Kilmeny Liana Jordyn

The guy in the tire shop in Great Falls told me that he was a grandfather already. He was only 42, but had gained his present status through having married a woman who had her first child at fourteen – and that "child" now had children. So I suppose if you want to be really technical, he was a step-grandfather, but who cares - as long as the kids get presents.

Then when I got home I heard about Van Morrison who is a father once more, but he's 64. He, of the "brown-eyed girl" fame is not married to the mother, but is in a so-called committed relationship, his third or fourth committed relationship, I believe.

Uhmm, we probably need to look up the word "committed" again in the dictionary. In today's zany world, "committed" probably means dedicated to one thing until you lose interest in it and toss it away like a out-dated toy.

Let me momentarily link the guy from Northern Ireland with the guy from northern Montana: Morrison's first daughter, from one of his earlier commitments, is almost as old as the gramps from Montana. (No, Horace, I am not making this up.)

Into this world of kid grandparents and elder parents comes Kilmeny Liana Jordyn Mosher. As I write this, she has been at her mother's side for eighteen hours. Many would argue that she is less than a day old; others would argue that she is nine months and a day old. I personally stand firmly, clearly, and rationally in the latter camp.

One wonders where in the world her parents come up with such a combination of names, especially the first one. Well, I don't know for certain, but it apparently shows up somewhere in the annals of Canada's favourite redhead, Anne of Green Gables. Not having read a lot of Anne of Green Gables within the past month – or past decade, for that matter – I can only tell you what I heard, not what I read. It also has Celtic roots, adding to its intrigue.

I thought Craiganne or Craiglynn or even Craigmeny would have been a great name for my/our first granddaughter. (You have made the connection by now, haven't you?) For many of you, having grand-kids is, as they say, old hat. For those of us who are just starting out, it's a novelty, another untrodden path.

It's is also a supreme joy to think that a committed couple – in the true sense, not a merely cultural sense – have been blessed with a fully developed human being. How that all comes together, and I don't mean the birds and bees part, is beyond me. It's actually beyond any qualified scientist or philosopher, for that matter. Human birth transcends all science know-how. To see everything so perfectly formed, so meshed together, so fully functioning, is nothing less than a miracle.

Personally, at 42, I was still having kids (not grand-kids), but at 64, I trust that many more of my kids (not me) will be having kids of their own. And I plan to be still involved in a committed relationship with the same woman I have been for decades already.

If there is anything that has been reinforced in my thinking since I heard of Kilmeny's birth is this: We need to get serious about what I call "generational integrity." I just made that term up, suggesting that we as parents (and now grandparents) need to take our (grand)parenting stewardship seriously and lovingly.

It's crucial for Kilmeny and it's crucial for the future of our nation.

Have Yourselves a Thin Christmas

It's hard to believe that the big day has come and gone. The fat guy in the red suit – that would be cousin Alfred – has already headed back north, somewhere to a mound between Three Hills and Two Hills. (In Alberta lingo, that would make it one hill.) And talk about stuffed turkey(s)! I don't know which is more stuffed, the turkey before it's consumed or the ones after it's consumed.

There are two jobs that will never go out of style in the days that follow Christmas – a return clerk at Wal-Mart and a seamstress. Seamstress? That's an old term for "one who sews," and (s)he will always be busy through to the end of January, turning tight waistlines into the shapes of small counties.

It is terribly unfortunate that we all tend to eat too much over the holidays. I often make cracks about it (read the above), and in general, we all lament the extra calories we take in over this time of the year. This tends to be followed by the primary New Year's Resolution, namely, a plan to shed those extra ten pounds that those Christmas indulgences contributed to. I'll, uh, eat to that.

Sometime next week, I plan to head south for the day, and one of my stops will be the (recently-rebuilt) Golden Corral in Great Falls. The joy of eating whatever I want and how much as I want at the same sitting is countered by the disgust I feel by watching others do the same. That sounds like I'm a hypocrite, so let me re-phrase it: I love the variety that a classy buffet offers, and I like to dabble in as much as I can – operative word is dabble. My outrage is when many (very obese people) load up, wolf down, and head back, time after time after time. I'm thinking of a front-end loader when I write this.

I even heard of one buffet that finally turned down a repeat customer because he ate too much at each meal. Only in Mississippi, they say, only in Mississippi.

Meanwhile, back at the fat rant: One of the gifts that I wanted to leave with people at large (no pun intended) last week was the gift of Self-Control. There is no greater need when it comes to our general eating habits. Whether it is that spoiled brat who won't eat his veggies or that overweight thug who has thirds of everything, self-control is the missing ingredient. Perhaps if Dad and Mom had trained the kid, the adult wouldn't have so many out-of-control issues.

Christmas is a wonderful time of year, apart from any historical-biblical angle. It is a great time to re-connect through actual visits, phone calls, and newsletters. It is a happy time to slow down and take it easy with family and friends. And who can forget the gifts? Even this year I got some great ones that I actually needed.

But the spending and eating and stressing that is out of control is the part that bothers me. Somehow, and maybe this is sort of a vow or goal for the upcoming year, it would be to reign in the unchecked budget, the uncontrolled appetite, and unorganized plans. Whatever your take is on the original Christmas – and please note that I said 'Christmas' – try to organize for a simpler fare for next year. Start now, by laying out some general ground rules for what you are and aren't going to do, whether it be spending or eating.

In the meantime, if you need a seamstress, I have one in mind. She runs a neat outfit in Lethbridge; it's called "Waist Not, Want Not."

The Best Christmas Gift

I don't believe I have lost my primitive curiosity for Christmas presents with my name on them. I understand, at this point of writing, that there are some under the Scotch pine from Cranbrook with my name on them. This is good. All is right with the world.

It is everything I can do within my power to not get down, grab the gifts and shake them.

