There’s a joke in my family that when we are chatting on the phone they can actually hear the government listening in. It’s because I’m one of those people who believe that a democracy requires the best of its citizenry, and since the only thing I’m reasonably proficient at – on a good day when the wind is in the south and my medication is working – is writing, I write letters.
I’m not picky about who I write the letters to. Every political leader has received the inky end of my wrath, although I must admit that some of my best have been sent to Prime Minister Harper. I suppose it’s the hidden bully in me that sees that mop-haired, lumpy profile and wants to rap him on the knuckles for getting too big for his ill-fitting breeches. No matter how brutal I am, I always receive a very polite reply from some underling, assuring me that the Prime Minister eagerly appreciates every missive from the electorate. If I’ve written an email, the returning note from the PM’s Office will often come with a website link to the PC party so I can make a donation. They’ve received a note or too, as well.
It’s not only politicians who must suffer my communiqués. One of the best letters I ever wrote was to the Investors Group, a financial consulting company headquartered in Winnipeg. After the collapse of the markets in 2008, we discovered that we had not been receiving the best advice. I summoned all my indignation to craft a zinger of a letter that eventually made its way to the president of the company. My verbal attack didn’t make any difference to our bank account, but it did do my soul a lot of good. Of these small rewards my good days are made.
I did receive cash compensation from the Toronto-Dominion Bank after one of my stingers landed on the butt of some executive.
The Royal Bank heard my cries of dismay and sent me a box of chocolates. The sweets were shipped from Montreal and arrived at my front door via courier. My letters have been responsible for investigations in organizations as diverse as Century 21 and the Alberta Motor Association. I even like to think I’m responsible for changes made to the way customers are notified of incoming orders at the Home Depot.
After waiting two years for back surgery, then enduring a week of hell in the Foothills Hospital, I sent a letter to the Premier, my local MLA, the provincial Ombudsman, and the head of the Alberta Medical Association. I never heard from the MLA, the Ombudsman sent me a grumpy note with a two-inch thick document to fill out, and the Premier’s form letter promised me everything without delivering squat. The best reply was from the head of the Medical Association who blamed everything on the politicians, then reprimanded me for writing letters on my computer while recovering from back surgery.
I’m not naïve enough to believe in the whole scheme of things that my frantic scribblings amount, as Bogie would say, to a hill of beans. But each of us must do what we can to ensure that those in charge regularly receive a heartburn-inducing memento from the electorate. It might result in mysterious clicks on the telephone, but if the “spooks” want to listen in to Aunt Edna’s menopausal fantasies, who am I to deny them their small pleasures?
