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.

Peace for What?

 

 

 

I never dreamed in a thousand years that I would ever agree with Hamas, that anarchist paramilitary group consumed with the destruction of Israel. My sentiments – indeed, my convictions – lie firmly with the state of Israel, both because of biblical and historical realities.

But today's column has nothing to do with Zionism or Semitism or even the Jews themselves. It has everything to do with an award that was handed out recently to the president of the United States, one that neither I nor Hamas nor (it now seems) millions of others agree with.

In other words, Barack Obama getting the Nobel Peace Prize is a bizarre twist of what the prize stands for. I rank that debacle of honour up there with Henry (the-father-of-abortion) Morgentaler getting the Order of Canada.

Much of the outrage has come because Obama has been in the Oval Office for only a few months. Listen, people: The nomination came through by the first of February! He had been in the office for only a few days!

Others are outraged, and this is where I come in, at what he has done in the name of peace, or better, what he hasn't done. Re-stated: What has he done to create peace in this troubled planet? I have no problem giving a president the Nobel Peace Prize (there was the precedent of the president, if you will) if, in fact, he has done something. But when a man has done nothing, that is a joke – a very bad joke.

We all know that he has plans for peace. But don't we all? Since when did this noble (pun intended) prize get awarded for something that hasn't happened yet? To carry this logic further, I can think of a number of businessmen, scientists, and others, who are on the verge of doing something great. Perhaps we should award them a prize for their prospective work, too.

Whether I am against a socialist president of arguably one of the most powerful nations in the world is a moot point. He could be a right-wing gas jockey, for all I care. You just don't give men awards having done nothing. You don't do that at schools, churches, businesses, or any other normal institution. It seriously cheapens the Nobel's credibility.

I know there has been this nauseating groundswell of support for the man as the next messiah. The hype has gone beyond tedious; it's actually downright scary. I don't even think he would promote himself in that manner. In all fairness, I understand Mr. Obama was as shocked at getting the Nobel Peace Prize as he is in being considered a messiah.

If you want to nominate someone for the Nobel Peace Prize, I have a name for you. His efforts in promoting peace around the world and throughout the centuries, across the borders and over the barriers, have stood the tests of time, space, and substance. His influence has altered homes, communities, nations, and history itself.

Agree or disagree about my candidate – Jesus Christ Himself – you must admit, even if you are a token student of history, that when His peace principles are carried out, things are radically and positively different. I will be the first to admit that many who have claimed to be His followers have bungled the mission supremely, but that in no way lessens the power of peace created by the world's only genuine Messiah.

Obama would do well to have a track record of centuries (not days), of cross-cultural followers (not a few capable hacks), of realistic solutions (not artificial handouts) before he steps up to accept this prize.

I would love all to agree with me, but that has never been the case. Funny, I don't think even Hamas and I would be on the same page on this one, either.

Icon, Icon on the Range

 

----- Original Message -----

From: Craig Funston

To: Deylinda Pilon

Sent: Friday, September 18, 2009 8:29 PM

Subject: Foremost on my Mind, September 22

 

Ask ten people for a symbol of life and you will get ten different answers. Ask ten people the same question, this time replacing "life" with :death" and the same thing will happen. Ask them yet another question, Whether there is a symbol or two that represents both life and death - and prepare to duck.

Well, you don't have to duck here, because I think there are some symbols that speak of death and life – especially here on the prairies. Each of the following places represent lives that have lived fully, yet, at the same time, death that became inevitable.

Choose your icons, be it an old schoolhouse, a grain elevator, or a country cemetery.

There is no set order in my suggested list, only suffice to say that all three – schoolhouses, elevators, and cemeteries – speak of the full-orbed lifestyle that mark most prairie towns and hamlets. The day the last bell rings at the schoolhouse or the wrecking ball demolishes the elevator, life in that particular community is changed forever.

And then there are the cemeteries. Obviously, the most telling representative of life is death itself, as no village is complete without its graveyard. In a twisted sort of way, life is often represented on a tombstone by a simple 'dash' or 'hyphen' (I do know the difference, but there is some grammatical wiggle-room on a headstone). The said punctuation mark sits quietly between the date of birth and the date of death, suggesting that life itself is a mere dash between these two events.

There are many word pictures in the Good Book that corroborate that viewpoint, but I move along.

While there isn't much one can do creatively with a cemetery, besides giving it an upbeat name (as in "Happy Trails Cemetery"), there have been some great things done with old schoolhouses and abandoned elevators - starting right here in the County of Forty-Mile. The Etzikom Museum is a case in point for the former, and for the latter, look what the Unrau families did to the Skiff elevator. And further to the south (and out of our county), the Masinasin School doubles as an occasional rec centre and home to a small embroidery business. (There may be other businesses in there, but I am not aware of them.)

I think it is a shame that more creative things haven't been done with any of the above cultural icons. Even if the buildings were dismantled and the wood put to good use, that would at least be a start (after their finish). Again, owing to my limited time in the county, I mean no offense if something creative has been done over the years in places such as, say, Maleb, Conquerville, or Conrad.

Meanwhile, back to life, back to death: A recent trip to BC and another one to the Crowsnest Pass prior to that only confirmed the above comments. Just this side of Sicamous, BC, I saw a burner that was converted to a pub. A burner is a multi-story incinerator placed strategically in a sawmill compound. And just before that, my family and I toured a very large graveyard close to Hillcrest, AB; many of those interred were killed by one of many mine explosions in that district.

I suggest to you the burner spoke of the death of a vibrant culture, only to be "resurrected" in the form of a eating and drinking establishment. And a quick perusal of that cemetery in the Pass reminded me that, even in death, these people live on in the minds of their offspring, the historians among us, and even passing visitors – tourists, if you will, like myself.

Life that dies and death that lives is a small reminder of the cyclic nature of the normal cultures that are the foundation of our country. Breaking that cycle means denying that culture.