Mean streets

It’s been a weekend of contrasts. I was canvassing Saturday afternoon for a few hours in Burlington, and it started out in frustration. I made my way to the designated poll, parked, got my materials ready and set out – only to find that the whole neighbourhood consisted of low-rise condo buildings that I couldn’t get into. And I sure tried.

So I headed south to finish off a poll I’d started a couple of weeks earlier, in an area of upscale homes and more condos – bungalow-style and designed for older people who have downsized from more lavish digs. Things went very well here, and I was truly surprised at the amount of face and name recognition that happened on the doorstep. But these streets are unique – no kids, no dogs, no traffic, just quiet. I was the only person walking. In fact, the only person outside. Truly, this is a car society, since it is physically impossible to walk the dozens of blocks even to the nearest convenience store.

But I guess this is what the folks living here want. The bungalow condos are just a couple of years old, exquisitely landscaped and groomed, all with three car garages and intricate stone walkways. I rang one bell, and the door opened about half an inch. I could see nothing inside but a dark vertical strip, and heard a voice asking me the nature of my visit.

I spoke to the crack, ”It’s Garth Turner. I’ve come to introduce myself as the Conservative candidate here in this neck of the woods.” The woman’s voice told me to wait a minute, then the door opened onto a darkened room, and I could make out the figure of a man lying prone on a reclining chair with a blanket over him. The woman was beside me now, in her sixties, I figured, and she said her husband was resting, but wanted to meet me.

I went over and sat beside him, and he extended a gnarled hand for me to shake. Turns out he is afflicted with serious arthritis, and this home was selected carefully for its maintenance-free exterior, main floor master bedroom and, yes, the quiet. They are supporters, and the few minutes of hospitality were enjoyable and appreciated. He made a point of telling me he once developed, owned and managed the largest poultry operation in the country – six farms with nine million birds. Now he was in that chair. It made me feel guilty for complaining to Dorothy how my feet felt after three hours of door-knocking. Every year, month, day of health is a blessing.

Sunday was a tough one. In north Oakville, the heat was relentless, soaring past thirty degrees, and the streets I’d chosen were almost devoid of any shade – no trees other than bushes. Lawns here are brown stubble, burned to the roots by a summer of intense drought and withering sunshine. It took only twenty minutes or so to start feeling the sweat tricking down the small of my back.

Knocking on doors on a day like this is no fun, especially when huge numbers of people are not home. I was also in an area with a high concentration of people who did not speak English, or were not from cultural backgrounds that allowed opening the front door to a stranger. I went blocks and blocks without meeting anyone – just leaving my literature in the mailbox or sticking it in the door. The temperature continued to rise, and the streets were empty. I heard music coming from around the corner, and a Slurpee truck emerged, grinding down the pavement. No children rushed from these empty homes, and the driver looked bored, hot and desperate.

Finally I canvassed a crescent of two dozen impressive-looking homes – obviously an infill project just a year or two old, with serious architecture. As it turned out, this was the unfriendliest street I have encountered yet this campaign. No, it was not populated with rabid Liberals, just mean people. Some refused to answer the door, just standing there looking at me through the sidelights. Others sent children to shake their heads at me through the glass. One guy yelled at me to get the hell off his driveway. Only one resident opened the door, was friendly and even turned out to be a Conservative. From him I learned these homes had been built on a piece of land owned by a retired Ford worker one street over.

One of the homes – a smaller one – is currently for sale, listed at $1,095,000. So, the Ford guy probably pocketed six million dollars for his big back yard, where a bunch of mostly-miserable people now live. I’m glad they found each other.

I came home and told my wife I had a crappy afternoon. She reminded me that I don’t need to do this. No election has been called. There’s no evidence my opponents are knocking on doors. It’s hot, she said. Nobody expects candidates on their doorstep. And she thinks I’m going to win anyway.

Of course I’ll win. After going to a few thousand homes, I know that. So long as the national campaign does not come off the rails and the national media doesn’t go more postal on us, there is no doubt of the outcome in Halton. But, I cannot control what the leader says or what the campaign gurus decide or what lies and innuendos the Liberals throw at us.

So, I will carry on with what I can control. One door at a time. One street, mean or otherwise – until I have walked every step there is to take.