Wish List for the New Year

 

Welcome to the annual Funstuff New Year's Resolution List, courtesy of Dr. Fun (Maurice, that would be me). This is the (only) time of the year that I can vent a little more than usual, taking jabs here and there at certain public objects and culture flaws around me. If you don't like the word "Resolution," then try "Wish" on for size.

And if you don't like the word "Wish," well, I can't help you.

Here they go:

1. Calgary Flames. I wish for them to have an NHL-level hockey team. The club of millionaires that masquerades as a professional hockey team is on thin ice (pun gleefully intended), and is an embarrassment to many hockey fans across Alberta. (If this were Arizona or Georgia, for instance, this conversation wouldn't be happening; I don't think they don't know the difference between a hockey game and a hickey game.)

Solution? Trade Jerome Iginla, a couple of fourth-liners, and some farmhands to a team like the Columbus Blue Jackets. He could then pair up with another all-star (Rick Nash), giving the Blue Jackets instant play-off potential. It would create even more parity in the league. Columbus (unlike, say, Phoenix) is a bonafide hockey city and deserves a break like this.

2. The Conservative Party of Alberta. I wish for them to do something constructive about their future status, before they do something more destructive. No one wants to go through the rigours of yet another provincial election, but the Conservatives need to do something to stop the bleeding. The Wildrose Alliance Party is making some very serious inroads into staunch Conservative strongholds throughout the province, so the PC's had better watch out. Calling a snap election may not be the best solution, especially if their federal counterparts may be forced to do the same, but they can no longer be comfortable with where they're at.

Solution? Shore up what support is left on the right, before they're left right out They still may go down in flames in the next election, but it will at least look like they are trying to stay alive. Do not construe this as my personal support for either party at this point, though I do have my definite leanings.

3. Subway. I wish every success for Bow Island's newest (coming) enterprise. Years ago, in my capacity as a junior high Social Studies teacher, I called for some fast-food chain to move into Bow Island. My "call" came in the form of an assignment for my students, namely, come up with an eatery that would meet the following qualifications: a. located on Highway 3; b. open past 9:00 PM each night; and c. preferably a well-known chain. I did not specify which business should come in, but I know that Subway will be a roaring success.

I have never been able to understand why there's not a coffee to be had between Taber and Medicine Hat anytime after 9:00 PM on any given night. Highway 3 is the main thoroughfare out of southern British Columbia, and into southern Alberta and Saskatchewan. The best coffee bar is at an all-night gas station--and you know what leftover 11:00 PM coffee there tastes like.

Solution? Bring on even more fast-food places in the same area as Subway; make that high-profile corner a going concern. It will give travellers even more reason to stop in Bow Island. It will also give the locals plenty of opportunity and space to get in on the action. Timmy's anyone?

4. Mexican Mennonites. I wish for more of our Mennonite friends to settle in our area. I have stated the following before: If it wasn't for the Mennonites that have settled here in droves over the past five to ten years, the economy in Southern Alberta would be in a state of near-collapse. Whether they are filling our schools, renting our houses, shopping in our stores and buying our groceries, or working as labourers on our farms, the positive impact of these people on our economy is incalculable. I am clearly aware of a lot of resentment on the part of certain non-Mennonites. Okay, I agree, sometimes some of it may occasionally be justified, but rarely.

Solution? Support them in every which way possible. They are prepared to start at the bottom and work their way up, unlike most of us. And doing this in a foreign country where they don't even know the language or the customs. Something (y)our parents and grandparents did.

Hey, we should re-visit this wish list a year from now and see if wishes really do come true.

One Day at a Time

 

As the year 2011 creeps ever so closely, I remain amazed that I am still around to be, well, amazed by it. This past year has not been a particular kind year to yours truly, though I make ever effort to refrain from wearing my heart on my sleeve, so to speak. One especially grievous setback in my own life this past year has been a reminder of life's fragile balance.

But, I must move on, take a deep breath, and rely on the fact that the One Who made me is the One Who is in control. I don't always understand that, but I believe it. I trust I can say that without sounding preachy or sanctimonious. I find little comfort in trusting in my own ability (or lack thereof) within or some vague cosmic force out there somewhere.

The Good Book speaks so eloquently and relevantly (as usual) about "a time to weep, and a time to laugh," as well as "a time to be born, and a time to die." And it has been that type of year, down here in the Deep South. It has been a brutal year for unplanned deaths for many. I don't know if there have been more tragedies, or it's just that I am aware of more people. Or it could simply be that I sense it more because of my own human fragility

There must be a pall of grief and sorrow over parts of the county of Forty-Mile, thanks to a number of unexpected and unwanted deaths in this past year. My thoughts and prayers go out to the many new widows in the area, especially in Foremost. I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that not one of those families ever dreamed that 2010 would be the last for year for their loved one.

So with those morbid thoughts in mind, some may face the New Year with a certain timidity. We make summer holiday plans, but we may never see June. We buy our Christmas gifts early, but ours never gets opened. We anticipate another birthday milestone, but end up being honoured with a headstone instead.

Grim thoughts, I agree, but it is a wise person who reflects upon the shortness of life and the certainty of death. While we are not promised tomorrow, we do have today. And if I can kick across one special thought today, it is this: Live everyday as if it were your last.

Now that can be construed in one of two ways: One, the old adage, "eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die," has come to mean live it up, drink it down, and let it all hang out; or two, cherish the relationships you have, patch up the differences between you and someone else, and enrich the lives around you.

