Gideon and Motels

I don't stay in motels too often, but when I do, I really enjoy it. With a night away, I don't have to make breakfast or wash the dishes – some things I occasionally do at home. And, if no one is looking, I may even swim in the pool. I need to be careful, though: Someone may catch me in my one-piece Homer Simpson bathing suit and matching rubber ducky.

Because I decided over ten years ago to not have a television in my home watching the odd, clean movie in my motel room is also a bit of a treat. (I say 'odd' because it isn't too often the movies are 'clean'.) One has to be so careful these days with all the moral filth on the tube.

A recent stay in a motel is a case in point. As I searched for something else to look at, I found it refreshing to find a Gideon's Bible in one of the drawers. (No, Horace, Gideon didn't lose it; it was named after a Bible character who took on the enemy against all odds – and won.)

I am not sure what side of the Bible-in-a motel-room argument you come down, but I am sure you know my bias. I think it's great that the Good Book is there to offset the garbage on the tube, to say nothing of other temptations that lurk in a near-empty motel room.

I know a little about the organization that places these Bibles in motel and hotel rooms, the same one that goes to every grade five class right across North America. They are common, everyday working stiffs, like you and me, who understand that this Book is very important. I actually do know some the local men personally and I deeply admire their commitment to such a cause.

This is refreshing to me, because in the multi-cultural society that we live in, often the first expression of religious truth that ever gets the boot from the public square is the evangelical one. As we pander to everything and anything that smacks of 'spiritual,' it seems terribly ironic that the established faith of our forefathers is in jeopardy of being completely denied equal rights.

That, then, was part of my relief to see a Gideon's Bible in the hotel room. Good to see it hasn't been thrown out - at least not yet.

If you are part of the generation who was raised without even any token knowledge of the Scriptures, let me tell you just a little about Gideon. We discover him first hiding in a winepress, beating out his father's wheat. His people were being attacked at harvest by their perpetual nemesis, the Midianites. He overcame his fears and became quite a military leader.

To make a long (and very captivating) story short, he leads his ragtag army into the fray, only to watch in disbelief as his few thousand men are reduced to a few hundred men (300 in all), to fight the thousands upon thousands of Midianites. (You can read the rest of the story in the Good Book at home; if you don't have one there, take a night in a reputable motel – they'll have one).

My point is that we are depriving our people of good alternatives when we deny them an opportunity to at least be exposed to the Bible, be they travellers of students. Good on the public, separate, and colony schools that still allow the 'Gideons' to step into a classroom for a few minutes to hand out free Bibles to students. And shame on those same schools that forbid a simple gift of moral reading. It is a given that if we want a balanced religious voice in our culture, let's at least include this one.

If that book is so outdated and so useless, why all the fuss? What is there to be afraid of? Such a antiquated piece of literature can't do anyone any harm, can it? It is so important to be open-minded and flexible to these things. A little bit of truth and morality never hurt anyone.

Especially in a motel room.

Dangerous for Your Health

I draw from a number of sources for this column. Life itself, of course, is the greatest and richest source for information, ideas, and anecdotes. I learned the following at a writers' conference years ago: "There's a story somewhere in there," - and I have applied that principle ever since.

But other than life, I read whatever tasteful and useful material I can get my hands on, through both the Internet and selected newspapers, and, of course, listen to the news on any number of reliable radio stations.

Let's see: At last count, I believe that number would be three.

In addition to those sources, "Uncle John's Bathroom Reader" is one of the best sources of trivial and zany information, albeit not current, present-day news. But it does get me thinking, and thinking gets me writing, and writing helps me buy the odd doughnut now and then.

Something I read in my favourite bathroom reader the other day confirmed what I just heard on one of those three reliable newscasts: Back-to-school clothes can be dangerous. In fact, the aforementioned Reader spoke of over 100,00 Americans who are injured every year through their (everyday, including school) clothes; that would translate into roughly 10,000 Canadians are hurt by the clothes they wear.

In other words: Watch out what you wear, it may be dangerous to your health.

I can see it now: A kid and his mom walk into Wal-Mart, head straight to the clothing section. "May I help you?" a clerk asks, after the family has been floating alone on a sea of isolation for ten minutes, looking like they're drowning in socks and t-shirts.

"Yes, ma'am," they reply, "we were just wondering if there were any land mines in these jeans, any knives in those pockets?"

Okay, I jest. The safety issue, if I recall, is the toxins or poisons (or are they the same thing?) in, over, or near any form of clothing or accessories that kids are wearing to school. Granted, one can't be too careful these days, but I wonder if we taking this issue a little too far. If a parent wants to make certain their kid isn't getting their bodies poisoned by going to school, I suggest trying a different section in their favourite box store.

It's called the grocery department.

In my limited experience of observing what kids eat – and this goes well beyond my present teaching context – I am appalled that there aren't more rashes, headaches, nausea, expressed in the form of sick days, hyper-activity (or drowsiness), and loss of concentration. (Wait, as a matter of fact...)

When it comes to preserved and pre-packaged foods, I am amazed what I have seen come out of Sponge Bob lunch kits over the past few years. I wonder sometimes if parents really know what they are feeding their kids.

The inverse is also true: I have a pretty good idea what little Johnny and his family had for supper the night before. Many of my students have moms who are obviously wonderful cooks – just like I do.

So, is there a safety issue with back-to-school? Yes, indeed. In some places, it involves drugs and gangs and bullying – although Medicine Hat isn't all that bad, I suppose. But in our world, I reckon that one has to watch just exactly where those crayons came from and what the liner in the lunch kit is actually made of.

