Foremost on my Mind: A Royal Baby

 

One of the safest places to be these days is in the womb of a queen-to-be. That would be extremely awkward for most of us, to say the least. But for one (or is it two little fellers?), it's a true reality show. I've even heard the name “Diana” (for the girl, I trust) tossed around, but for humour purposes, I'll refer to the unborn Windsor baby as “Fred.”

Fred, for those of you who have been glued to the wrong screen these past few weeks, is the outcome and the offspring of the highly popular William and Kate Windsor. Well, maybe not quite “out” yet, but it seems like everyone is in an expectant mood these days: Kate, with the baby, and the rest of us, with the news of the baby. I am sincerely happy for them, and I trust that the pregnancy will go well, and that they will deliver a healthy baby.

The early stages of said pregnancy have been wrought with an over-anxious public eye, a hoax gone bad (namely, the suicide death of the “hoaxee”), and some serious, glaring inconsistencies from those who embrace the pro-death (aka, pro-choice) philosophy.

It is that inconsistency that I wish to address here.

On the one hand, there is no thought that the living baby within Kate's womb is anything less than a human—even at only a few weeks into the pregnancy. To even suggest otherwise would be outrageous. Try writing a so-called pro-choice article in the London Daily Mail—opining whether to abort or to carry full term--and see what happens. As stated before, it already has a name; it already has a future—and all of England is doing cartwheels.

Okay, maybe I exaggerate a little on that last point, but there seems to be a grand enthusiasm for the safe arrival of this child. And so it should be. But, on the other hand—and here's where the double standard kicks in--say William and Kate were Bob and Sally. And it's not England, it's Washington state. Then the whole conception-pregnancy-delivery now takes on a brand-new angle.

Unlike William and Kate, Bob and Sally don't want the baby. Do you understand that their version of Baby Fred could be killed (let's call it what it is) up to mere weeks before his birth? Do you have any idea how unsafe it is to be an unborn baby in North America, especially since Roe vs. Wade? Methinks the general public has been duped into thinking that abortion is a clean procedure, that a woman has the only say, and that an unborn child is not a human.

Again, back to England: Why is the baby that Kate Windsor carrying is considered a child, a living human being, even at eight weeks, whereas another child under similar circumstances, at the same time, would be considered a thing, a nuisance, a blob, and dismissed as an inconvenience—to be killed by an abortionist.

I have always wondered how doctors could do that to another human being, then head home for supper to play with their own kids. The same could be said about the guards at the Nazi concentration camps—one of many similarities, not lost on any thinking person.

If we had any idea what was happening behind closed doors in these “abortuaries,” we would be horrified. We shouldn't gloss over what happens to innocent, fully human babies.

I'm not even big on royalty, so this article is not because I have a deep regard for the royal family. In fact, I have issues with kings and queens living the lap of luxury. The gist of this article is that whether we are left or right, black or white, English-speaking or Spanish-speaking, we are all the same underneath. From the mystical union of a man and a woman, a human life is conceived and life begins. So how can any rational person--who has ever examined the whole conception, cell division, and prenatal development--ever wipe out a defenseless life by a variety of means, is beyond me.

What is beyond me today, however, is the blatant double standard that the media, in particular, have embraced. The same ones that go gaga over Baby Fred are the same ones who have no problem lauding the abortion industry.

Maybe if all women were queens-to-be, life indeed would be different.

Foremost on my Mind: He Shoots...He Snores

Thought I would start my 2013 New Year's Wish List with you by simply thinking out loud. I want to spend the next few columns wishing and wanting, pleading and planning. My first wish, then, comes in the form of a missing telephone call. Or maybe that would be a missing text. Tweet?

Not sure if there has been a mix-up, but I have been waiting by my phone(s) day in and week out, sleeping outside in the doghouse—okay, that's for another reason—waiting for the call.

The call? you ask. What call? you ask again (Stop getting impatient: I can't type that fast.)

The “call,” is the one I am expecting from Gary or Donald or Donald's brother, Steve, or maybe even Sid the Kid. (When you're cool, or at least think you're cool, you feel you can talk about multimillionaire athletes on a first-name basis.)

The call, then, would be the one that revolves around the NHL players' strike. Said work stoppage (technically, of course, it's a lockout, but at the end of the day, it's as good or bad as s strike) is where billionaires have locked out millionaires from chasing a rubbing disc and clobbering it with a curved stick into a mesh, then hugging everything in skates (so long as they are wearing the right costumes) when it goes in.