At my age, I have essentially everything I need – and if I really want it, I would rather go out and buy it myself. I know what type of book, tie, mug, and CD that I want. However, I would not be so crass as to show my disappointment if my child or student were to buy me something I didn't want. I would at least mumble a feigned delight, then move on to another round of egg nog.

Donate it to the Post, yes; make a stink about, no.

But beyond my little jurisdiction down here in the Back Seventy, I would love to give some gifts to others who are in desperate need of them. You see, in the broad range of issues plaguing our world – that would be Alberta, Canada, our friends to the south, and every other nation on this globe – there are many gifts that they need, gifts that they don't have enough of.

For starters, I would give every leader of every country two gifts each: Wisdom and Compassion. Leadership is thankless task – just ask any middle manager or parent – and no matter what one does, there will always be critics. But there is no need to exacerbate any situation with selfish, insensitive, and short-sighted decisions. So, Mister Premier, Prime Minister, President and Ruler-for-Life, lead your people with the gift of wise compassion. It will likely make your people more contented, run your economy more smoothly, and leave your cities more secure. It could also quite likely get you re-elected.

Another gift I would leave under a tree is that of Common Sense. There are a lot of trees that need this one: The afore-mentioned leaders, plus all those responsible for children (eg., parents and teachers), and I would even throw in peace officers of every stripe, need a heavy dose of common sense. It seems when people rule with a code book they leave their common sense behind. Common sense doesn't mean breaking the rules; it means just bending them a little.

Self-control is a gift that so many today need. They need it when it comes to their out-of-control tempers, to eating and sleeping habits, to indulgent and inter-personal behaviour, for starters. A generation that has been given so much, like our under-30's, seems to respond with short fuses, ingratitude, and disconnectedness. Hang out at a mall some night for a sociological study of the species. You may frightened at what the future looks like.

While there are so many other gifts that I would like to leave under everyone else's tree, I sense that I too need these same gifts. Raising a family demands each one of these, as I'm sure you would agree. Every one of our marriages and family lives would be stronger and healthier if each one of us brought a little more wisdom, compassion, common sense, and self-control into them.

Funny how these gifts, once they're opened and worn, if you will, become a natural wardrobe for facing the for New Year. So, even if you don't get what you want later on this week, you may get what you need. And what you need may be the best gift ever.

And that would mean something even greater, namely, the true spirit of Christmas.

Not a Green Christmas, I Hope

 

There are many reasons why I love Christmas. A few columns ago, I discussed why fall is my favourite season; I stand by that sentiment. It would be ludicrous to say that winter is my favourite season, especially in light of the blowing snow, bitter gales, and blizzard-like conditions that we have endured over the past couple of weeks.

Christmas, and this is my first reason, then, is a pleasant break from an otherwise crummy weather pattern – a pattern of cold, colder, and coldest.

I also love Christmas because of all the goodwill that is expressed, both in word and deed. I have no hang-up whatsoever when someone wishes me a "Merry Christmas." (Indeed, I definitely have more issues with a "Healthy Winter Solstice" greeting.). Even more than the stale "Hello, how are you?" I believe people are actually sincere and interested when they greet me that way.

Another reason involves gifts. Strangely, I find giving presents a hoot, but getting presents a pain. My wish list is pretty short: gift certificates, anything Canucks-related, and certain CD's. By the way, in case you are thinking of something special for your favourite area columnist (that would be me, Horace - unless you have a thing for Ann Landers), stick with the gift certificates – good for meals at places that sound like Cheesecake Cafe, Swiss Chalet, and Montana's.

And you can hold off on the ties, mugs, and socks. Please.

The whole Christmas dinner thing – the turkey and all the fixings – is yet another reason I love this time of year. For ourselves, we could have that meal anytime of year (it helps that we grow and sell our own turkeys), but there is something special about Christmas dinner on Christmas Day. For the Funston home, we also have a special Christmas Eve meal, a special Christmas morning breakfast, topped off by a traditional dinner.

I like everything about Christmas dinner - well, almost everything: I hate Brussels sprouts. It's hard to believe that the same country that has graced us with Belgium chocolates is the same one that has corrupted our dining rooms with Brussels sprouts. If I were describing this, uh, food to a blind man, I would use words like rotten, putrid, gross, and unhealthy.

So, where are we? Christmas, in my estimation, is great because of Christmas Day, the goodwill that seems genuine, the giving of presents, and Christmas dinner. I could add that I do enjoy getting seasonal newsletters. To clarify what I said last week, I do enjoy getting them – I just wish they were more interesting and informative. I know it is hard to summarize the whole year in one letter, but people could at least use both sides, make the font smaller, and get beyond the silly things that the kids did. (Do that, but say more.)

By the way, is it Christ-mass? Christ-miss? Or Christ-mess? The event is well worth celebrating, and even more so when you understand its historical, biblical roots. You can celebrate the season with the "masses," but have no singular, personal meaning from it. You may even get caught up with the myths of the season (starting with Santa, mistletoe, silly ditties, and parties), yet "miss" the whole significance of the Day. Or it may be that the whole time is one huge "mess" – emotionally, financially, and physically - when you expect too much, spend too much, and drink too much.

It is a temptation for all of us to get caught on peripheral issues at this time of year, and lose sight of the real reason for the season. That can be the plight of religious and irreligious people alike.

Here's for a white Christmas. I'd have a blue, blue Christmas if I had to eat those gooey, green balls one more time.

Waiting for Christmas

I am finding it hard to get into the Christmas spirit this year. To all intents and purposes, I should have been singing carols since September – at least that's when Costco and Wal-Mart got into the groove.

No, there are a few reasons why I'm not there yet. One, I haven't bought my tree. There is little else that suggests Christmas to me more than a tree. I like the real thing, even if I end up paying a little more money for it. I go to the same place every year, bundle it home in or on my van, and enjoy every moment of its presence in our home. No, there is nothing that welcomes Christmas like a Scotch pine from Cranbrook.