I despise the former response, yet I fail miserably in the latter one. In other words, I wish I would cherish as I should, patch up as I need to, and enrich as ought to. No man on his death bed ever wished he worked more hours, made more money, or was away from home more often. Rather, he would tell you that he wished he had valued those around him more.

Who reading this column today will be reading it next year? (For that matter, who writing it will be writing it next year?) If all goes according to (our) plan, each one of us will be, but we certainly don't know for sure.

Some wag has said the following: Today is the present, so that's why it is a gift (play on words carefully intended). Enjoy the gift of laughter, love, and support. Give the gift of laughter, love, and support. The very fact that you can read this means you are still around, still available for those near and dear to you.

So as you stand up (or sit down) to face the New Year, do it with the certain realization that it is yours to treasure, yours to enjoy—one day at a time. Let's plan to meet here again next year, same time, same place. All being well.

Emily, It's Me Again

 

My note to "Emily" and any other "Emilies" out there is newspapercolumnland a couple of weeks ago left me in a reflective mood. I wonder how she took it, I thought. Was she devastated that Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy are only the products of creative minds?

So, without too much fanfare or retraction, I wish to write her a follow-up letter. Again, you can read along, if you so choose. If not, try at least to figure out what this week's punch line will be.

Hi Emily. Trust this letter, er, column finds you and yours well. I hope we're still friends, after I spilled the beans about there being no Santa Claus. I dislike bearing bad news—bursting balloons, if you will--, but, you know, I have raised, am raising, and (it seems) will continue to raise nine kids of my own, and it seems I am forever saying"No" to them, for the same reason. The reason? For their own good.

My wife and I have chosen to not expose them to many of the half-truths of the culture, and we're glad we took that stand. I'm sure they would have felt betrayed by our half lies, then bemused by our backtracking years later.

You know, Emily, Christmas, sans Santa Claus, is still a wonderful time of the year. And I want you to understand that you can get beyond the trees and the tinsel, the bills and the bells, the stuffed turkey and the stuffed guests, and really enjoy it. Probably a few extra gifts with your name on them under the tree would help.

But seriously, Emily, Christmas may seem for the most part for children and lovers—and that's not a bad thing—but it really can be for us all. Those of us who are long on the tooth, a weird expression for getting older, can still have our share of lots of fun and plenty of memories. For our family, we are having our married kids and their babies, as well as those of us at home, for Christmas. That will make it very special this year.

Some people panic because they have to buy so many presents for so many people. If you know any of those people, Emily, tell them to back off. Trim the Christmas gift list. Buy better gifts for fewer people. Make sure all the bills can be paid in January. Suggest they should start doing what we're starting to do: buy gift cards. (And, Emily, if you're thinking of me this year, think in terms of an East Side Mario's or Five Guys, Burgers and Fries, gift card(s). Thanks in advance!)

Christmas involves looking out for others. It's not the things we get or don't get; nor is it about things we give or don't give. Yes, gifts have their place—I'd be a liar and hypocrite if I told you not to get or give, when I turn around and do it myself. I'm just suggesting to you, Emily, that you really think about what you are doing, and why you are doing it.

Maybe you could change your approach to the big day this year. Think about having a few people over for games and snacks. There's got to be a widow here, an senior there, or perhaps a new family in town. Check out your source of people through your school, church, or neighbourhood. And I'm thinking that if you go that route, you will have one of the best Christmases ever.

The message of the first Christmas, over 2, 000 years ago, is one that still holds true today. That is, the true spirit of Christmas involves opening your heart, your hand, and your home to others, spending time and energy on people (as opposed to spending money and sweat on gifts). Please don't let the rampant consumerism and materialism get in the way of a truly meaningful Christmas.

By the way, if you are thinking of asking over one of those aged friends of yours, I play a mean game of Boggle.

There's a Song in the Air

 

I felt like I was a kid again: There I was, along with some family members and others, singing Christmas carols from door to door in Lethbridge. Every door that opened up seemed genuinely moved by the warm gesture on the part of a family friend who gathered some her Music for Young Children students together (and their families). The carolling was Lydia Collin's initiative, and it was a smash hit.

Talk about a cold call: I wasn't sure if the chills running up and down my back were chills of joy of the season or chills of the freezing. Either way, it was worth the walk. By the time I got back to the church basement, the hot chocolate never tasted better. Even when I accidently spilled some on my arm, I felt both stupid yet warm all over, if you get my drift.

One of the Lethbridgians (Lethbridgeites? Lethbridgaires?) even offered us money after our "performance." Too bad I was so proud and so far back; I would have gladly taken the looney. I needed the cash for the burger on the way home. Others offered candy. It was one of those rare times that I took my cue from the kids: They took it, so I took it.

I can't remember when I last went carolling door-to-door. I certainly went when I was younger, much younger (hence, the age reference at the beginning of this column). Over the years, I have gone carolling with the church(es), in the home(s), at the seniors' centre(s), and, of course, the annual Carol fests scattered throughout the South.

But singing outside to complete strangers, who don't even know you are coming, well, that's a little different. Different, as in not being able to turn pages of song sheets with winter mitts on; different, as in singing songs one sings only once a year, mostly from memory because of the afore-mentioned mitt thing and the fact that the porch light didn't shine all the way down the stairs where I was standing; and different, as in I didn't really want to go at first, then found that I was actually enjoying it.