One might say that the players are revolting, but that could be taken at least two different ways.

In one sense, I'm not surprised the afore-mentioned gazillionaires haven't phoned me, because, after all, what do I know? I'm just a common, ordinary citizen who has to go out and actually earn my living, one day at a time; the composite me works in a factory, on a farm, near a rig—so what would I know about the “work” of a hockey player?

To put things in perspective: Many of them will earn more money in the life of a short contract than I will earn in the time of a long life.

I'm not a jock, nor the son of jock, but I at least like watching hockey. I think I understand the nuances of the game, and what the difference is between a red line and blue, or what a crisp pass and clean check is. I even know how to boo a ref. And throw teddy bears on the ice at Christmas.

I also know that there are dozens of businesses suffering in thirty major cities across North America because of the two (stubborn) bodies who can't seem to divide the spoils. Okay, perhaps it's not that simple, although that's what my insider sports sources are saying.

These businesses that I am talking about include hotels, gas stations, eateries and pubs, arena workers, transit workers, and others I just can't think of. No one business should depend solely on one market (eg., hockey) or one season (eg., Christmas), even though it does represent a chunk of change for them.

If Gary or Donald phoned me, I would give them some ideas that they have likely already heard and discarded. Whatever. Down here in the land of common people, they still make sense. Here are three in a nutshell:

1. Try shorter seasons. Is there any need to play for nine months? Obviously, I am including play-offs with that time frame, and teams like the Calgary Flames who, as a rule don't make the play-offs, usually only play seven months. A shorten season may lengthen the careers of some players, and there is really no need to be playing when it's almost summer. Make the first round series a best of five, and have fewer teams qualify.

2. Try fewer teams. That means have 24, instead of 30. Take a long hard look at the teams that are floundering and in the red, year after year. Or, look at teams that are not in traditional hockey hotbeds (likely the same teams). It's not good fiscal management at any level to run a perpetual deficit—unless, of course, you're the government.

3. Try lower salaries. It's utterly appalling what players are getting paid these days, and how much more they want. In a North American economy of homelessness, unemployment, and forclosures, it is unconscionable that the players are getting what they are. Before we take their heads off, however, we need to ask ourselves: Who is giving them these outrageous contracts? Yer right: the same owners who are now pleading how poor they are.

But what do I know? I'm just a common, ordinary citizen who has to go out and actually earn my living, one day at a time.

Foremost on my Mind: Just Wondering...

“I wonder, as I wander,” what it was like on that first night, so long ago. My Christmas cards tell me one thing, my newspaper ads tell me another, and my Bible tells me something else. One wonders what to believe these days of mixed voices.

I wonder what it would have been like to be one of the shepherds that first night, when Jesus was born. Of course, I wouldn't want to be a shepherd back then: They were far down the social scale in the Jewish culture, along with women and dogs (that culture's view, not mine.). Funny how the nativity account allows for something as lowly as shepherds to be the primary worshippers, the first-on-the-scene responders.

I wonder who the magi really were back then. Common folklore has them arriving and honouring the Christ-child, along with the shepherds. That, of course, would be impossible, if the historical records are right. That account makes it very clear that they came to the “house” (not the manger) to where the young “child” (not the baby) was.

So, while they weren't there on the first night, they are often associated with it.

And in case you didn't read it recently, the Herod of that time slaughtered all male babies from the age of two and under, just to cover his bases. He knew, in other words, that the Christ-child had been born within the previous two years, not previous two months. The old king was threatened by another “king” taking over.

But back to these wise guys, er, wise men: Tradition has it that they were astrologer-kings from the Persia area, the land we call Iraq today. They were obviously watching the sky and reading the (Hebrew Old Testament) Scriptures, and were well aware that the extra-special star would lead them to an extra-special person. One doesn't stroll halfway across a continent just for a night out.

And I know we speak of the three gifts of the magi, suggesting only three wise men, but between you and me, that's ridiculous. There were three types of gifts—and likely plenty of each type. Also, anyone travelling hundreds upon hundreds of kilometres would travel with a very large entourage of soldiers, cooks, scribes, and many other types of support staff. There could have been 103 or 203 of them, for all we know.