Two, my Aunt Bob. Okay, her real name isn't Bob, but she is my aunt. She always has the first Christmas newsletter of the season, and it hasn't come yet. How can I get into giving (and returning), gobbling turkey (that once gobbled itself – figure that one out, Horace), and crying over spilled apple cider, when Aunt Bob hasn't written me yet?

It's not that I am unkind, but I actually don't look forward to the newsletter; it's just that it signifies the start of the season. Quite frankly, most Christmas newsletters can actually be quite boring. I read about a trip here and a fall there, who visited and who will no longer be visiting, and all about the latest, greatest grand-baby of them all.

Even a genuine lie might spice the thing up.

Three, lots of snow. Now as I look out the window of my brave office, basking in the solitude of the farm to the north and the ranch to the south, I actually do see snow. And with the present freezing weather, and bound to get colder by the time you read this, I think what little snow we have is here to stay. While I don't want too much snow at one time, it would make it seem a little more like Christmas (or would that be 'Christmasy'?) if we had more snow. The ideal, and I have likely said it here before, is lots of snow on the fields and no snow on the roads.

And four, the word 'Christmas' itself. If you have the time and the motivation, please go back and count the number of times I used the "C-word" - the word, Christmas. In some parts of our "advanced" society, the so-called C-word has been subverted. It has been changed to a whole host of acceptable, pleasant, and all-inclusive terms – words that actually aren't that bad. I could stomach them, if there wasn't such a questionable agenda lurking behind them.

So when I say "Merry Christmas" to you, please rest assured that I am not trying to convert you to some rabble religion, nor am I condemning you to a life of damnation because you don't see things my way. For myself, to be honest with you, I am not clear exactly when the Christ-child was born, but I do believe He came. Nor am I clear, from Scriptures, that there were three wisemen at the manger (there were actually scores in their entourage, and they likely came two years after His birth). Either way, I do believe the Middle East was all astir with this great advent. There must have been a reason for the excitement.

I find it frightening – no other word will do – that cultural, historical, and religious revisionism can sweep across our nation and simply re-work, at best (delete, at worst), an event that has been a cherished yet factual tradition for a long time. It is not a mere sentimental argument; it goes much, much deeper than this, but I refrain, owing to the nature of this column.

There needs to be a balance for sure: On the one hand, the truth of the origin and significance of the coming of the Christ-child is slowly being wiped out; and on the other hand, there are many religious people who will have nothing to do with anything that smacks of the season – be it a tree, lights, gift-giving, and such. For me, it is a great time of tradition, recollection, celebration, and deep spiritual meaning. If you don't see it that way, fine. At least let me and mine try to answer the age-old question: "Shepherds, why this jubilee?"

Now if only Aunt Bob would hurry up write and tell me about her trip to the park with her grand-kids, I could get on with the season.

Lights Out, Night's Out

It was one of those nights where I was in the mood for, you know, well, writing. Nothing planned specifically, the schedule was clear, my desk was in relatively good shape – and then the power went out. And it stayed out for a few hours, those few precious hours that I called a free evening.

If there is anything I hate – even more than the Calgary Flames – it's being stuck in the dark just when you're about to do something in the light. I think I hate that more than misplacing my false teeth as I walk through the doors at the Gold Corral. Even more than someone wanting my opinion on an NDP-led government, especially when that 'someone' is a dentist and I am sitting in his chair with a rubber sheet blanketing my mouth.

In a different light, if I can use the word 'light' here, a dark house can almost be romantic. Well, except for the seven kids that are at various stages of healthy reaction to too many candles but not enough computers, too much time on their hands but not enough motivation to do anything creative.

Some of us got a little creative and tried to play a board game. I don't know what it was called because it was, well, too dark to see its name. Anyways, I think I won. But it is really hard to write words down and add up the score by candlelight – especially when it is one candle shared by four players.

For an encore, I started to read a book. I am always starting (and finishing) to read a book, it seems. But this is possibly the one time I wish I was reincarnated – even though I don't believe in that stuff – and came back as an octopus. Let's see now: one tentacle for a flashlight, one for a candle, one to hold the book, one to turn each page, one to grab the coffee to drink as I read...

I don't know about you, but a power outage gives me a feeling of vulnerability and helplessness. My paranoia has me thinking someone's going to break in while it is so dark. And I feel helpless because I can't find anything I put down; at least when the power goes out I have an excuse.

So much that I do depends on power - be it a chore (washing dishes), a hobby (writing columns), or a habit (working routine). I think we could do with less power (= more outages) if we knew in advance that the power was going out for a few hours. We could adjust our schedule, our meals, and even our needs for those times. To be forewarned, they say, is no be forearmed. And to be forearmed means you know where the candle is.

So I suppose the element of surprise – in addition to vulnerability and helplessness - comes into play here. It is an unexpected inconvenience that is part of the overall nettle here. If, for example, I knew that the power was going to be off for three hours tonight, I would have planned to cut my sons' hair, given them tap-dancing lessons, and shown off my most recent hobby, knife-throwing.

Happy to say, no one tried to break in. I don't think they could have found the house without the streetlights on, even there aren't any streetlights here in the Back Seventy. And, again, happy to say, I found everything I wanted because I didn't really want anything until the lights came on. By the light of day I was able to misplace everything once again.

So, thanks to the Fortis people who did whatever it took to light up my life. You've got me back in the mood for, you know, well, writing. I think I'll stick with something, uh, light tonight.

Ye Old Tennis Ball

 

It was such a fantastic idea that I thought an over-the-top, brilliant teacher (like me) came up with the idea. Well, that's nearly true: It was a teacher, and he is quite bright, but he wasn't me.

The "it" in the first paragraph (Horace, it's actually the very first word) refers to the multi-applications of a used tennis ball. The "he" in the first paragraph - we'll call him Robert - used old tennis balls as feet for chairs, thereby disallowing any possible scraping and gouging of the floor. The idea has grown now to where the "tennis ball feet" – did I just invent a new term? – sit at the bottom of tables, desks, and anything else with legs.

