Man of letters

Ian Inrig said the quiet bits out loud. He was unapologetically direct. He preferred that others spoke the same way. But even as I write this, I sense Ian about to interject sharply in a deep, rich baritone, “Let me say this about that,” before embarking on a wellenunciated and forceful rebuttal. Few ideas or ambitions withstood Ian’s assessment, comment or critique.

Criticism is currently out of favour. More than ever in the past 50 years, people feel they must keep their opinions to themselves— to self-censor, according to a longterm study conducted by political scientists James Gibson and Joseph Sutherland.

Ian wasn’t constrained by such inhibitions. He understood in his bones that civil society relies upon examining and reexamining power—and those who wield it in our name. He needed to challenge the elite and defend the vulnerable.

He wrote letters. Lots of them. On a vast array of topics—current and historical. Local and global. Occasionally sentimental, but always seeking to shape the public discourse. It mattered not all whether his words succeeded in informing a decision or altering someone’s perspective. Once his views were released upon the world—his job was done— his conscience eased.

Ian passed away last week. He will rest well knowing he lived a full life. He leaves behind his loving wife, Carol—a marriage that endured for 68 years. He leaves three accomplished children and a clutch of interesting grandchildren. He served in the Canadian military, separating the Greeks and Turks on Cyprus. He was in Germany when the wall was erected in Berlin.

He was in Nevada in the mid-1950s to observe a test of an atomic bomb. The US military had built a town in the desert on a dried-up lake bed. Pigs, sheep and mice served as surrogates for humans, but otherwise, this was a regular town. Cars. Electricity. Toasters. Cereal bowls with fresh milk.

Ian described the scene: American soldiers were posted about a kilometre away from the town. Canadian and other international observers were positioned further out. Before the blast, all were told to turn their backs to the detonation, to form their fists into the shapes of potatoes and push them deep into their eyesockets—to protect this delicate tissue.

When the blast came, Ian recalled a brilliant white light illuminating every bone in his hands—as if all the flesh were gone. Then he felt a powerful gust of wind from the blast, knocking him and his colleagues to the ground. He got to his feet just as the blast wind hit the far ridge, rolled over and returned with similar speed and force, knocking them over again. They would later march into the destroyed town to witness the impact— to see the power with their own eyes.
He later battled the Canadian Department of Defence—writing letters—seeking compensation for his fellow soldiers who had witnessed such tests—men who had been exposed to extraordinary levels of radiation. In 2009, then Defence Minister Peter McKay announced that these veterans would receive $24,000 each.

Ian continued writing letters to the Defence Department urging more compassionate support for veterans. But his pointed pen was already finding other vestiges of idle comfort. He was a passionate advocate for the Picton hospital—as the hospital corporation was draining it of precious resources.

He had ideas about the County economy, tourism, heritage protection, rules separating cow smell from neighbours, and the size of council and roundabouts. (There are a great many intersections in Prince Edward County that Ian believed could be improved with a roundabout.)

His comments could be pointed. His words hard. He had little interest in diplomacy. He was neither strategic nor calculating. He said what was on his mind. But, significantly, he was prepared to change his mind if he heard a better argument. And despite his relentless questions and fruitless quest for answers, he was always good-humoured and modest in his pursuit of a public conversation.

Sadly, our institutions don’t engage with the community much anymore—maybe they never did. Instead, they issue statements; they conduct tightly choreographed ‘consultations’. When that fails to quell the rabble, they threaten to litigate. (See the village of Ste-Pétronille, QC, last week.) Ian felt the pointy—and costly—end of being an institutional irritant. But it didn’t change his behaviour. Or his feisty outlook.

Ian felt it his duty to push back against institutional arrogance. It was his responsibility to cause discomfort among the complacent elite who believe they should be sheltered from needy masses.

His mind was sharp to the end—though his body had been letting him down in recent years. He and Carol moved to Ottawa a couple of years ago at the urging of his children. He endured that for a year. But he had grown up in the County and had retired here. This was home. So, about eight months ago, he and Carol gave notice and moved back to Picton.

Ian went wherever he chose.

rick@wellingtontimes.ca