What else do I wonder about that first night? Oh yes, what was the innkeeper ever thinking when he turned down a complete stranger with a very pregnant wife? Well, slow down: Perhaps Joseph wasn't a complete stranger. After all, he was coming back to his roots, and perhaps the two of them knew each other. Either way, it was really ignorant of him, unless, of course, there actually wasn't any room in the inn.

I also wonder about some of these secular, historical figures. I'm thinking about the afore-mentioned Herod and his Roman boss, Caesar Augustus, plus some governor called Quirinius (Kyrenios, if you want his Greek name). These are guys you don't want to get mad in a bar. They are part of the early Christmas story, and you also wouldn't dare delete them from the narrative, would you?

Those who struggle with the traditional, historical side of the birth of Jesus surely would never question the secular, historical side of it, would they? But why believe only part of the biographical account; why not come at the story with a completely open mind?

One thing I really wonder about is why all the big fuss about the big day tomorrow? By “fuss,” I mean the fact that too many want to re-work it and re-write it. Traditions aside—and you have yours and I have mine—I wonder why the historical, factual account, involving secular, known people of history (see earlier paragraph), involving known countries, and a factual, historical birth.

That, by the way, is not the end of the story--it's only the beginning.

I wonder where in the course of history did all the facts get muddled, to the point we see the elves, reindeer, Santa, mistletoe, and such, as an integral part of the big day? People want to believe those fantasies can go ahead. But people who do not should be free to celebrate their way.

No need to wonder, people. Let me say the following: From my heart and home to yours, have yourself a wonderful Merry Christmas.

Foremost on my Mind: Have a Merry Christmas, Please

Some of the fondest memories I have of Christmas past has to do with certain guests we had for dinner. Said memories include an Uncle Bob—who was actually Robert, but was not my uncle. He and my dad's dad would spend Christmas Day, year after year, regaling us with stories about the early years in a Winnipeg rooming house.

Same stories, same punchline, yet we always howled with inexplicable laughter. I'm still not sure if we thought the stories were actually that funny, or we were just very polite kids.

Uncle Bob, Grandpa Tom, even my father, have all passed on to their heavenly reward, but the memories live on. Now I am older than my dad was during those days, and I've got grandchildren of my own. He seemed so old, but I seem so young. Where did the decades go?

My dad was very much the patriarch of the family, and essentially his word was the final word, especially at Christmas Take normal traditions, for example: We were so deprived as kids that we had no Christmas lights, either outside or inside. A tree? How pagan can you get? (These are my words, now from an adult perspective, and yes, I am being completely sarcastic.)

I am now my dad, if you will, and I (generally) revel in the role of the patriarch. I have added some things to our family traditions that he may not approve of. However, I have come to the realization that much of what we have cherished as kids, unfortunately, is being slowly but definitely stripped away today.

To put things in perspective, I am speaking of the Christmases of the '60s and '70s, versus the present scene. Back then, we could sing carols at our public schools, set up nativity scenes in the town square, wish anyone and everyone a “Merry Christmas,” without any fear, any second-guessing, or any yuletide hang-ups.

Anyone who opposed that usual Christmas fare was tolerated. Read that word again: tolerated. That is, their opposition was permitted. And that also means that they were not sued, not harassed, and not threatened. We were an accommodating society back then, or at least so it seemed.

The tide has turned in the last ten years, and one wonders where all the tolerance has disappeared.

Faithful readers are likely assuming that this is the point in my column where I launch into my right-wing, orthodox Christian, homeschooling rant (pleeease: While I do come from that perspective, I don't believe I have ever ranted or raved about it). If you're looking for some moral diatribe, go read the Calgary Herald's “Letters to the Editor.”

This nonsense about taking Christ out of Christmas, stopping nativity scenes in old folks' homes, skewering Christmas greetings, and making Boxing Day more important than Christmas Day, has little to do with religious rights.

It's more of a matter of human rights—but they are very one-sided human rights.

Why does it becomes a federal case when normal, regular Canadian citizens are stripped of their right to celebrate a holiday that has been part of the culture for decades? Why must every vestige of “religion” be wiped out of Christmas? Why can't there be room for those that embrace either viewpoint? As I wondered before, where is the tolerance now?

Those of us who value the common culture of Christmas past should be asking the tough questions: How can crass commercialism be a good thing, but common piety a bad thing? How can Santa Claus—a myth, indeed, out there with global warming and the tooth fairy—take on many of the qualities of Jesus Christ, without so much as an outcry? How can the saucy “Jingle Bell Rock” replace the venerable “Silent Night”?