I like to support my family whenever possible and reasonable (and not necessarily in that order); but yet another drive into Lethbridge, after another long day, as well as doing something new, and doing it outside in the cold—I don't think so. Or at least I didn't think so.

Doing something for others—be it family, music teacher/friend, or complete strangers on the west side of Lethbridge—almost, and I use the word 'almost' cautiously, suggests to me the true spirit of Christmas. Let me re-state that: When I put myself out, that is, I give of my time and energy, others are blessed. And if 'blessed' sounds too religious for you, may I suggest that others are 'pleased.'

Most of my Christmas traditions, at least in terms of public presentations, revolve around concerts, cantatas, choirs, cookies, or any other yuletide seasonal word that starts with the letter "c." Usually, I'm merely sitting as a spectator, taking it all in, then quickly wolfing down all the shortbread biscuits, fudge, poppycock, and Brussels sprouts I can get my hands on--before the kids get to the food table.

Okay, okay, nix the Brussels sprouts; I always leave them for the eco-cuisiners.

That's why by blessing (there's that word again) others, I am likewise blessed. I think there's a metaphor in that experience: When I serve myself, I am miserable; but when I serve others, they not only benefit, but I do too. It's one of those things that's make me ask: Why don't I do this at other times of the year?

(No, Maurice, I don't mean singing "What Child is This?" at some stranger's door in July; I mean the 'serving others' part—okay?)

Anyways, last Sunday night wasn't a "Silent Night" at all for me and mine, and I didn't mind that one bit. And methinks, neither did those folks on the West Side.

Old Saint Nick

 

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

From: Craig Funston

To: Yak-Yak Cafe

Sent: Thursday, December 02, 2010 11:38 AM

Subject: Old Saint Nick

 

A generation ago, a famous writer wrote to an imaginary girl called Virginia. She had inquired as to whether Santa Claus really existed, and he replied with those famous words: "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus."

I will now write to the next generation of "Virginia," but I'll call her Emily. Unfortunately, I won't be quite as positive (and misleading). You are more than welcome to "listen in"...

Emily, you wondered about this character called Santa Claus. If my history is correct, there was a man called Saint Nicklaus—somewhere in Europe, I believe--a couple of centuries ago. Many things that mark this current icon were likely started by him. I know I probably should be more up on my 200-year-old men of history, but I'm not. The point is, there was someone back then that the current bearded gentleman is modeled after.

Whether he always wore a red jump suit, with those furry frills, a big, bushy beard, I cannot say. He probably didn't have Coke back in the Old Country, either. Whatever, Santa Claus has become an integral part of how many people celebrate Christmas. Funny, isn't it, that we can delete Christ from Christmas, but we better not mess with Santa.

If you go shopping at this time of year, no matter what mall you end up in, he is there. You can even sit on his lap, if you are small enough. In a day or so, you will hear all sorts of songs about him. I don't know if I can say this here, Emily, but my "favourite" Santa song is by the Beach Boys, "Old Saint Nick."

But I am digressing. You see, Emily, Santa Claus is a figment of our imagination, the mere embodiment of a deep-seated void in all of us. In other words, there is something within all of us that wants a kind, benevolent person to be there, giving things to us, and just being a special presence.

You see, he does exist, yet he doesn't. Let me explain: As I stated earlier, he is everywhere; you can talk to him and he can talk to you. He's in store windows, on Christmas cards, and is very popular with certain ads. So for me to say that there is no Santa Claus would be misleading. The question is: Who is Santa Claus and what does he really represent?

On the other hand, he isn't there. He can't be in every mall right across this country, all at the same time, plus scattered throughout the world. Only one can possibly be real, while all the others must be fakes. That's a harsh reality, but it's true. He is part of the secular side of Christmas, yet his presence suggests something much, much deeper.

One of the things that I really struggle with is the many similarities between Santa and Jesus. Please, Emily, don't assume I'm going into a theological rant at this point. The connection, to me, seems only too obvious. I know that that may make me sound like a religious quack, but I'm not. I may be religious, but I'm not a quack. That's often the tag people are given by others when they don't agree with them. Interesting where tolerance ends and prejudice begins...

Back to my Santa-is-like-Jesus thinking for a moment: When I speak of someone being everywhere at the same time, of knowing whether you are naughty or nice, of giving rewards at his coming, you may be confused—because you don't know whether it's referring to Santa or Jesus. You see, there are too many things seen and said about Santa that should be reserved only for Jesus. And I have a serious problem with that.

He also assumes a larger-than-life persona, a fancy term for being far, far more important than he really is, not unlike athletes or movie stars—or any celebrity, for that matter. You understand what I mean when I say too many of these people (Santa included) are treated as if they were a god of some sort, and this is terribly serious and dangerous.

So, no, Emily, there is no Santa, even though there is an element in all of our hearts that would want to believe in something (or someone) who could fill that Santa role in our individual lives. Perhaps I could discuss that vacuum-shape in all of our hearts some time with you.

You have a very Merry Christmas.

---

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Checked by AVG - www.avg.com
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Old Saint Nick

 

A generation ago, a famous writer wrote to an imaginary girl called Virginia. She had inquired as to whether Santa Claus really existed, and he replied with those famous words: "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus."

I will now write to the next generation of "Virginia," but I'll call her Emily. Unfortunately, I won't be quite as positive (and misleading). You are more than welcome to "listen in"...