Well, not any legs: I still wear the conventional footwear for now. But tennis balls with shoelaces and soft heels? I'm in.

Then, reading one of my favourite magazines, World (a conservative, balanced version of Time), I discovered a few more applications of ye old tennis ball. While the following few are not my ideas, one may certainly entertain sweet thoughts of me while doing any of the following:

1. Pulling broken light bulbs out of their sockets. I'm not sure how many types of pliers I have used to wrench the last vestige of a reluctant light bulb from its hiding place. The same can be said for various words I've used to describe the light bulb, and the various body angles I have worked at. Sigh...I'm going to miss those days of glaring at half a light, while balancing precariously on a stool, singing "You Light Up My Life."

2. Serving as door stoppers. I didn't get all the details on this one, but I assume the tennis ball has something in it to create – what do they call it? - ballast. If not, you have two problems: a door knob that chips the wall and a ball rolling around where it doesn't belong. A few rocks or marbles will give it some stability and save your wall at the same time. Suggestion: Why not put the tennis ball over the door knob instead?

3. Removing scuffs from wooden floors. I think the word "wood" can be replaced with the word "vinyl" - and even if it can't, try it anyway. A hard, non-carpet surface is the point here. Again, no mention is made of any fluid, so I assume that it can do the job all by itself. If one set of streaks end up being replaced with another set, at least it would make for good conversation starter. (So, tell me again how you played tennis in your kitchen. I 've heard of serving people, but this is ridiculous.)

4. Doubling as jar openers. Certainly beats the old wet-cloth routine, with lots of screaming for the sound track, to boot. It was always a proud moment in my teens when I could do that job for my mom, especially when none of my older brothers could do it. A little tip is in order here: Make sure the jar lid is smaller than the tennis ball surface. If not, try a tired volleyball.

5. Acting as coin holders. There's an assumption that one has a lot of coins around the house or car. It goes without saying that it would be a sliced tennis ball (not necessarily in half, of course) that would work best. But then again, one could have a slice at the top to put the money in, and some sort of covering on the side or bottom to extract the coins. Boy, a pant pocket sounds so much easier.

Space prohibits any further intelligent (?) discussion of tennis ball uses for a) a fake clown nose (hello, Patch Adams), or b) a plant holder (a very small plant, of course), or c) a mug (sans handle). I'm sure you could come up with a few of your own.

And you don't even have to be an over-the-top, brilliant teacher to do it.

Wash Your Hands

 

Having travelled a lot around Alberta and British Columbia in recent months, I have come to see how widespread the warnings about the H1N1 flu is. Those ubiquitous hand sanitizers, sitting on every available public wall, are but one testimony to the government's urgency in the matter.

"Wash your hands on a regular basis!" screams this ad. "Cough into your sleeve!" demands that poster.

Man, sounds like something my mother told me 45 years ago. My mother, like your mother, maybe even your grandmother, had a lot of common sense advice that saved me, my generation, and, by extension, the government, a lot of health issues and expenses.

She is (not 'was' – she turns 86 this year) actually a fellow-Albertan, having married my father around the end of WWII. She fled to BC when she married him, but I returned the favour eight years ago by coming back here. She was part of that round of wives and mothers who insisted on and provided basic home-cooked meals, regular bedtimes, limited junk food, and plenty of fresh air.

I suggest that if we had all listened to our mothers, we wouldn't be in our present mess.

I know it was a simpler world back then, those halcyon days of the 50's and 60's, but there is some merit at replicating those days. In fact, many mothers I know are doing just that, namely, harking back to better eating habits, owning the care and welfare of their own children - rather than letting Big Brother do the dictating.

I suppose underneath my whimsical recollection of yesteryear, I am little angry. You see, I am convinced that many of our health problems – to be sure, not all of them (that would be horribly naive) – can be traced back to not washing our hands, not coughing where we should, not eating healthy food, and not sleeping properly – really basic health habits.

And to add further insult to injury, it takes the government to tell us what common sense and mother told us to do years ago. I actually do listen to the government; after all, I am one their shareholders. But if I had listened to my mom, and all kids would listen to their mothers, then I repeat that many of our health problems would be in remission.

In addition to the current hysteria of H1N1, I am thinking of heart issues and diabetes, in particular, both brought on, in part, by eating too much junk food. It's not a stretch to see the direct connection between really bad eating habits and a health crisis that is much, much larger than H1N1. (For starters, there are 40,000 deaths attributed to the common flu every year in North America; and there are far more widespread pandemics that are killing us off than H1N1.)

It is in the government's best interest to slow down any health issue with whatever means possible. While health and education, for starters, are essentially family matters, with the deterioration of the family unit as a whole, Big Brother has stepped up and stepped in to do its part of stave off any further damage.

I just lament the fact that most, if not all, of this preventative medicine (literally) should have taken place first at home. It would have saved everyone so much more time, money, and energy.

Just one further comment on my mother knowing best: I'm still not convinced she was right when it came to Cod Liver Oil. Mind you, I probably would have swallowed it if it came with a Mars bar flavour.

Calling All Owners - Except for Anyone Called Jim

I don't know if I have all my facts straight when it comes to hockey, but I see where some billionaire named Jim Balsillie wants to buy an NHL team and move it to Hamilton, Ontario. He has tried to buy a number of teams, including ones in Pittsburgh, Nashville, and, I believe, Atlanta. And in case you have been sniffing a little too much Round-up these days, you will be aware of his protracted fight with the NHL over the team in Phoenix.

With the exception of Pittsburgh, the Phoenix option has Balsillie rescuing a hockey team from a non-traditional hockey city, and bringing it back to Canada, where it belongs.

To summarize: We have a dedicated hockey owner, with deep pockets, wanting to bring a team back into Canada. Is there anything wrong with this picture? Your loyal scribe (that would be me) doesn't think so, but apparently others do. Commissioner Bettman is against it, and so are many of the NHL owners. I can understand teams in Toronto and Buffalo having issues with another team drawing from their fan base. Other than that, what gives?