The Christmas I was nurtured in has been usurped by something very, very different. I think that “different” is often good, but this one is bad. I argue for at least a co-existence of the two worldviews.

It's frightening to me that common Christmas traditions are not only no longer tolerated in many places, but are in fact opposed. There is something very wrong (and I have no problem calling it “wrong”) when what I practice in the sanctity of my own home, workplace, school, or even community becomes illegal—for no other reason than intolerance.

I don't really want to be a kid again, but I long for that simple, wholesome society when I was a kid.

In other words, it would be nice to sit down and laugh with Uncle Bob and Grandpa Tom one more time, without any fear of someone's rights being violated. Even it is a matter of just being polite.

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Foremost on my Mind: I Like Christmas

It's hard to say who's more excited about Christmas these days: shopkeepers or little kids. I'm neither, but I do have my share of excitement at this time of year. I've never been a shopkeeper, per se, but I have been a little kid—and I have little (grand)kids, and I teach little kids (and a few big kids)—so I know something of the joy of Christmas presents, turkey dinner, and all that yuletide afterglow.

Most of the rest, of course, is bunk—the trees, the lights, Santa Claus, reindeer and elves-- when it comes to the real message of Christmas, but I won't go there, except to express a brief caveat here:

While there are many things that I love about this season, there are other things really disturb me. I want to accentuate the positive here, if you will, and see what good we can all glean from this season. That stated, Christmas is a historical, biblical event that has been hijacked by the secularists, economists, and fantasists (yes, Maurice, it is a word) with no balanced consideration for the historical perspective, religious convictions, and personal values of others.

I like Christmas because of all the genuine joy that bubbles everywhere. It almost seems that people want to be pleasant, want to wish others a (can I still say this?) “Merry Christmas.” It is such an irritation, even a heartbreak, when anything with the word “Christ” or “Jesus” in it is ruled unlawful or moronic by the petty minority.

I like Christmas because there appears to be an effort to slow down and spend time with family. For many, at least in my circles, it happens year-round, though still not as much as it should—my own household included. People will fly across the country, just to spend time with family at this time of year. That happens at no other time, on such a consistent basis, unless there's a wedding or a funeral involved.

I like Christmas because there's a positive buzz in the air. The buzz, so-called, is more than those ubiquitous Christmas carols: It's the ching-ching-ching of the Salvation Army bells, the hum of all those electronic toys at Toys-R-Us, as they chant “buy-me, buy-me, buy-me”; it's the Christmas decorations on every street lamp that appear to give off a drone (or maybe it's the extra electricity pulsating through the system).

It could also be the sound of a parent trying to choose among three gifts—or would that be “hmmm?”

I like Christmas because it makes students work at something different: Math exams, Socials projects, and Language Arts assignments give way to that greater deadline—the Christmas-Winterfest-Snow Job-Whatever pageant. Lines are to be memorized, props built, songs sung, all for the glorious opportunity to perform in front of fellow-students, teachers, and parents. It also means that two weeks of freedom from the same is just around the corner.

I like Christmas because, in a normal year, there is snow on the ground, a nip in the air, and a crispy crunch with every step—and no, Maurice, that doesn't mean you just dropped a chocolate bar on the ground. You can count on the cold, but not the snow, these days. Christmas without snow is like a vacation without a lake: It just doesn't seem the same. Last year was a case in point: It was so un-Christmas-like without the snow, I almost spent the afternoon cutting the grass--barefoot and in my cut-offs.

I like Christmas because I love the memories we share. These may be fleshed out in a future column. We have developed many as a family, and I'm sure you have, too. One of the traditions I like best is heading into Lethbridge with my three youngest guys, just before the big day. We go Christmas gift hunting at a dollar store—stocking stuffers, to be precise—then head back to the cheapest, quickest place to eat when you have hungry teenagers (Costco). The other challenge in this tradition is trying to squeal appropriately and sincerely on Christmas Day, when one gets the very gift one picked out, paid for, then carried home a week earlier. (“A stapler! Oh, thanks so much, Tom, Dick, and Harry!”)