Emily, you wondered about this character called Santa Claus. If my history is correct, there was a man called Saint Nicklaus—somewhere in Europe, I believe--a couple of centuries ago. Many things that mark this current icon were likely started by him. I know I probably should be more up on my 200-year-old men of history, but I'm not. The point is, there was someone back then that the current bearded gentleman is modeled after.

Whether he always wore a red jump suit, with those furry frills, a big, bushy beard, I cannot say. He probably didn't Coke back in the Old Country, either. Whatever, Santa Claus has become an integral part of how many people celebrate Christmas. Funny, isn't it, that we can delete Christ from Christmas, but we better not mess with Santa.

If you go shopping at this time of year, no matter what mall you end up in, he is there. You can even sit on his lap, if you are small enough. In a day or so, you will hear all sorts of songs about him. I don't know if I can say this here, Emily, but my "favourite" Santa song is by the Beach Boys, "Old Saint Nick."

By I am digressing. You see, Emily, Santa Claus is a figment of our imagination, the mere embodiment of a deep-seated void in all of us. In other words, there is something within all of us that wants a kind, benevolent person to be there, giving things to us, and just being a special presence.

You see, he does exist, yet he doesn't. Let me explain: As I stated earlier, he is everywhere; you can talk to him and he can talk to you. He's in store windows, on Christmas cards, and is very popular with certain ads. So for me to say that there is no Santa Claus would be misleading. The question is: Who is Santa Claus and what does he really represent?

On the other hand, he isn't there. He can't be in every mall right across this country, all at the same time, plus scattered throughout the world. Only one can possibly be real, while all the others must be fakes. That's a harsh reality, but it's true. He is part of the secular side of Christmas, yet his presence suggests something much, much deeper.

One of the things that I really struggle with is the many similarities between Santa and Jesus. Please, Emily, don't assume I'm going into a theological rant at this point. The connection, to me, seems only too obvious. I know that that may make me sound like a religious quack, but I'm not. I may be religious, but I'm not a quack. That's often the tag people are given by others when they don't agree with them. Interesting where tolerance ends and prejudice begins...

Back to my Santa-is-like-Jesus thinking for a moment: When I speak of someone being everywhere at the same time, of knowing whether you are naughty or nice, of giving rewards at his coming, you may be confused—because you don't know whether it's referring to Santa or Jesus. You see, there are too many things seen and said about Santa that should be reserved only for Jesus. And I have a serious problem with that.

He also assumes a larger-than-life persona, a fancy term for being far, far more important than he really is, not unlike athletes or movie stars—or any celebrity, for that matter. You understand what I mean when I say too many of these people (Santa included) are treated as if they were a god of some sort, and this is terribly serious and dangerous.

So, no, Emily, there is no Santa, even though there is an element in all of our hearts that would want to believe in something (or someone) who could fill that Santa role in our individual lives. Perhaps I could discuss that vacuum-shape in all of our hearts some time with you.

You have a very Merry Christmas.

Merry Christmas - May I Say That?

 

Somewhere in the convoluted course of my annual traditions, I can't seem to start my Christmas columns until I get that first Christmas card from my Aunt Bob from north of Edmonton. Or till I have heard about someone's Christmas staff party when Max from Accounting made a complete a_s of himself trying to kiss the water cooler.

On the other hand, it is easy to write about this "most wonderful time of the year" when I see fields and trees (and my mudroom) all covered in snow. And it doesn't hurt my traditional, festive spirit to be buoyed with the recent news that the term, "Merry Christmas" (with an emphasis on the 'Christmas' part), is making a comeback.

For years, there has been a growing resentment—only part of the multiculturalism disaster—against anything religious to do with Christmas. Somehow the secularists, the atheists, and the New Agers have waged a war against the well-documented birth of arguably history's greatest figure. (Note: I am intentionally leaving out any Biblical reference, at least at this point.)

I would like to see these same people try that in Iran or Somalia or Sudan. I can see it now: "No more 'Merry Mohammedmas' for us." I thought so: They would last one night before they donated their respective heads to charity.

There is no question that secular effects come from secular causes – in other words, in a culture that continuously de-emphasizes the Scripture as its basis for law, marriage, and economics, it's bound to come up empty when it comes to celebrating the arrival of the One that that very Scripture is all about. The logical flow doesn't leave me, that is, one leads to the other—that I understand.

What I fail to grasp is simply this: Why mess with something as innocuous and upbeat as celebrating Christmas? Why the angry urge to re-name it, then re-package it? If there was a religious curfew, say, like Ramadan, imposed by wild-eyed Christians, I think you would have a case. Or if there was a Crusade-like edict, eg., "celebrate Christmas our way or lose your head," I would side with the secularists.

But none of the above is happening, or will be happening. (Just as a side note: If you want to worry about religious rules being crammed down your throat, please monitor the growing Islamic threat seeping throughout Europe, and wait for its arrival on our shores within the next generation.)

Meanwhile, back in Bethlehem...

Christmas, more than Valentine's Day, Groundhog Day, Canada Day, and such, has taken the brunt of the secular mindset, and I sincerely think this is tragic. Even the pronouncing of the word (sounds more like it's named after someone called Chris) really doesn't sound like one is using the name of Christ—if, in fact, that is the real issue.

In one of life's more delicate ironies, the name of Christ is used constantly and repeatedly, on a daily basis, but never in an innocent and upbeat way. If you missed my point, please make someone stub their toe, hit their head, or jam their finger.

