UNB Woodlot: Developments

Fredericton has 30 days to voice opposition to construction of a Costco on the University of New Brunswick Woodlot.

In order to build on the site, the city must issue a bylaw rezoning UNB endowment conservation land to make it endowment development land. It must then be rezoned a second time to allow box store development.

The Daily Gleaner wrote that "the purpose of debuting the bylaw at a formal council meeting is to advise the public that it's now available at the city clerk's office at city hall for examination and written objections may be submitted within the next 30 days."

To voice your opposition to UNB Woodlot development write to the
Office of the City Clerk
City Hall
397 Queen Street
Fredericton, NB E3B 4Y7
Phone: (506) 460-2127
Or email by following this link.

--

Corbett Brook. [here] magazine. December 7, 2006

On the paths around Corbett brook one can see the marsh hills through dry poplar branches and discern in the water the long reflection of the trees. Short hills lay low in the water, turning yellowed grasses to the wind, a pair of ducks bathing and calling in between. Leaves in puddle bottoms have assumed the tones of the wet clay path, broken cattails waver under a sudden drizzle. A mist loosens all definition. The grey shapes of the tree line are interrupted by an orange growth on a long dead birch, alike in colour to the department store signs that peer garishly upon the wetland.

Corbett brook, at the point nearest to the department store, reaches about the length of a soccer pitch. Both the store and brook stand on the University of New Brunswick woodlot, spreading east from the place upper Regent Street rounds out to highway 101. 50 percent of the woodlot’s 1,500-hectare surface has been marked for development since to the university decided to capitalize on the asset, and by 2050 the lot will abound with shops and restaurants. But the plan corresponds with the environmental assessment made in preparation for development, and the other 50 percent, comprised of waterways and old growth forests, will remain untouched.

The separation is a delicate one. A stone’s throw from Corbett brook is a catch pool, ringed with a wire fence, that divides the wetland from the parking lot. A paved lot is not environmentally innocuous; the parked cars it hosts leave patches of motor oil that are washed out with the rain.

“And it’s right up against the buffer,” said Geoff Harding, Development Manager of the local Ducks Unlimited branch. He was surprised by the proximity when he saw Corbett brook on a recent errand.

“There isn’t much space left between the parking lot and the brook. I know that the store and the university went through the processes to get the zoning permits. But in a situation like this there is going to be run-off from the parking lot, and it might not be easy to control the consequences.”

Corbett brook, once a fairly isolated waterway, is an essential part of an ecosystem, feeding forest growth and wildlife. 15 years ago, before the development began, Ducks Unlimited built a water control structure leading into the marsh, stabilizing and enabling changes to the amount of water it contained. The goal was to create a permanent wetland.

Harding said that with run-off the risk of pollution is paired with the potential impact of sedimentation, the distribution of earth and organic matter throughout waterways. If one tosses a stone into the catch-pool, the water that courses up in reply is a pale brown.

“With a paved lot you get a lot of quick runoff, with oil and stuff like that. It hits the buffer before it reaches the brook, but can eventually spill over,” he said.

“Sedimentation happens everywhere, because of forestry and agriculture and the disappearance of trees. When enough of this takes place you have the disappearance of wetlands, and the loss of natural habitats.”

Harding said that Wetlands are critical to wildlife survival and to the overall health of the watershed. Marshes like Corbett brook filter contaminants from our water systems that can detrimentally impact water quality over time. Sedimentation and pollution from run-off could eventually reduce the brook’s cleansing properties. Although New Brunswick has some of the strictest environmental protection laws in Atlantic Canada, the buffer required may not be enough to preserve the integrity of the brook. The proximity of the parking lot could be the first step toward its demise. As the rain continues over the parking lot and ripples the trees mirrored in the brook’s surface, one wonders what image the water will project 15 or 20 years from now.

“This is somewhat typical of how wetland loss happens,” said Harding.

“Not in big huge losses, by being drained, but in small pieces, one at a time. They get chipped away.”

A whir and rumbling in the tunnel, lights climbing round the walls. The airborne filth mists and pushes out, the train approaches. Few choices now, says the old Roger to the young nurse. A child in her lap. The peace of kinship, he thinks to himself, the simple and iconic beauty. Please don't leave me now. There's so much chaos here. The dirt of an age, gathering and gathering, and Old Roger the sentry with his broom, clearing it out again. Underground station 122, Hinton Square Park. One hundred and twenty-second home.
Something in his beard catches his eye and he looks down.
Yes, says the nurse. Nearly Ten o'clock. Another couple of runs. We're running late but really it's better that she sleeps now. I won't chance not getting her down at home. Too much on tomorrow.
The Nurse straightens her cap, smiling. The little girl stirs in her lap. Ah, yes, says Roger, pretending to grasp the logic, and then continues, No place for a young one, of course.
He forces a sandy chuckle and clears his throat.
The nurse runs her fingers through the girl's hair, fixes her collar. Roger gives his push broom an
artful swivel, showering soot. What day is today? Would it make much difference, if I were to know. I know all else that matters, thinks old Roger. He knows the times of the trains and every delay. He knows where the dogs will rupture greasy sacks of refuse. He knows where the water penetrates the ceiling. I needn't idle here. Am I alone here? No, no, I do not think I am alone at all. Transit stations are the locus of human freedom, no attachment but to one's self. The question is moot. This is the sort of power she dreams of, the nursemaid, wrapped up in a child's life. A vibration in his soles, creeping up into the laces of his boots. The last train's advance. Would you like to know why I have stayed here, he says to the nurse.
She looks up, taking a hankerchief from her handbag and bringing it to the sleeping girl's lips. The name on her grey official's badge is Ginger. Certainly, but only another time. She look at him pityingly; he is nauseated; she whispers quickly to the child. Emily, is it? How I would like to speak to young Emily, little girl, sweet and
pretty, Emily, Emily. Old Roger tasted the name, he let the name roil on his his tongue, bristling, whinnying. Such a darling name. Happy Christmas, said the nurse, standing. She brushed soot from her dress.
Yes, and to you. And also you, little one, said roger. Emily, did not look up. They approached the paused train as he turned his back, his grey hands folding calused fingers into familiar grooves. He pushes the broom toward the wall. And waits. He listens. But they are gone when he turns back again.

