must go on, in spite of a rough Saturday night, I was at the Stampede grounds as soon as I had a shower and donned my cowboy attire Sunday.

It was the final day of Calgary’s summer extravaganza.

It’s been a rough edition for the Stampede, with six horses dying, weather not co-operating instead of sending sunshine every day it hailed and rained forcing cancellation of shows, and then the massive mishap at the fairground injuring 10 youngsters.

Not to mention the lowering number of attendance, although it wasn’t significant numbers.

Still, attendance was down and has been declining since a record was set in 2006.

Is the Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth becoming not that great any more?

Although it still attracts guests in the million, I guess many who grew up knowing and enjoying the event are becoming sick of its predictability.

They brought in ice skating superstars, but even that show didn’t have a full house. Every time I took a peek, there are many vacant seats. The Sun’s office is at the Corrall, where the likes of Elvis Stojko, Vaugh Chipeur, Tessa Virtue and Scott Moir, all skating greats, met their fans after each show.

The food is about the same, everything deep-fried.

I tried the pulled pork parfait for a change. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t that salivating either. It’s like your regular fare put on a cup and slathered with sauce.

I didn’t see any rodeo this year, although I was at the grandstand a couple of times, one time stalking Vince Vaughn.

Yeah, he’s hot-looking but who really cares about him. His fans I’m sure.

Of the five days I worked, I missed picking up my free money from the media lounge, which is quite all right although it helps a bit when you’re food budget is limited.

I think what’s more significant for me this year was the number of times I was stopped by security and not allowed to go in to certain areas I used to be able to walk through freely.

At one point there was somebody from Stamede’s media group witnessing how a security wouldn’t let me in to a reporters’ box.

“That’s Renato,” she said.

The man just looked at her, didn’t say anything at first then said, “I don’t know him and he’s accreditation doesn’t say he could be here.”

My colleagues were about two metres from me, I came to talk to one of them about a story lead.

The elderly security finally let me in.

The Stampede flak smiled at me, but didn’t say anything.

I used to love the Stampede.

I can’t say that I still do, with all of the behind the scenes happenings related to it that I’d rather not discuss.

But when you’re sent to cover it, you go.

That’s what we do.

July 18, 2010

Longing Harvey Milk is alive on a Saturday

Harvey Milk is one of my favourite activists.

He’s dead.

And I wished he wasn’t so I could call him on Saturday.

I wanted to tell him how I cried over spilled milk.

I’m sure he’d tell me to stop such silly action, dry up my tears and move on.

I’m equally sure, he’d advise me not to let anybody dictate my actions.

Saturday was an awakening for me, that everywhere I turn there would be hypocrisy.

It’s part of the lifeblood that sadly sustains humanity.

July 17, 2010