If someone wants to wish me a "Happy Holiday," or a "Merry Yuletide," I will thank him. I will regard that as a genuine seasonal greeting. I won't demand they wish me the only approved winter cheer. That would be imposing my standards (or even convictions) on them. But I would expect the same courtesy, namely, don't make me out to be a religious nutcase, or turn it into a criminal offense, because I choose to celebrate this grand season with the word "Christ" on my lips.

Here's a proposal for you: You may keep your Santa Claus, just let me keep my Christ; you may lose control with your Christmas spirits, just let me keep under control with a balanced Christmas spirit; you may want to view this time of year as an opportunity to rack up some serious debt, just let me invest in friends and family.

And by the way, have a very Merry Christmas.

Ode to a Deer

 

Years ago, when I was in a much simpler mindset, I ran over a possum. Not only did I kill the thing, I actually went home and—get this—wrote a poem about it. I felt so terrible about my misdeed that I even "humanized" it; that is, I gave it human qualities, thus making that road kill equal to vehicular homicide.

Times have changed and I can assure you that I no longer write poems about animals I kill.

Case in point: A few days ago, I met a deer on my way to work. It wasn't a formal meeting, but it was a final one, at least for the deer. I didn't even have a nano-second to stop, likely a blessing, considering the weather conditions at 6:30 AM. Had I braked, for example, I may have done some very serious damage to my truck, my body and someone's ditch.

It has been a busy process since then, what with autobody shops, insurance adjusters and brokers, plus a visit to the local RCMP detachment. I don't know how it will all work out, but my truck looks really beat up and it may have to be written off.

Since my emigration to Alberta years ago, I have developed a different, more balanced, take on wildlife. In a domestic sense, I have discovered the supreme value of cats (mousers, Horace, they eat mice). I have also seen the futility of a cow not calving for a year or two; we now call that hamburger.

Outside the fence, I repeat the following phrase, with inter-changeable parts: "The only good coyote is a dead coyote." (The inter-changeable parts, for the record, would be replacing the word 'coyote' with the word(s) fox, badger, or gopher.)

I like comics and cartoons as much as the next 56-year-old, but when an animal is given all the same qualities that a human has, then we have gone too far. Mankind is at the top of the food chain; we are the stewards of the natural and living resources beneath us, and we should take that role very, very seriously. That is both a Biblical tenet as well as a scientific one (and those two mindsets usually go hand in hand). If it was carried out the way it should be, our world would be both kinder and safer.

Case in point: when a punk drags a dog down the middle of the street in Smalltown, Alberta, he should be nailed; and when an oil corporation inadvertently kills hundreds of ducks in their tailing pond, there needs to be some sort of accountability. We simply need to take care of our animals.

One of the confusing facets of a spiraling culture (like ours) is that we de-humanize mankind and "in-humanize" animals. The former leads to the murder of unborn babies, the abuse of women and children, whereas the latter creates a senseless and unworkable equality. In other words, the heartless killing of an animal is not on the same level as the mindless killing of a human. There needs to be rules and restrictions, just different rules and restrictions.

Let me re-state this: I believe we as humans must treat all wildlife humanely, whether they are pets or prey. Feed them well or kill them quickly, respectively. That would be a summation of my position. As you know, I don't hunt, but I don't begrudge the joy of hunting to anyone. When the natural cycle of hunter and hunter, be it human and animal or animal and animal, is out of whack, you have an imbalance, not unlike the one that southern Montana has, with wolves and deer.

The fences and overpasses along some of our major highways are steps in the right direction, albeit an expensive one, in preserving and protecting our wildlife from unnecessary death. Even so, deer, moose, and bear remain significant road kill (and railway kill, for that matter) throughout Alberta.

So I killed a deer the other day. I don't feel good or bad about it, just bothered by it. Bothered by everything that I have to go through, what with all the legal and financial fuss that has followed. But at least I got more fodder for a column out of it. At least I'm not writing a poem.

Big Little Israel

As I write this, friends of mine are winging their way to Israel for one of those trips-of-a-lifetime. Had I been offered the same opportunity, I would have declined. Holy Land tours are quite the thing among evangelicals "pilgrims" (people like me), but there are too many "loose cannons" (pun gleefully intended) in that part of the world for my liking.

By the time you finish reading this, I will likely have finished reading something myself, namely, a book whose premise is as follows: When America turns its back on Israel (read: sides with one of her many enemies) some physical disaster takes place in the Lower 48. That seems to be a stretch until you read all the overwhelming evidence. I only wish there was a newspaper out there with some courage and integrity that would pass along this information.

Then there is the best prime minister in Canadian history (in my personal opinion)—that would be Stephen Harper, Maurice—who made it very clear that he (and Canadians, by extension) will defend Israel no matter what, regardless of who is against him.

And lastly, Israel has invited the thirty-three Chilean miners over for Christmas cheer, in light of their renewed interest in God. That would suggest some connection between God and the Holy Land, methinks. Sixty-nine days in an underground pit can do wonders for one's awareness of things spiritual. There's even talk that this offer may extend to fifty-five others: their immediate and extended family members.

I don't know if it was me or what, but Israel seemed to be very much in the news these past few days. Of course, there is the negative side, where there is hardly a day or a week that Iran isn't threatening to turn Israel into a parking lot, but I won't grace those imbecilic rantings to even anything more than a passing comment.