Saturday, Decemeber 31, 2005.

Christmas, 2006

I slump over the last steps and draw the liqueur bottle from the top drawer, and unloading the remainder into my throat, take again to the stairs.

My father is storming around, and he stops and says

Don’t worry I’m going to stay and take care of it.

And in an instant I see that this might cut me from the ride I need across town. My aunt and uncle are waiting for him and my mother, and their children are playing Clue in the living room.

If you stay it’s only going to perpetuate the fight. You should go; it’s not worth ruining everyone’s night over.

But he is off again. Brian had found a bottle of Smirnoff in Thomas’ gym bag. Thomas plays on my father’s basketball team, and we all stood around while he issued a summary suspension across the dining room table. Thomas called Brian a faggot. Brian told Thomas he was going to be a janitor. Then Brian and I argued about whose evening plans were more important. The loser would watch the kids.

My mother stops Brian at the hall end and asks him what he was doing with someone else’s PEI drivers’ license. Why did you bring this up now, Dad and I are saying. There are red splashes on the wall through the bedroom windows and open doors, and someone yells from downstairs, there’s a fire truck in front of the house. My aunt and uncle are waiting in the driveway.

Sorry, I’m leaving, I can’t take this shit and I’m going.

If you leave I’m going to hit you in the fucking face on the way out the door.

Poetry Post 1.

(Excerpt from the Popol Vuh, translated by Z. Crow)

Are uxe' ojer tzij
waral K'iche' ub'i'.
Waral
xchiqatz'ib'aj wi
xchiqatikib'a' wi ojer tzij,
utikarib'al
uxe'nab'al puch rnojel xb'an pa
tinamit K'iche'
ramaq' K'iche' winaq.

or

This is the root of the ancient word
of this place called the Naked East.
Here
we shall write,
we shall plant the ancient word,
the origin
the beginning of all what has been done in the
Naked East
country of Naked Eastings.

--

the pencils easiest to snap
are those uncoated.
the green, metallic text tears,
the wood splinters brilliantly -
the most satisfying crack
and the book propping the paper
wears the wound.

there is no letter "t" left
on that keyboard.
after a grueling day it bust its joint,
flung free from the system
and left the alphabet short.
remaining letters took the hint
then took off, too.

now i have nothing
to write with or on.
almond eyes cranked slowly shut -
allergies acting up.
a big blue pen slaps sloppy drip
on torn bedsheets
a sorry medium.

chunky-cheeked toddlers -
relatives of mine -
ask what joy comes from ruin:
"why did the pencil crack?"
"why did the letters run?"
with a sore and a void
bloody fists are never fun

--

I recited these words
one by one
only moments ago now-
It must have been you speaking through
the moon I was staring at

and when I hit that car
or when it hit me
and sped off like I wasn't even there
I was shocked to be standing
still on my bike
like an immovable force
and I thought
Damn-

and I was glad to know
that what I'd been sensing all evening
was more than a simple inkling,
indeed a real life prediction
that I faced without hesitation
and did not waver
when it really counted.

But he came back after all
with a flat
and no side mirror,
just about speechless

--

sons of new france

found in the appalachians,
white water moored to the bend
of two birch vessels tethered by the stony autumn
the photographs are unmistakable,
the kinsman drifting in the northern air
like waifs and leaves; my heart unyielding

and I stare from the foot of the dry hills
as the tribal motorists band
the green right lanes, too many hinged on token
animal skins and shine bottles ringing on the air,
there a soft belief that greater truths
lie elsewhere in feather beds, the nimbus,
beheld in infant wonder crowning the
idols of the church adorning them

somehow the smoke rings through the piping asters
and I linger with their image in the book,
uncertain where the motors run these young men through
who waltz through the placid evenings aging
with their liberation songs
and cloud at statues in the deafening parks
where hurried placards glow with the elusive strength
that boils as they, frustrated, daily coalesce
and I strain to point my neck
watching them grapple for the unretrieved
as if to wrest, to throne and worship
the tides slipping back to the sea
and I sense that grief;
not certain where the keyhole was
they grappled for the answer in the dark,
the riddle hiding on the daylit streets and pediments
they lament, without their noble, celebrated oneness;
the broad streams sing in the gentle light of the spring,
day closes over the forgotten fields.