But most of all, I like Christmas because of the deep spiritual meaning it brings, found in (surprise, surprise) so many of the old Christmas carols. The God Who became a baby in the manger; the angels with their startling message; the shepherds who heard it and responded to it; and the many magi-astronomers, who travelled from as far away as modern Iraq, as they read the message of the newborn king in the sky as well as in the Old Testament Scriptures. These components all add to the factual drama of that special day, so long ago.

I like Christmas, and I trust you do, too. You may have your own reason, and that's okay with me. Make sure you enjoy it with your own special people in your own special way.

And feel free to be a kid again.

Foremost on my Mind: This is Sports?

I suppose I should be heartbroken over Calgary's loss to Toronto in the 100^th Grey Cup last week. Should be, but not. I feel badly for John Hufnagel, however; one of the truly class acts in the CFL, and maybe a little bit for Kevin Glenn, their underrated and unappreciated backup. He may never get to this dance again.

In fact, not only am I not heartbroken, I'm ecstatic. Note I didn't say anything about being happy with Toronto winning. I dislike any team from hogtown almost as much as I hate any team from cowtown.

And no, it's not sour grapes because the Stampeders clobbered my BC Lions the week before. Nor is it because I am so blindly loyal to teams from BC: In every other compartment of my life in Alberta, I'm truly Albertan.

Apart from whatever I like or dislike, there were two events that happened during the year that really turned me off the Calgary Stampeders as a team, and it was only creative justice that allowed the Stamps to fail at the Grey Cup. These two things reflect the arrogance and insensitivity of many of today's athletes—now caught in a microscopic way, via the Calgary Stampeders. If I say the name Jon Cornish and Nik Lewis, you should sense where I'm going with this.

You may recall Cornish “mooned” the fans at Taylor Field a couple months ago. Because of the gross, perverted nature of mooning, you should understand why I'm outraged at this vile action. Why he wasn't appropriately punished, I don't know.

I'd like to see (just an expression, of course) one of the athletes from either Foremost or Bow Island-area schools moon the fans in the other community, then see them get away with it. Not a chance.

You may also recall Lewis's tweet about having OJ Simpson's gloves and now “needing a white woman”—a direct reference to murder of Simpsons's wife, Nicole. All he got was a slap on the wrist (via a fine)--which is quite ironic, because that's basically all Simpson got.

If you smell something afoul, it is the smell of a double standard. Unless the crime is really severe, today's athletes, much like today's corporate leaders and politicians, seem to operate in a different legal stratosphere—far, far above the rest of us common people.

So when I speak of today's athletes, I am thinking of all professional athletes—hockey, basketball, baseball, and soccer--to say nothing of the less-flamboyant sports, such as golf, tennis, and auto racing. The millions of dollars they make, the morals they disregard, and the misery they foist on family, media and (ultimately) themselves, is fodder for a book, not a mere column like this.

And while I am in a sounding off mood, let's talk briefly about the NHL players' strike. I certainly can't afford watch a game live, and I rarely watch a game on television, so I am not missing much. The thumbtack on my seat is the fact that honest, common people—namely, the vendors, the arena staff, the area retailers, the advertisers, and such— are losing their shirts over this idiotic strike while billionaires and millionaires quibble over how to the divide the booty.

It's the same arrogance and insensitivity we saw in Cornish and Lewis, only a little more sophisticated and widespread.

I find it hard to feel sorry for the over-paid and under-worked professional hockey players. Even the bottom-feeders, so-called, rake in hundreds of thousands of dollars per season. Do they think of anything other than their cottage mansions, Caribbean holidays, and BMW's? Honest citizens are floundering in their businesses because of the intransigence of the players.

I don't know what world they live in, but the world I live in, hard-working people are close to losing everything they've worked for, because of these clowns. Just to put things in perspective: Many of today's hockey players make more in a week of hockey than these guys make in a year.

The business of sports—be it the Calgary Stampeders or professional hockey players, for example—is a mark of an economy out of kilter. They have assumed a much larger, powerful financial role than they should.

I know some players have Foundations whereby they contribute to health and education, and this is noble and proper. If there was a greater return to the local community through financial contribution, I would tone down my rhetoric instantly.

I can handle good old-fashioned gamesmanship, but I draw the line at mindless physical acts and heartless twitter comments—to say nothing of limitless greed posturing. Where's the sports in that?