In a day when virtually many professional hockey teams are losing money, mostly through obscene salaries to upper-echelon players, we finally have a responsible, hockey-mad owner in the wings. Not only that, he has the will and the heart to carry it through.

I'm still smarting, in a dumb sort of way, when I think of Quebec City and Winnipeg losing their teams to Denver and Phoenix, respectively. With the robust commitment of fans at the CHL and AHL level in both places, I have no doubt both cities could still support an NHL team. The same could be said about Saskatoon (Regina already has the Roughriders), and possibly a team in Halifax.

This is not the right time to jump on the NHL-in-Canada only, but it does have some merit. In terms of North America, it is still primarily a Canadian game, with the upper continental USA arguably as hockey-crazy as us. What the NHL was thinking when they granted franchises to hockey hotbeds (not) in Tampa Bay, Atlanta, and Phoenix, I have no idea. It might have been for the money, but, ironically, each one of those franchises, plus other ones, are in deep financial trouble.

For instance, Tampa's two owners are fighting and want to buy each other out; one of Nashville's owners has run afoul of the law over illegal money – and he's heading to jail as I write this; and the league is now talking of taking over the troubled Phoenix team, unless Balsillie can gets his hands on the franchise first. And these are only the ones we know about.

In the face of all the nonsense that Mr. Balsillie has gone through, it is a wonder that he persists in his quest for a team. Others like myself would have quit years ago. To be sure, he has more money and pluck than yours truly – two qualities that make him a potentially great owner. On that merit alone, he should be given a team somewhere.

Hamilton Tiger-cats have re-invented themselves as a bona fide football team in the CFL, so it only seems fitting that they get an NHL team, too. They could even still be called the Coyotes, though I think the Hamilton Badgers would sound right. "Coyotes" just seems so lame. For that matter, the Tampa Bay Lightning could quite easily become the Saskatoon Cyclones (Lightning and Cyclones are related to weather), and Halifax could become the Buccaneers (on the water, stealing treasured victories – get it?). You can do your own name-calling, er, name-making with Winnipeg and Quebec City.

But back to Mr. Balsillie. He has made his millions through his MRI success. Good on him; and now he wants to put that money back into something very Canadian. If for no other reason, it would give the fans of the falling Leaves and the rusty Swords an option to watch some real hockey for a change.

Or, with apologies to Glen Campbell: "Buy the team I get from Phoenix, and they'll be playing..."

In Praise of Pumpkins

One advantage of writing a column on a regular basis in a regular newspaper is the various information nuggets one can unearth. And the advantage of reading a regular column in a regular newspaper is the goldmine of information that one can accrue in a month or two or ten.

So, today's gem is as follows: Today is National Pumpkin Day. Now. While you read this. As in the big gap between breaky and snacky – third snacky, for that matter.

You must be awed by that fact (or maybe you're just simply odd). Whatever, I read it in a book, so it must be true. If I revealed my source, that would diminish the glitter of all these priceless tidbits that I deposit before you each week.

This week alone, I have had some intriguing variations of pumpkin use. The most significant one was the soup that I ate out of a pumpkin near Two Hills, at my married daughter's home. It's the type of entre that one eats at an East Side Mario's, not east side Hairy Hill's. I am not the adventuresome type when it comes to my food, so I was less than excited when I discovered breaded chicken in soup was the main course – all warm and bubbly in a carved-out pumpkin. Nor am I, however, a rude dude with food, especially when it comes to my daughter's first meal for us. And I must say, it was delectable (and I am not just saying because she reads this column.)

Unlike zucchini, the chameleon of vegetables, I don't think there is any way pumpkin can be disguised, mistaken, converted, or different from what it really is. On that zucchini note: I can't believe how many ways I have been duped, er, treated to eat what I thought was chocolate cake.

But back to the pumpkin patch. By nature, pumpkins are really the unsung heroes of the vegetable garden. They've gain some infamy in "Peanuts," along with some notoriety in Cinderella, where her beautiful horse-drawn carriage will turn into a pumpkin if Miss Cindy doesn't obey her curfew. In other words, disobey the rules and your punishment is a pumpkin pedal-pusher.

I will not lie to you and tell you that pumpkin pie is my favourite. Almost, but not quite. However, if you want to bake one for me, make sure it has lots of whipped cream. (For the record, my favourite pie is rhubarb-strawberry. I have often thought of opening up a dessert-only - actually, pie-only - establishment. I'd call it The Pie Guy.)

While pumpkin pie is probably its greatest use, pumpkin muffins could be another. Again, best with a generous dose of icing. And kids have a lot of fun making jack-o-lanterns with carved-out pumpkins, though it's something our kids have never done. Even down here at Foremost, at our annual Pumpkin Festival (note the name!) next month, there is a pumpkin contest with a variety of categories.

It's not all glorious in Pumpkinville, however. By their very nature, they are big and bulky – and there is no Jenny Craig help them down-size. They can never be crammed into a vegetable drawer in the fridge, or in any drawer for that matter. In fact, as I write this, my son's two gigantic pumpkins (and they're always gigantic, aren't they?) are sitting on a bureau in our livingroom.

If they are not out of the way, they are in the way.

And then there is the colour. I happen to like orange (but that has nothing to do with my Irish Protestant roots, either). It's bright and vibrant, not like most garden-variety types, with varying shades of green. But some think the greener the plant, the healthier the plant. Others think that the greater the colour variety (hello, peppers), the higher the market value.

It's not every vegetable that has a day named in its honour. Have you heard of National Zucchini Day? National Rhubarb Day? I haven't either, and I didn't see any references my uncle's bathroom reader.

So, cheers to the noble pumpkin. May it come to be a symbol of everything good about Canadians, namely, steady, unpretentious, and earthy. And sometimes just a little overweight.