I have a strong bias towards Israel (how'd you guess?), even though I am not Jewish. I don't even use the word "jew" as a verb-- as in, "I want to jew his price down." In fact, I hardly know any Jews, unless you count Enoch, Noah, Abraham, Moses, and David. I only know them through their written epics, with some fairly thorough investigation of their respective lives, warts and all. I should add at this juncture a slight caveat to my non-war bent (from last week): I do enjoy reading about Israel's present-day heroics, especially in the spy department. I am so amazed that a country so small can do so much clever damage to so many fiends with so few casualties of their own.

A recent email laid out in no uncertain terms the disproportionate number of Jews that have won Nobel Prizes, especially when compared to those, say, of the Muslim culture. If memory serves me correct, I believe it was something like 165-5. I would venture to say that no other nation has produced winners like Israel, ever—and that is all the more remarkable because they have only been a nation, this time around, since 1948.

The scrub land that they were presented with by Great Britain has become a veritable Garden of Eden (though there is no direct connection with that Garden and Israel: it actually was in what we know as southern Iraq). The ability of the Jews to turn any little thing into a big thing, any weak thing into a strong thing is beyond my comprehension. You might say they have the true "Midas touch" at every level—be it academics, economics, agriculture, and technology.

Even as a war machine (again, as much as I hate war, I recognize its place), Israel is completely unlike any other country. One scrawny country of a few million has fended off many countries of many more millions, time after time after time. How they do it, I cannot say. If Israel was a horse, I'd bet on it every time. If it was a neighbour, I'd have the best sleep ever. But it's neither horse nor neighbour, just a great country that needs our support as much as possible. 

You may read here in months to come even more favourable copy about Israel. Or you may want to read another Book about Israel's incredible past, challenging present, and breath-taking future.

Remembering the Cost

 

Unlike some of my sons, I don't watch war movies. Ditto for books about warfare of any stripe (no pun intended). Throw in any show about the Holocaust, for that matter—I'm just not into it. I suppose that makes me a wimp of sorts, but I can live with that.

Beyond the queasiness of blood and gore, there is a measured conviction on my part of the futility and anguish of war that really gets to me. And any medium that trivializes war and peace, is evil. That would be evil, as in E-V-I-L.

And, in light of the Remembrance Day celebrations that will take place in two days, my thoughts are focused on war of any kind—be it on a global scale, such as the Muslims versus the rest of us; at a country level, such as Iraq; or even gang warfare in Calgary.

War a horrible reality, so to pretend it shouldn't or doesn't exist is the depth of ignorance. If the heroes of the the major world wars hadn't stepped up to do their duty, we'd all be eating sushi in our brown shirts, with a sickle and a sword on our flag.

War, or at least the propensity for war, is as close as family—husband versus wife, sibling rivalry, parent-child conflict. To think that fighting and disputes are simply out there somewhere and overseas is foggy thinking at best. We are at war with each other because we are at war with ourselves.

One of the most unusual oxymorons (no, Maurice, that's not a stupid ox) is a "religious war." If you have what the Scriptures call true religion, there is no place for violence or bloodshed. That's why the Crusades, in my limited understanding, were a debacle at every level. Conquest in the name of Christian, blood because of Bible: People, don't let the repeated lies of history fool you.

So now, in two days, we celebrate "the war to end all wars." A poppy here, a minute of silence there, but in all reality we are just going through the motions. I say that kindly and I say that personally, because I am as guilty as anyone of not really understanding what these men and women suffered so I can enjoy peace.

With everything so plentiful and so peaceful, it is truly next to impossible to appreciate the sacrifice of those who died to make it happen. How do we teach historical gratitude? (That's a question every parent wishes an answer for.) I'm not sure, but I think an accurate war documentary – as opposed to a war movie - might be a good place to start.

Even regionalized news broadcasts might be a step in the right direction. I know I have dealt with this before, so that's almost the extent of my commentary. But some sort of appropriate exposure that shows the horrors of life in Iraq, Somalia, the Congo, yet without the glorification of victory--and without the (usual) bias against the United States--would be a start.

With Thursday being Remembrance Day, what should we be in fact remembering? Obviously, we should remember the grandfathers and great-grandfathers that gave their lives and their limbs for us. We should remember that this wonderful country called Canada is worth fighting and dying for, and not to waste the opportunities at our disposal.

And we should likewise remember that there is a war zone in the heart of each one of us, and to keep it in check—so that the war out there never becomes the war in here. It's good to know who the real enemy is.

You see, the greatest casualty of war may not be those who died. It may be those who lived, but forgot the cost of freedom.

Invisible Ink

 

Sometimes I get these imaginary letters from fake fans, asking for my advice. It would be remiss on my part not to share my wonderful wit and wow-factor wisdom with you, even if it is facetious, wishful, and immodest of me. As in every element of humour, there is likewise an element of truth. Pick through the following make-believe correspondence and see for yourself.

1. Edward Monton (we'll call him "Ed" for short) writes: "If you could fix the Canucks' woes, what would you do?" Thanks, Ed; you Edmontonians certainly have had plenty of experience fixing a team's woes, you, from the City of Chumps, er, Champs.

I would come up with a simple yet shattering trade: I would shift Roberto Luongo and a high draft pick to Montreal for Carey price and Mike Cammalleri. We need a more dependable goalie and more firepower, and brother Price needs a new home.

2. Next email comes from a Lloyd Minster. Talk about a tale of two cities! Lloyd, do you live in the Alberta or Saskatchewan side of Main Street? Just for the record, Mr. Minster, there is no provincial sales tax here in Ralphsland. Anyways, your question was regarding yet another British Columbia issue: "Why are the BC Lions so fickle?"