Foremost on my Mind: Don't Have a Cow, Man

The closest I ever got to a real farm when I was a kid (other than seeing “farm” in a dictionary) was just down the road—an honest-to-goodness dairy farm in rural Vancouver. I heard that the local Holt brothers were looking for a real dairy man, and I showed up one day, presenting myself as wannabe milker.

I think I blew the interview when I said I would be the guy putting the white milk in the white bottles, the chocolate milk in the brown bottles. (Yes, Maurice, all milk was sold in bottles back then, and much of it was even delivered door-to-door back in the '60s.)

I didn't get the job, of course.

The next closest thing to farm life was when I went south to Arlington, Washington, during my summers, and hung out at Hoys or Kazens. I was truly a city slicker back then, but pride and self-respect forbid me from telling you all my bumbling experiences—including the one that had my hosts wondering if I knew anything about a cow's anatomy.

I just knew that if you pulled hard enough on those finger-like things hanging down from the bag-like thing between the back legs, you could get nice, sudsy white liquid. But if you pulled too hard, you could get a nice, sudsy red stuff from a kick in the face, administered by blessed Bessie.

Because I believed that a farming environment would be good and healthy for the family, I vowed that if I ever grew up and had kids (I think we all agree on the latter experience, at least), I would expose them to farm life. My shift to Alberta just over ten years ago provided that opportunity. Two separate acreages have allowed me and mine to raise chickens, turkeys, pigs, and cows, from birthing to butchering, and all that happens in between.

I have learned many things over these past ten years, and mostly through repeat mistakes. One thing I learned has been the joy of eating one's own fresh meat: We know exactly what we're eating and where it came from. Too often, however, I have ruined an otherwise perfectly happy meal by asking: “Is this wonderful roast Poopsie or Blanche?”

Another thing is the need to keep one's fencing tight. A loose strand is to a cow what a red flag is to a bull. Cows, like love-struck teenaged boys, have ways of getting out. (Uhmm, cows and teenaged boys: I can think of a few more comparisons, and not all of them complimentary...at least to the cows.)

But one of the key lessons I have learned in this business is the matter of, ahem, reproduction. No matter how upside-down the human world is on the matter of males and females, every cow needs a bull to, ahem again, service it, so as to produce a young one. Mother Nature can play tricks with the inner mechanisms, of course, and sometimes a cow “misses.” And Mother Nature can be so cruel that if the cow comes up empty two years in a row, then it's Freezercity for the bovine.

(Maurice, let me translate for you: The cow gets butchered and put in the freezer—okay?)

The bull-cow thing is a real dilemma for yours truly every year. Seems like I'm always having a cow, and that's no bull (uhmm, one could take that about three different ways.) It takes a lots of creativity on my part to arrange for a bull, which I don't have, to be transported in a stock trailer, which I likewise don't have, to service a cow (or two or three), which I do have—all to get a calf or two or three...maybe.

Take Millie, for instance: She has been our faithful milk cow for the past nine years. She had had her first calf when we bought her, so that makes her at least eleven years old. To blend a couple of old adages: It's not what you know, it's what have you done for me lately? She has “missed” again, so I think she's moving over to Freezercity very soon.

We'll “miss” her ourselves, but not in the above sense.

If I ever saw those Holt brothers again, I would have one simple question for them: How does a brown cow eat green grass and produce white milk?

Foremost on my Mind: Big Bucks at Starbucks?

One of the realities of living in Smalltown, Alberta, is the need for meaningful employment for the young men in the family. There are only so many jobs to go around in a village, and if there aren't quite the right connections and the right skills, well, Bigcity, Alberta, there they go.

If they are not gifted at farming, for example, it may be difficult to find work close to home. On that note: Anyone gifted in farming will never be unemployed in the near future, if I am assessing the vocational landscape correctly. There always seems to be the need for dependable, qualified workers on area farms—or at least that's what I hear.

I speak as a father of six sons who need to become contributing members to the society, through responsible character, family leadership, and meaningful employment. Slowly but surely, these sons of mine are gravitating towards all three components...more or less

It's the one who has a bee in his bonnet for Starbucks that I am thinking about at present (or would that be a “bean” in his bonnet?). Either way, by the time you read this, he will have bolted from the frozen tundra of southern Alberta for the warm climes of BC's Okanagan Valley, to become a coffee connoisseur at Starbucks. His ultimate goal is to run a speciality coffee shop, so I suppose Starbucks is as good as any place to start.