Peace to All - or I'll Thrash You

 

The one thing I have never been is a fighter. Just because I smell like a boxer, eat like a Sumo wrestler, and think like a thug, does not mean I am tough or brawny. And no, there is no truth to the rumour that I must register my hands in every town I stop at – register them as lethal weapons, that is.

While I hesitate to call boxing a sport, I certainly wouldn't say that to any boxer himself, especially if he was any tougher or taller than me. On the other hand, I have no problem viewing wrestling as sport, unless it is that sham called WWF (which stands for, I believe, "wildly, wantonly fake").

I say the preceding in light of the fact that it is International Conflict Resolution Day today. The full meaning of the Day is as follows: 'International' means this is an opportunity for nations around the world; and 'Conflict Resolution' means that disagreements and differences can be resolved without guns, fists, or even screaming. Or throwing shoes.

As international as the day can be, it can also be as local as your family, my family, every family. Many of us would love to have others assume that our kids are great, that our parenting skills are fantastic, and that our homes are modicums of peace. Or, we may know the above isn't true, but, in turn, feel that other families have it all together.

Neither view is valid, so the sooner we nix them, the better.

Let's get up close and personal and talk about our own families. After all, if the home is wobbly, the community is weak; if the community is weak, the province is fragile; and if the province is fragile, then the country is in deep trouble.

Whew! I think I just described Canada. Perhaps the main reason why we have law and order issues, economic issues, moral issues – I think I'll stop here, it's getting too depressing – is because we have homes with issues, homes that do not resolve their conflicts well.

If I could format my column differently, I'd have a couple of columns with checklists. On one checklist I would have an inventory listing the causes of conflict; on another, I would have ways these conflicts are resolved. The first checklist would include the following: dress code, language, computer use, habits, chores, money matters, and a few more; on the second list I would lay out reactions, such as swearing, punching, throwing, ignoring, running, phoning and texting, and finking (good ole' 60's word!).

There actually needs to be a third list, but few of us want to bother with it. It would suggest methods of resolution – methods such as lowering one's voice, waiting to calm down, picking both the reason for battle and the timing of the battle, and working with tactful phrases, such as "I have a little trouble with that," or "let's talk about this over a fresh pot of coffee and doughnuts, my treat."

We need to react really fast when one of our kids is in danger, but really slowly when the relationship is in danger. React, yes; but it often boils down to how we react. To my shame, my earlier years in teaching were marked (and marred) by the wrong kind of reaction occasionally – and it often alienated my students. I believe I have learned how to handle adverse situations better over the years. I think that's called maturity.

Much grief would be diminished if only we could resolve conflicts amicably and sensibly. No doubt we can all think back at some sorry, spontaneous reaction on our part that exacerbated the situation far beyond its necessary bounds. In other words, we over-reacted, and are quite likely paying the price in broken relationships and shattered trust.

While I don't want you to have a scene at your place tonight, if there is perchance a disagreement between you and yours, try the following approach: Take a deep breath before responding; indicate that you are "struggling with this issue" and need clarification; admit that there might be some misunderstanding, with a sincere promise to actively resolve it. That would be a a great start, perhaps even a great end, to the problem.

However, if that doesn't work, threaten them with a visit from one of your favourite newspaper columnists. I'll do my best to not have a screaming fit. I even promise to not throw my shoe.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

 

I believe fall is the 'most wonderful time' of the year. Summer's too hot, winter's too long and spring's too fast. If Goldilocks were writing this column – and who says she's not my alter ego? - I believe she would express the same sentiments. She might make a crack about chairs and beds, but that has nothing to do with today's topic.

Fall is just right, even if it is a little too short. The panoply of changing leaves and the crisp evening air are only two of the reasons why I love this season. The fact that there are no more gardens to weed and no more grass to cut are, of course, contributing factors.

I am not a farmer, but it's around this time that the harvest is in, and no doubt that is a great feeling. Even in my profession, there is a certain freshness with a new school year, something that lasts (unfortunately) until about Thanksgiving weekend. And most sports teams have perfect records, mainly because most sports teams haven't started playing yet.

Even the Calgary Flames look good in the early fall.

I don't know if fall is a season of beginnings or endings. In other words, is it the final days of summer, or the preamble to winter? It has its own colour (orange), but it doesn't always have its own identity. Just last week we were uncovering ourselves because of the sweltering heat, but this week we are covering our tomatoes because of the frost. I wish it would make up its mind once and for all.

Fall is the time of year when baseball and football are winding down – unless, of course, you are the Blue Jays, then it would be mid-summer. And it is the beginning of hockey and basketball, or in the case of the NHL, one long pre-season to see who wins the Stanley Cup in June.

The icon for fall would have to be the pumpkin, but, to quote Richard Nixon, I have nothing more to say (seeing that I said it all last week). Fall could be described as the time between the dust ball and the snowflake, the yellow and the white, the school holiday that's too long and the one that's too short.

This year, in particular, fall has crept up quickly and quietly, and has presented itself to us in early September – instead of waiting until early October. I have always associated October, and October alone, as the official month of fall. But I fear that there will be very little of fall even by the middle of October. By November 1^st, if we're lucky or not, winter could have set in. With the bizarre weather patterns we've been having over the past few years, who knows for sure?

But then again, we could ask Al Gore or Michael Moore: They seem to have answers to questions many of us aren't asking.

Fall is also probably the best time to go on holidays. Circumstances beyond my control forbid me to take a vacation during early October, but I would like that to change sometime. Campground rates tend to be lower, gasoline is cheaper, and crowds are sparse. While a dip in the lake is out of the question, unless you're a kid and you don't know any better, a walk in the woods would be in order. Just make sure you wear noisy clothes, so an almost-hibernating and hungry bear doesn't mistake you for his midnight munchies..