Good question. I have often compared the Lions of 2010 to Alberta's weather: If you don't like it now, wait for a few minutes and things will change. The Lions can be like a fresh rose: Today is smells wonderful, but next week it will stink. As much as I love them--and I have been actively following them since they went into BC Place in '83—I find I am wearing my Ottawa Renegades hat more than ever.

Their problem? Well, Lloyd (can I call you Lloyd?), there are two problems The first one: they need a first-string quarterback. The Casey Printers' experiment was a disaster, and their backups were not groomed sufficiently enough. I thought they would have made a pitch for a proven back-up, but they are hard to find. I left my phone number (or was it my weight?), but they didn't return my call.

The other obvious problem is durability, as in they can get a lead but they can't hold a lead. This problem is not as easy to solve, so I won't pretend to do so. The years of a monster defense are a mere fond memory and a faint hope. Where's Don Matthews when you need him?

3. Finally, I got a phone call from Camillia Rose (she prefers to be called Cam Rose). She was picking my brain about the recent civic (but not civil) election in Calgary. She wasn't addressing the fact that a Muslim is now the new mayor; rather, her concern was the mudslinging that marked (or was it marred?) the final two weeks of the election.

Ms. Rose, I agree with you. I love democracy and the freedoms that go with it. But I hate the liberties (note the nuance between the two words) that always precede the ballot box. In another context, there could be some wonderful lawsuits coming out of the character assassinations.

The way the three leading candidates treated each other may have contributed to the crummy turnout. I know everyone in Cowtown thought the turnout was wonderful, but when it's only 53% of the eligible voters, something's seriously wrong. I should add, Ms. Rose, that down here in the Deep South, our elections are much more civil: Most of our mayors and aldermen simply return to office by acclamation, not defamation.

Hey, guys and gal, thanks for the sorta letters/emails. I have two words for you next time this may happen: Get real.

Deadly Duplicity

 

Well, it looks like we have yet another Canadian version of Ted Bundy sitting in an Ontario jail. Russell Williams, once known as Colonel Russell Williams, from Tweed, Ontario, has been charged with over 80 various counts of breaking and entering, sexual assault, and in the case of two unfortunate women, murder.

Details are scant to the casual reader or viewer, but what has come through is very, very disturbing. Despite the fetish for women's underwear, despite the sick penchant for taking pictures of his various conquests, despite his twisted sexual exhibitionism, and despite the vicious murders, I suppose one of the most evil aspect of this case is the duplicity-- fancy word for a double life—that marked Williams' life.

On the one hand, he was a rising star in the Canadian military, but on the other hand, he was a sadistic pervert and torturer. One wonders just when this slide began, and how it remained unnoticed, especially by those near and dear to him. Didn't any of his army peers pick up on anything strange in his behaviour, or was he just that good at leading a double life?

Perhaps it's a poor comparison, but Tiger Woods' "road show" smacks of something similar. While no women died, many women were used for his sexual fantasies and fulfillment, while those close to him either knew nothing or simply said nothing. And as I write this article, the media is monitoring the Brett Favre situation, with allegations of moral impropriety with an erstwhile New York Jets' female beat writer.

Why do the words lying, misleading, faking, and duping come to mind?

As much as I long for the simpler times of yesteryear, that isn't going to happen. In a day of Face book, Twitter, and cell phones, the fresh warmth of true accountability appears to be a fading reality. People can hide behind the mask of anonymity, with the use of coded or pen names, as they write, tweet, and opine about anything and everything. I should add here that I use none of the above and when I write, I use my real name.

One of life's greatest ironies at present is that we appear to be more open with each other, via the afore-mentioned tools-- what with texting continuously, producing reality television shows, and blogging daily--but I believe we are more distant from each other than ever before.

In other words, we give the impression of connectedness, when in fact we are more disconnected than ever. The gross over-use of "tolerance" and "individual freedom" has been an unmitigated and deadly disaster in most quarters.

Hence, the Williams story is really a confirmation of this duality. He wore the right uniform, said the right things, followed the right protocol, yet at the same time, he was prowling neighbourhoods, looking for fulfillment of his twisted fantasies.

The people in Tweed are devastated and humiliated: Devastated, so they should be; humiliated, not at all. Tweed is no different than, say, Camrose or Weyburn or Brandon. What happened in Tweed could happen anywhere. Tragically, it probably already is.

And if Tweed is a microcosm of an everyday Canada, then Williams is a reflection of the unaccountable Canadian. And he is not the first Canadian to shock and disgust us: We have already been sickened by a Paul Bernardo, but this case appears to be far worse. When will we ever learn?

Is there a lesson in this calamity for us? Indeed, there needs to be that fine balance between greater awareness without unnecessary intrusion, between the freedom of transparency and the need for privacy.

I can think of two grieving families back east who would concur.

Rescued from the pit

 

Last week's rescue of the thirty-three Chilean miners from their sixty-nine-day entombment is indeed one of the best feel-good stories of the year, possibly even the decade. It is rare, in the history of global mining disasters, that so many miners remained alive for so long, with so happy an ending.

It may not start with "once upon a time," but it should end with "happily ever after."

I can't possibly even start to imagine how I would handle being a) underground for so long; b) not totally confident that I would get rescued in the end; and c) devoid of most of life's basic necessities for weeks on end. I know practical things were sent down on a daily basis, but that is not the same as having them in a natural, normal way.