Methinks, then, that the bigger issue is not what they are wearing, but what they are eating. My suggestion is that parents can't be too careful what they give their kids for lunch these days. You need to be careful: Don't pull the stem on that apple; it may be a hand grenade in disguise.

The Joys of a Small Town

One of the things I like about living in a small town, village, or hamlet is the level of warm familiarity I find. Last week, as I was doing my business around town, I was able to talk to the Post Office people, the Village people (not to be confused with the Village People), the Royal Bank people, the medical people, and the library people. Only the doctor, whose name rhymes with 'backwards,' received a formal title.

The rest got Tracy, Aldean, Kelly, Bill, Joan, Bev, and Joanne.

My roots in Richmond, Kamloops, and Abbotsford would never have allowed such a personal approach. Back there and then, I would be a numberless face or a nameless account (and if on the phone, a faceless voice).

Of course, as in any small town, village, or hamlet, one has to be wary that people may know more about you than you want them to know. And it gets further complicated if what they apparently know simply isn't true. Like the repeat assumption that I am the principal of a small Christian school in Bow Island. If I walk like one, look like one, and act like one, it doesn't follow that I am one.

They have the right school, just not the right position.

A recent visit to an area parade (but not Foremost) showed yet another side to this issue. I was talking to a very nice couple there, who just happened to be Foremostians, uh, Foremostites – Formostipalians? Whatever: the upshot was that they knew who I was, though I had never laid eyes on them. Somehow, and months before, over coffee at a local cafe, I had been pointed out as (the one and only, the world-famous) Craig Funston.

Dream on, El Fungo.

There is a sense of security and comfort living in a one-stop sign town. Our tragic house fire of nearly five years ago is a case in point. This village, along with countless other communities, came through in spades – something we will never, ever forget. The strange thing is, they weren't even familiar with us at that point.

If I have any complaint about living in (or in our case, seven minutes out of) a small town it would be the lack of or need for basic amenities. Because Lethbridge or Medicine Hat are both quite close and because we are all so mobile, people tend to shop there instead of here. On that basis, that's why it would be hard for some business to make a real go of it here. However, I suggest a bakery, meat shop, drugstore, barbershop – for starters – would be a good start. If these types of services were available, it would follow that the locals would have to support them. And competition and demographics being what they are, that may be unrealistic.

Because I have only been in Foremost for just over six years, some of these may have been tried over the years, so please bear with my lack of knowledge. I just know that businesses bring in people and money, then people and money bring in businesses. I believe that is called "Dr. Fun's First Law of Small Town Economics" - also known as The Second Law of Supply and Demand.

So if Foremost grew to a size where the postmistress didn't know my name, but knew my number, or the bank teller knew my name, but not my numbers, I'm not sure if I would want to stay. My numbers may be prettier than my face, but that warm familiarity would be gone.

What I would really like is to sit down over coffee in the local cafe, and have the locals whisper admiringly: "There's El Fungo, master wit and writer extraordinaire!" That would indeed be a case of warm familiarity, but with a dash of self-deception.

Hot Air and Rubber = Balloon

Hot air is stifling at any any time. In a literal sense, we may roast in our houses or cars because of it; and in a figurative sense, it speaks of someone who talks and talks and talks – with generally nothing to say.

Rubber, too, has its own challenges. While it has many benefits for society, combined with hot air it produces one of life's greatest griefs (translation: a personal pet peeve) in what has become a universal toy for children.

It is called the common balloon, and I believe all balloons should be banned from the planet.

Now, before you tree-hugging eco-environmentalists rise up and called me blessed, let me assure you that I am still not on your side, and my ban is not the same as your ban. I am not discussing the environmental damage of rubber, and its effect on the fuchsia-speckled pygmy-beaked Samoan finch that lays an egg in some pristine forest every two years (maybe). You know the scenario: Hundreds of hectares of good forest are cordoned off because there is a remote possibility of a nesting habitat being undermined.

As noble as that may be, my reason is much more pragmatic and earthy: Balloons cause a lot of trouble everywhere they go, and wherever they actually do go, they don't do it quietly and kindly. When popped, they go out with a loud bang; or when released, they flee to the heavens above, taunting some bawling kid below.

If balloons had a life of their own, and I think they do sometimes, I would consider them a domestic, inside animal. Outside, they are a menace to themselves They cannot survive in the wilds of anyone's backyard. Upon first contact with a branch or nail, they join the great cluster in the sky.

But balloons are also dangerous to have in the house or car. Whether it's walls and rugs, or door handles and seatbelts, there is no safeguard for their safety. The most natural thing for a kid to do is to keep on knocking it around, and chasing after it. In no time flat, something has been knocked down, tripped over, with the balloon on the ceiling and the kid on the floor.

Score: Balloon, 1, and kid, 0.

I suppose my only concession with balloons is the art of turning them into all sorts of weird and wonderful shapes. First, the variety, taking a boring round shape and turning it into almost any type of animal – a most creative act! Second, that said useless round shape now has a purpose, from being a kid-teaser, ceiling-clinger, and cloud-hugger to an ultra-lite rhino. That would actually make it a very inexpensive toy. And third, it has a longer shelf life, lasting longer than a mere few hours.

But I still hate them. It's not like there's some clown standing just around the corner from your house, waiting to turn some kid's balloon into Dumbo the elephant, a dull round thing into a Star of David. By the same token, that may be a skill someone in each household could develop. That could keep the kids busy, save the furniture, and create some meaningful hot air.

Meaningful hot air. Let's see: Collect all the hot air from the council chambers, melt down all the used tires from any local transfer stations, and there would be balloons for every kid in the county for a lifetime.

Ughh. Makes me want to go out and hug a tree.