No dust on the road and no snow on the ground, no bugs on the screen and no ice on the windows – that's what I like about fall. Like a good movie or a great novel, it's always too short. But like a good movie or a great novel, there is always a sequel. It's called next year and I am looking forward to it already.

Until then, however, I'll stay home, curl up, and enjoy this version.

Time Flies...Slowly

 

 

 

It is hard to believe that summer is over, school is started, and Halloween is just around the corner. It will be a mere matter of weeks and we'll be breaking all our New Year's lies, uh, resolutions. It's trite to say that time flies, so let's change it and say that time dashes...speeds...races... or even zooms.

Trite smite, let's stick with "time flies."

I am Day-Timer freak (my words), so addicted to scheduling that I even colour-code my monthly calendar My Day-Timer is bigger than my Bible, thicker than my journal, and neater than my planner. My family laughs at my insistence at going to Staples to get the next year's filler by late July.

Shifting to the country should have brought a nice change of pace, a slowing down from the rat race that marked life in BC's Lower Mainland. Or so I thought. This past year has been insane for us as a family. I cannot think of a cluster of months, going back many, many months, that I personally have been as run off my feet. Daughters getting married, sons working away from home, along with outside and inside chore demands (now re-adjusted because of marrying daughters and working sons no longer available) will do that every time.

And I believe there is a growing home school service, a large family, plus the upkeep on the seventy acres in there somewhere.

Because I wear so many different hats – writer, teacher, editor, speaker, facilitator – and each role is full with its respective demands, I cannot see this frenzied lifestyle slowing down in the near future. The main thing I can say, and I assume that you'll agree, is that busyness is good, so long as it is a productive busyness.

Generally speaking, upon being asked how things are going, the most correct, acceptable answer is: "Great. I'm really busy." Well, that is the right answer if it is a good busyness, but the wrong answer if it is a bad busyness.

How does one define "bad busyness"? That, my friends, is a loaded question. I think a simple rule of thumb is as follows: Am I driving or driven? "Driving" (good) means that, for the most part, I am in charge of the schedule and the demands; I set the direction and pace. "Driven" would be the inverse, namely, others set the agenda for my day and week, and, by extension, my life.

It's an imperfect world out there, and I admit that there are times when we are controlled by circumstances beyond ourselves. For myself, I have to be at Cherry Coulee at certain times on certain days; I have to make house calls during specific times of the year for my home school visits; I have to meet many deadlines on a regular, weekly basis (this column being a classic example).

As we get older (or better stated, mature), there will continue to be many voices that will clamour for our attention, but they will have to wait in line. Their demands will have to take a number, as it were. Relationships, hobbies, and time for reflection should become higher priorities. "No" may become the most over-used word in our vocabulary over the next few months, as in: "No, I can't join that board," and "No, I am not coming."

The strange irony in all of this is that we have more time-busting toys at our disposal than our parents ever had, yet we seem to have less time than they did. Our lives are easier but certainly busier, and I would posit that they are likely less productive in the things that really matter.

I wouldn't mind slowing down myself. Those long treks to Staples every summer are getting very tiring.

A Big Deal about a "Big River"

 

Only on a stage do you play at a recital and recite at a play. I went to one of those the other day, that is, a play where there was a lot of reciting. In fact, "Big River" was almost three hours long, less the fifteen minutes we were given for an intermission.

The weather was great, I had three of my kids with me, Burger Baron came through with another great meal, and the play itself was fantastic. It doesn't get any better than this. It made me feel so, well, civilized. And cultured.

And that's what a good, wholesome drama production represents – culture. The audience clapped and laughed at the right time; no one was rude or loud, like, say, at a hockey game. The performers were professional but not slick, a microcosm of what's great about Canadian entertainment. And the content was yet another meaningful presentation of real history from 150 years ago, with no need to slip into the raunchy, rowdy, and risqué element that normally assaults our moral standards.

Clearly, I love live performances, be it in most forms of musicals and dramas. For years I have gone to Larry Dye's early November production at his church on Centre Street in Bow Island. As stated previously, it too has been marked the same standards as classy dramas, namely, a responsive audience, unpretentious acting, and a significant production – usually a Christian spoof of some well-known Hollywood movie. I would describe that church's drama ministry as witty, entertaining, and clean. Again, part of a healthy society.

Yet unlike the Yates Theatre in Lethbridge, Dye's congregation serves very good dessert and coffee during the intermission. You might say that even their yogurt was cultured..

I think if we lose our taste for the live stage, we slip as a society. That loss can come in one of two ways: On the one hand, there is the sense we need to cross the line morally, or on the other hand, there is no stomach for it at all – that is, there is no live theatre. For example, as the Balkan countries and the Iraqi nation have slowly lurched back into something that resembles a civilized state, one of the first expressions of such has been live stage productions.

And you thought having a Starbucks on every corner was a step toward civilization!

Most prairie towns that have any life – including our own Foremost - have the usual landmarks of golf courses, graveyards, liquor stores, post offices and theatrical clubs. Even a good movie doesn't move me like a good musical. (Obviously, there are exceptions, but there is just something about a live performance that really grabs me.)

I have been on both sides of the audience as well – clapping in the crowd and speaking on the stage. I love drama, both as a bystander and a performer. There is a real rush with acting, and I have done quite a bit myself with some of my family over the years.

I would be hard-pressed to tell you whether I would rather watch "The Sound of Music" on DVD or head down to Milk River to watch it live, as I did last year. There is no question that Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer did a supreme job in the former, but there is also no question that watching some gas jockey, school teacher, and waitress perform their hearts out has a different appeal. In other words, I don't think it is a matter of either/or. Both are good, both are necessary, both are moving.

Now if you want to compare a live performance to a hockey game, well, that is a different story.

I love a good 'Canes game as much as anyone, but I don't find I am as moved or touched there as I am when Jim and Huck sing, "World's Apart."

No, I think I'll take the crowd, the performers, and the meaningfulness at a play over a game any day. I even like the score better – the musical score, that is.