And when I speak of life's basic necessities, I'm not talking about cell phones, laptops, or iPods, people; I am talking about the thrill of eating regular meals, of enjoying fresh air, of even getting up and going to work everyday. Those seemingly basic pleasures were beyond the reach (literally) of these men, and it will be interesting to hear how they battled the daily monotony of confined living, week in and week out. I'm sure there are a few bestsellers in the works.

For me, there are a few jobs in this world that I could never do, no matter what the incentives were. Among them: emergency room doctor, funeral director, kindergarten teacher, and airline steward. And, of course, a miner of any sort.

My chest even tightens as I write this, as I think of any miner descending deep into the bowels of the earth. Down below, there is no daylight, no fresh air, no immediate access to the surface. It's like a grand tomb, a huge cemetery plot, if you will. I maintain the underground is for rabbits, gophers, and badgers. If the Lord above wanted me to earn a living below, I'm sure He would have given me more hair and a bushy tail.

I am beyond claustrophobic: freezers and closets have their own special terror for me. Maybe that's why I like the prairies so much—looking at wide open spaces, singing, "Don't Fence Me In." I am even selective where I sit in public places; close to an aisle, if possible; maybe even an aisle and a window, if I'm lucky. And if not either one of those, at least near a fire exit.

So these Chilean miners are heroes to me, in a sense, on at least two counts: They chose a job that needed to be done, a job that I couldn't do (but then again, maybe they couldn't teach junior high Grammar); and they co-existed with each other for weeks on end, and seemingly kept in good spirits doing it. I tend to go batty just waiting in the truck at Wal-Mart.

Another significant factor in all of this was the faith of many, if not all, of the miners. I see where Bibles, prayers, and God were a vital part of their daily routine. It usually takes a disaster, a confrontation with one's mortality, to recognize the crucial role faith plays in our lives.

Adjusting to life above for these guys will one long story and I'm sure the media will be full of every intriguing nuance in the months to come. Thirty-three men, crammed together in such a small space for so long, may find that it will take months, possibly even years, to get back to the normalcy of marriage and family, work and leisure, and life in general.

And before we hand out bouquets only to those underground, there were many above the mine who waited, planned, hoped, prayed, and strategized the whole time. There is a host of family members, mine officials, local politicians, and rescue workers that deserve international applause. Thirty-three men were not rescued by simply passing a bill or draping a banner over a corporate headquarters. It took selfless initiative on the part of many. Various people rose to the occasion, putting aside their petty differences, with lives being saved as a result.

In a world where the words Taliban, recession, gang warfare, and Paris Hilton fill our newspaper headlines, it is indeed a great day to read of people putting themselves out for others, or better stated, others looking out for others.

Thank you, people of Chile; you taught us a great lesson.

Vancouver Canucks, Stanley Cup Campions?

 

I was busy looking at potential parade routes in Vancouver the other day. In any given city, this would be a route that celebrates fat heroes (such as Santa Claus); or arguably the two best college football teams (as in the Rose Bowl); or it could be for any number of holidays.

Or, in the case of Vancouver, it could be the route of the 2010-2011 Stanley Cup champions, the Vancouver Canucks.

Now before you assume that I've hit my head on the ice one too many times, I can assure that people wiser and smarter and best-looking than me (does such an animal even exist?) have said the same thing. Well, maybe not quite the parade thing, but many of the hockey gurus have said at worst, the Canucks will take the West, and, at best, possibly win the whole thing.

As many of my fans in newspapercolumnland know, I have been a fan of the Canucks since 1966. That would be before they had an NHL team—four years before, to be precise. Some wags would argue, of course, that they still don't have an NHL team. Pagans, infidels, and bottom-feeders: the bunch of them!

Truth be told, I probably have minimal interest in any form of professional sports these days, partly because I don't watch it much, and partly because of the obscene salaries these guys make. I cannot relate to anyone who makes $35,000 a night, for playing literally twenty to thirty minutes in a game that most play for free beer. When I think of an economy that continues to be on the verge of financial collapse, yet allows its paid athletes to rake in millions of dollars, I am outraged.

They may see green, but I see red.

But NHL hockey, with the Vancouver Canucks in particular, still remains the best ticket in town. Some of the present NHL cities, in my opinion, don't deserve having teams. Gary Bettman, the NHL commissioner, has made some mistakes in his leadership tenure, but placing teams in Phoenix, Atlanta, Nashville, Tampa Bay, and Miami have been colossal mistakes--especially when there are a few American cities just south of the Canadian border that would be more suitable, to say nothing of a number of Canadian cities.

Vancouver, of course, is a city that justly deserves the right to have a hockey team. One, they are Canadian; two, they have a history of a large fan base; and three, they put out a very good product (most of the time). And this year, according to the pundits, they could go all the way.

Since being ousted by the Blackhawks in the second round of last year's playoffs, they have upgraded in every position, except for goaltending—and there was no need for that. They have done that by jettisoning some players who were dead weights, trading for others who were better, or bringing up "kids" from the farm.

Do I honestly think they are better than the Washington Capitols or the Pittsburgh Penguins? Well, honestly, yes. In both cases, they have a more balanced attack than either team, as they are not so dependent on one superstar. And, again, they have superior goaltending.

Is it too soon to plan the parade? Probably yes. But either way, I'm sure the Canucks will be there, either riding the convertibles and waving at all their fans, or running after the horses, scraping up all their you-know-what.

For that matter, maybe all this hockey talk championship stuff this early in the season is nothing more than all those recycled oats.