The cynical side of me says, Really? How clever does one have to be to pour coffee? When you

strip away the aura of the Starbucks logo, when you take a hard, reasoned look at what is involved in running a Starbucks counter, well, I wonder what the real attraction is.

On a side note, it can't be the coffee. Far too strong for me. Also, I'm over 30, so it doesn't have the peer pressure component to it. McCafe, here I come.

The reasonable side of me answers the idiotic comment in the paragraph twice-removed with the following response: You've got to start somewhere, and Starbucks is as good as any other place. There are hundreds and hundreds of Starbucks scattered across North America and Europe, so advancement is clearly possible—to say nothing of travelling and seeing the world while working.

Pouring coffee isn't a really high-end skill, though someone has to make it just right. The people skills, not the pouring skills, is one thing that makes Starbucks such a great place to work—and to hang out. Additionally, the management side of Starbucks has a real appeal for any young buck, my son included.

A shift to Starbucks is a shift out of the home, out of the family unit. It marks another change for us and we will need to adjust. Some of ours have left for marriage, others for school, and now this one for work. If we had a normal-size family, we would be empty nesters by now. However, with four gone or going, others itching to move on, we still have a lot of bodies kicking around the Back Thirty. We simply can't relate to the notion of having just two kids.

The loss (or would that just be a departure?) of another body also means a shift in duties and chores. One must not think of kids at home only as extra workers—dishwashers, moppers, dusters, and such. That would be selfish control. Over the years, with varying degrees of success, they have learned to pitch in, help out, and do their part. This training, then, has helped gain them experience for jobs outside the home—including working at Starbucks.

Perspective plays a big part in how we view a family member leaving. Thus, it could be considered a loss, or in fact it could be considered an expansion--a stepping out into the real world, if you will. I see it as the latter. There is no greater way for anyone, writer included, to appreciate how good, how cheap, and how easy, things are at home—than by leaving it.

Even if it's for a cup of coffee.

Foremost on my Mind: Slip, Sliding Away

It's not too often I get to meet Formostians—Foremostats? Formostites?--anymore, even though I no longer live there. However, between a “chance” encounter on the lonely 879 the other day, I was greeted by a number of people that I have seen or heard of, but never actually met in my many years of living in that community.

The reason? Through a relative of mine, Mother Nature.

She sought fit to share a little icy rain in the wee hours of the morning, a couple of weeks ago, and I guess I saw fit to not see it, feel it, or sense it, until my van went flip, flop, and fly. Still working with that music metaphor, there was a lot of twisting and shouting: my van twisted as I I shouted.

Over the course of three hours, I met a teacher here, a mother there, and nice family from east on the 501. There were others, but I never got their names, just a friendly wave. Here's a public thanks to you (and you know who you are) for taking the time to stop and see if I was okay.

Yes, I should have taken you up on your offer to take me into Foremost, and yes, I am sure I could have had the tow truck driver pick me up at the school. Had I known that from spinning out to setting out, it would take three hours, I would have grabbed the first four-by-four that slid by and headed north.

In the meantime, I froze to death (merely an expression), while I had to stand outside my van to make the phone calls. That would be phoning in the rain, but no singin' in the rain. No cell service, apparently, on the slope down to the edge of the field, even though I said please, Mrs. Operator.

I had other options, beyond taking up the above offers. For one, I could see the lights of Starbrite from the scene of the crime, but that would have been a hard day's night. I know John and Hardy and Jason and others there, so that might have worked. Further west of there, Stu and Corrine Collin, along with Luke and Avery, would have been a natural choice, but I didn't want to walk that line.

However, in both cases, it would have been nothing short of foolhardy to start out in the cold to walk that far. It wasn't even that cold, at that, so it must have been the wind chill factor. At least if I stayed by the van, I would be able to retreat to it to warm up. Walking a mile or two or more, with no place to warm up on the way over, would be careless at best, deadly at worst.

Some positives? Again, I was impressed and gratified at the number of people who made the effort to stop and see if I was okay. I do that a lot myself, so it was good to be on the receiving end. Also, I missed a day of teaching. That's not a really good reason, especially if the administration is reading this, but suffice to say, I was able to go home and recuperate (read = hot bath, hot coffee, warm house, warm bed), rather than shiver my way through a lesson on prepositions.