A Pandemic of Fear

 

 

 

My wife and kids go to a female chiropractor in Coaldale. She actually teams up with her husband and has done wonders for my family. Dr. L is a very reasonable, sane, and competent human being, and the same can be said for her medical expertise. When I suggest she comes unglued at the word "H1N1," I do not believe I am exaggerating.

In other words, she is very concerned about the dangers of H1N1 immunization.

Then I read some behind-the-scenes information as to what comprises the vaccine - again, from reputable medical professionals - and I get confused, afraid, and mad. If a fraction of the information is true, then I honestly believe we do have a pandemic – but it is a pandemic of ignorance and gullibility.

When I consider the hype and pressure surrounding the whole immunization frenzy, I get really worried. To be sure, there is a so-called swine flu out there. Granted, people are getting sick, a number have died. I don't wish to minimize sickness or death. These are facts, and who can argue with facts?

But where I draw the line is the massive hysteria about the shots, and the hours of line-ups waiting for the great poke. Yet there is an incomplete, partial picture of what the vaccine is comprised of – and the damage that those shots are doing to our bodies. I think every reader should look into the background of H1N1 immunization – and don't just take my word for it, or the government's word for it, for that matter.

Thousands of Canadians will not be getting vaccinated this winter, but it's not because of a shortage of vaccine. Nor will it be because they could care less about their health. In fact, that couldn't be further from the truth. Truth be told, they understand the severe risks involved in getting immunized. They are simply no longer willing to blindly submit to peer pressure.

Despite the hype that has been foisted on us - from the government, the media, and the medical profession - I am frankly alarmed that so few people have paused to take a breath and investigate all the salient details behind the noise.

We live in a world of limited discernment. We are told something, so we believe it. Schools of every description and every form of media are the main conduits of such propaganda. Space forbids even a partial listing of examples, but I would cite some of the following: evolution, global warming, abortion, promiscuity. I humbly suggest that if one would pause and examine facts and evidence, motivation and goals (for starters), I think there would be many shocked seekers.

In other words, we don't do something because the government tells us do it, nor should we not do it because the government says we should do it. The key to my argument here is we should do what is right, once armed with the impartial facts.

I toss in the H1N1 rush with the above. There is a history of flues that have been far more deadly over the past 100 years. (Check out the epidemic of 1918-19, with the twenty million souls that lost their lives.) Even the common flu remains far more toxic the H1N1. And the general hysteria that has erupted in the past few weeks has me deeply concerned as to how people react to well-orchestrated decrees.

Lest there is any confusion as to my warning, I am not suggesting for a moment that we be less careful or cautious about our health. I am suggesting that we do due diligence when it comes to any public or popular trend. Check things out; examine the facts; get more than one opinion; reflect and discern.

Don't necessarily follow the crowd: They may be headed in the wrong direction.

A Question about Sports

 

 

I know the other guy on the other page writes about sports – and writes it well, by the way – but every now and then I get these sports urges that I need to get off my chest (or would that be my fingers?). These come in the form of questions, so I hope they don't baffle you too much.

1. Why is the World Series only played between teams linked with America? Shouldn't it be called the North American Series? The USA Series? The Lower-48 Series? It strikes me as a little ambitious, perhaps even pretentious, to claim a title for an event that has nothing to do with the actual title. The World Cup of Soccer, for instance, involves teams from around the world.

Maybe you don't even care, but the New York Yankees, also known as Club Spoiled Brats, is taking on the Philadelphia Phillies for this year's World Series. The Phillies, by the way, not to be confused with the Philadelphia Fillies (which are horses) won it all last year.

At one point, it was almost an all-California series, as in the LA Dodgers versus the LA Angels. The Dodgers once hailed from Brooklyn, home of the current Yankees; and the Angels have also been known as the California Angels (when I was a kid), and the Anaheim Angels, more recently. Technically, the team then could also be known as The Angels Angels – as "los angeles" is Spanish for angels. But again, who really cares?

2. Why do certain CFL players feel they haven't arrived until they have played in the NFL? The CFL, in my most humble opinion, is vastly superior league, for the following reasons: the field is longer, they only have three downs instead of four, the end zone is deeper, and the CFL has more man-in-motion options. Okay, their cheerleaders are cuter, but I'm talking about the actual sport – not the distraction on the sidelines.

I was never good enough to play football, though I once played end, guard and tackle. That was great until I learned that I was to sit at the end of the bench, guard the cooler and tackle anyone who came near. So I never had that same urge to head south. To play for an A-B-C (anyone but Calgary) team, would have been an honour. If I understand the CFL roster flexibility correctly, I think there is a greater chance of becoming a starter up here than down there. I should add that some of the greatest players down there got their professional start up here (hello, Doug Flutie and Warren Moon).

3. What has happened to the Winnipeg Blue Bombers in these past few weeks? I know, I know, they're winning- that's why I'm asking, Horace. But how can essentially the same set of players who were so inept all year now become so good (or is it 'ept'?)? Believe it or not, their turnaround started around the time Calgary made a trade with them, but I am not aware of their new players playing any significant role in the wins. More sleep? Less drugs? The playbooks come in coloured paper now? Whatever, as long as the Lions win it all.

4. Hasn't anyone told the Colorado Avalanche that they are supposed to be one of the bottom feeders this year in the NHL? As I write this, they are 10-1-2; by the time you read this, they could easily be 12-1-2. The pundits placed them some where near the bottom in the whole NHL, not just the Western Conference.

Speaking of the Western Conference, it's going to be a gong show, come mid-April. I don't see any weak teams out here - well, okay, we have two question marks north of us – but I have no idea who will join the Toronto Maple Laughs and the New York Good Bye'landers in the basement.

I should comment on basketball and soccer, just to show my well-rounded approach to sports, but I have nothing to really say. I'm just not into them. And don't look here for a positive column on golf or tennis, demanding as they are. I'm not even sure they would make it into the other real sports column.