Suddenly, the city has become aware of the fragility of our daily lives and the systems on which we depend
Water, water every where, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water every where, Nor any drop to drink.
Those of us of a certain age and education will recognize those famous lines from Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s 1798 epic and allegorical poem The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. What we may not realize is the lesson it has handed down for more than two centuries: That a single, thoughtless bad act can have large and lasting consequences.
Nobody sensible is accusing the City of Calgary of any thoughtless bad act, but the ongoing water crisis leaves a lot of questions unanswered. An aside to those harassing the workers doing the tough work of restoring the system — you are the very definition of moronic. The same goes for the citizens who are looking for someone to blame.
Seemingly, there was no hint that such a major feeder line for the city’s water supply was about to collapse. We are told the pipe should have lasted 100 years, not just half that time. Are we the only city with feeder lines made of this material?
What lessons should every city take from this catastrophe? (Yes, catastrophe. When a city the size of Calgary has to issue a boil-water advisory for some of its neighbourhoods, that’s a major step. And, indeed, it brings to the top of mind the situation in so many First Nations communities. But that’s for another conversation.)
Suddenly, the city has become aware of the fragility of our daily lives and the systems on which we depend. What would the rest of us have done if the entire city were under a boil-water advisory? Surely we can’t just ignore the future once this crisis has passed; we can’t just go back to our wasteful habits.
(A bit of humour: A Calgary friend has had to tape off the fridge door icemaker to stop her European grandchildren from playing with such “magic,” as ready ice cubes don’t figure large in German kitchens.)
Calgarians don’t have wells or septic systems. When one turns on a tap, we expect water to come out and run until it is sufficiently hot or cold. As for drinking it, only the Pecksniffian cohort would buy bottled water to drink. Which in a weird way brings us to the grocery shelves filled regularly with water of all flavours and, clearly, there must be a market for it. At the moment, though, the major grocery chains are hauling in giant flats of huge water bottles, already counting profits from their sale.
Why anyone in Calgary would resort to buying water in normal times escapes me, but I belong to the generation that survived many of the childhood diseases we have now almost eradicated with vaccines and medical attention. (Note to Calgary: Stop being idiots and put the fluoride back in our drinking water. Compare the childhood dental cavities with Edmonton, which has naturally fluoridated water. What’s the point of a national dental program if there are cities like Calgary that listened to the scaremongers and, without consultation, de-fluorinated our water?)
What we have taken for granted — the ready availability of potable water — is a small lesson to be taken seriously.
It was the English poet Coleridge who taught us. The old sailor of the poem is the only survivor of a ship’s crew, even as he is the one responsible for the situation. When he kills the innocent albatross that had been following the ship — a bird that represents fortune and mystery — he sets in motion the tragedy that subsequently befalls the ship and its crew.
Even replacing the crucifix around his neck with the dead bird — as gruesome as that sounds — did not stop the inevitable. The poet wants us to remember the consequences of the many big and small decisions we make in life.
As a reminder, here is the prophetic last verse of the allegory:
He went like the one who hath had stupor, And is of sense forlorn; A sadder and wiser man, He rose the morrow morn.
Catherine Ford is a regular columnist.