Lastly, it shows me just how vulnerable I am. On a much, much bigger scale, the recent Hurricane Sandy debacle has done the same. Sometimes, we think that with the right tires, the right timing, and the right technique, we're good to go—almost to the point of feeling invincible.

However, as meaningful as the experience of spinning off the Foremost Highway was, I believe I have learned my lesson, or maybe even lessons. They are as follows:

1. Always check the weather report for the route you are taking; assume the worst and hope for the best;

2. Always make sure your loved ones know what route you're taking; it could be a matter of life and death, though rarely;

3. Always make sure you have a fully-charged phone, a full tank of gas, and some extra clothes;

these extras will last through the night, if necessary;

4. Always drive with your four-wheel system on (if you have one); if you don't, please don't drive as if you do.

Needless to say, once I started driving, I was glad to be on the road again.

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Foremost on my Mind: Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy...Mother

Among the many (figurative) hats I wear, “entrepreneur” is one of them. That's a just another fancy-schmancy word for someone who gets a rush trying to earn some more gold—which would add a spin to the term “gold rush”--...and often fails.

Some of my failed attempts include the following: Marketing screen doors for submarines, going door-to-door in the Arctic (or would that be going igloo-to-igloo?) selling fridges, and running a farmer's market in the Antarctica.

Obviously these ventures would have failed...had they been seriously tried.

Closer to home, my entrepreneurship efforts generally have been around things we raise on the Back Thirty, with some measure of success, as well as my weekend teaching seminars and home education supervision. Happy, repeat “customers,” I suggest, is one measure of success. Paying all one's expenditures, with a token profit, would be another.

Once a given business shifts into high gear—namely, somewhere between a one-person fruit stand and trading on the Toronto Stock Exchange—there are many complications with running one's own business. Some of the said factors include promotion, product, and personnel.

It's the personnel or staffing dilemma that is a tack in my chair right now. I cannot tell you how many management-types have talked to me over past couple of years, bemoaning the desperate lack of qualified workers.

Note I said “qualified” and not “certified.” The prospective workers may have a grade twelve diploma, perhaps even a university degree. That apparently qualifies them for employment. However, that piece of paper (also known as a “receipt”) means squat when it comes to work habits, personal integrity, and teachability. To a person, these industry leaders would do anything to get potential employees to simply get to work on time, come prepared to work with a good attitude, and ready to learn the trade. The rest, they say, is up to them.

With the character void that is reaching Hurricane Sandy proportions in our failing Western culture, I have a simple suggestion. So simple, of course, that it may be seen as over-simple, even hopelessly naive.

The possible solution? Thought you'd never ask: Hire mature women.

Let me repeat (or skip this line and move to the next paragraph): Hire mature women.

I find the best clerks, the best nurses, the best waitresses, the best teachers, the best assembly-line personnel, the best whatever (and we're only discussing women here), are those who have lived life to a full extent (a good definition of “mature”), and are now ready to move on to the next challenge. Living life to a full extent could include years of marriage and raising kids, balancing budgets and schedules, working through marriage issues and hormone assaults, and dealing with teachers and collection-agencies, to say nothing of health and finance setbacks.

They know the shame of shysters, the absoluteness of assertion yet the necessity of niceness, and have that uncanny knack of going the extra mile. They have stuck at things they've hated through thick and thin, and know the importance of plodding on, regardless of feelings, friends, and fears.

I would hire a woman like that in a heartbeat. In fact, if I were premier, I'd love to have a few in my cabinet. I am aware that there is a balance between women who are qualified for the workplace, yet have responsibilities at home. Indeed, I would be very loathe to take a woman away from her more pressing role, if she was needed for her family.

(I am fully aware of the dangers of a woman working for a man who is not her husband, especially if her new boss is winsome, considerate and well-mannered. My thesis today is to recognize the inestimable worth of mature women in the workplace, when and where appropriate.)

So, after the kids have moved on, in one way or the other, I would draw from such a pool of workers. I find that when I travel—so I am speaking specifically of the service industry--they make the best gas bar attendants, motel clerks, and breakfast managers.

I am not discussing women in management, as I generally don't interface with them on a daily basis. Needless to say, the ones in management would also do a great job: Anyone who can manage a home well can manage a department or business well.

Mind you, I would likely get into trouble if I posted the following sign outside my business: “Now hiring: Only women over 40 need apply.”

I would probably have to hire a mature female security guard for starters: After all, she will have had lots of experience handling cranky people.