Ten Feet from Eternity

"Ten feet from eternity." That is the phrase I am using to describe my harrowing experience just north of Vulcan the other day. I was driving my van with some of my family, heading off to a gigantic home education convention in Red Deer. The weather was clear, and then it slowly turned bad - very limited visibility, with a dusting of snow on the road and on the windshield. It is the type of driving condition in which you slow down, keep the wipers going and hope it all passes. So, I did slow down, I did keep the wipers going, and actually in about twenty minutes things had actually cleared up significantly. In the meantime, some moron in a semi decided he was in a hurry. Being north of Vulcan maybe he had to get to town for lunch; I do not know. What I do know is that he was passing when there was limited visibility and a dusting of snow on the road and on his windshield. And he was in my lane. It is one of those situations that you say to yourself, I am not here and this is not happening. Well, I was there and it was happening. I literally had nano-seconds to decide what to do. For those of you that recognize a Supreme Being, you would think that perhaps He prompted me. For those of you that don't, perhaps it was mere instinct. I personally would like to thank Someone, so (for other reasons) I choose the former. Within those nano-seconds I simply and carefully edged my van off to the wide shoulder, and some my life flashed by. Well, I actually saw the semi flash by, too. (Some have asked me since about getting the name of the trucking company or license plate. Sorry, but I was trying to do what that chicken always tries to do, namely, get to the other side of the road.) So I lived to write about. I remain a person, not a stat. For whatever reason in life's overall plan, I was spared, while others lie in a cold morgue. No one plans to get killed driving down the highway. However, it happens everyday of the year, somewhere in Canada. When there is a close call with death, a brush with eternity, one needs to take stock of everything and everyone near and dear to him (or her). Unfortunately, time may wear away the keen sense of last week's near-mishap. But it reminds me, and, in turn, this column should remind you, that these happen all the time, but most of the time we are not even aware of them. There is no preachiness (is that a word?) here; close calls are part of our everyday reality. It's just that many of us live to tell about it. So enjoy life to the fullest. Cherish the moments you have with friends and family. Who knows? You may be only a step away from eternity. And remember this: Life is fragile, so handle it with care.

Simple Pleasures

It was refreshing to end up in Milk River the other day, as I enjoyed an exceptional performance of "The Sound of Music." I shared the evening with a number of other Foremostians, some of whom I brought along. It was also one of those Thursday evening outings for the Foremost Seniors. I love those outings, not because I qualify, but because I feel so young when I am around them. Usually when I am in a crowd of people (read: twelve-year-olds) I am seen as the same age as their grandparents. (Thanks a lot, kids.) Meanwhile, back to Austria, er, Milk River. Though I am a fairly typical male, I do like musicals, such as "The Music Man," "Fiddler on the Roof," and of, course, the afore-mentioned, "The Sound of Music." You have heard me rant about the declension of our culture, ad nauseam, in this column before, so I won¹t raise your hackles once more. But I would suggest to you that perhaps the best moral barometer of a culure gone south is its arts - its music, art, dance, stage, and entertainment. If I am wrong, I am not far off. Thus, when people put out $15, only an hour or two of driving (there and back), then can sit back and enjoy almost three hours of good, clean, wholesome entertainment (sans a smooch here or there in the gazebo), I think that¹s money and time well invested. Was this Hollywood? No. Did I see Brad Pitt? No. Did Celine Dion sing? No. It was just a nice, stimulating yet unoffensive evening (yes, that can happen), that I could spend with family and friends. Nothing raunchy, raucous, or risque. I am not sure if I want to head back to the '40s, when, on a Sunday evening, the family (you know, Mr. and Mrs, Beaver and their little Beavers) would gather around the radio in the livingroom, listening to Jack Benny or The Shadow. But I do want to encourage the readers of this column, and perhaps even some actors and directors who might sneak a peek here now and then, to bring back good, wholesome stage productions to our small communities. Methinks we are too sophisticated for our own good. Many have lost the art of going for a walk, playing games with family and friends, reading a good book, and simply enjoying an unencumbered life. These are things I have tried inculcate into my own family. I'm not sure how successful I have been, so I don't want to sound too arrogant. We need to start developing these interests in our kids when they are young, so when they get older they can continue to enjoy them with us. It would be both good for them and good for us. Trouble is, are there any of these great productions within driving distance anymore? One day, I hope to hear that the coulees are alive with the sound of music.