Foremost on my Mind: In my Little Town

There are certain qualities of a little town that beat many qualities of a large town. This is coming from the lips of—no, wait, that would be the fingertips of—an erstwhile city slicker, one who has bought into the value of a village.

Now before I go on and on and on about the happiness of a hamlet, let me tip my hat for living in, say, Medicine Hat or Lethbridge.

Let's start with the big deal for big city: convenient shopping, price selection, leisure and pleasure choices, plus all the varied services, for starters. Most urban centres have everything—and I define “everything” as McDonalds, Walmart, and Starbucks. You have those “services” and you have it made.

Or so we are led to believe. And that's part of the lure of living that lifestyle, especially for young people. I have a few kids myself who are slowly gravitating towards big city lights, like fireflies near a light. And beyond families, it's hard to attract young professionals (especially teachers and doctors), plus other movers and shakers, to these small rural towns.

I have fought the same urge myself to pack up and slink back to the city many times; but for this season of life, I have settled down near a small town. It has been a wise choice, even though, as I stated earlier, my older kids may have not quite bought into it. As I write, I have kids living in Lethbridge, Edmonton, and Kamloops, with a couple others ready to dash for the lights.

What are some of those aforementioned joys of the small rural setting? Let me count the ways: I like the first-name basis when I go into a store--any store, for that matter. I like the nod or greeting--to complete strangers, no less—as I walk into the post office or hardware store. And I don't lock my vehicles at night, either, though I generally lock my house. (However, in case some of you are getting any stupid ideas, I always lock it when I leave it.)

On the other hand, there is rarely a first name basis in Lethbridge or Medicine Hat. I don't dare nod to complete strangers, even though the people in these bigger centres can be civil enough (or maybe just surprised) to nod back. And keeping a vehicle or house unlocked is an invitation to grief.

Yes, there are kooks and crazies in the small centres, but plenty more in the big ones. They can't just hide as well when there's only 1,500 people, as opposed to 85,000; that's why those wackos and weirdos gravitate towards a city.

As I was playing baseball with my kids the other night, I saw a fairly typical small-town sight: A number of ladies riding their golf carts home from night out at the local golf course. Either that, or hubby had taken the family van to, you guessed it, Lethbridge.

Safety is another positive reason why I like living in or near a small town. In the main, I personally feel safer, and I feel overall my family is safer in a small town. Again, there are nut- cases everywhere, but I suggest there is more visibility and accountability in a small centre. Carried too far and it's called snooping, but methinks that's a healthy trade-off.

One of the biggest drawbacks with the hamlet-village-town lifestyle usually has something to do, well, something to do. A limited tax base puts a real crimp on indoor swimming pools, rec centres community centres, all-night restaurant chains, or even a movie theatre--"services" that the big centres have. Hence, the lure of the big metropolis for these and other attractions.

However, we are so mobile, that a quick trip to the big centre is part of the excitement.

Alberta is replete with the types of town I live in. There's a quality of life that cannot be matched in the big city, though some may dispute the meaning of “quality of life.” I can live without the McDonalds, Walmarts, and Starbucks of the world.

It's the golf scooters I might miss the most.

Foremost on my Mind: Do I Hear Fifteen Dollars?

I don't think there is anything more quintessential rural Albertan than a good old- fashioned ...auction. I know I have written about auctions at least once before in this space, but a recent visit to yet another country selling spree has inspired me once again.

I'm not the shrewdest nodder near the trailer, but I'm getting there. So I thought it might be helpful, based on my ten years of auctionholism, for all you newbies and novices, if I could pass along my wisdom and warnings.

They are, as follows:

One, choose an auction that is no more than an hour from your house, so long as it is just the usual run-of-the-mill sale. If it is a specialty item you need (operative word: “need”), and it is sitting up yonder in, say, Lloydminster, go for it. However, if it you're just looking for a good deal on a screwdriver, a crowbar, or a ladder, well, save the gas and go to Canadian Tire.

If your “need” lies somewhere in between, apply the one-hour rule I just suggested.

Two, be careful who you take. You take your kids, they want to eat; you take your wife, she may want to eat and shop--but for new things, say, at Walmart. Suggestion: Drop them all off where they can eat and shop, then you go ahead and, well, eat and shop yourself at Auctions-R-Us, wherever that may be for the day.

The result will be happy and full family for the rest of the day--not a bad trade-off at all.

Three, wear a straitjacket under your overalls. Do not--I repeat, do not--pick or scratch your nose; do not tell any jokes that necessitate using your arms; and do not wave at anyone you know. In fact, don't even nod at your friends; you may end up buying a hoe, hose, or hosiery, all because you're a friendly guy.

Auctioneers are simple folk and could easily misconstrue any hand or head movement as a legitimate bid. I almost bought a rotary telephone recently, when I nodded at one of the ringmen, a neighbour of mine. Next time, I'll just send him a note. (I'll try not to start the note off with “hi”: He might misunderstand and think I want to go “hi-gher.”)

Four, buy only what you need and do it without any emotion—emotion such as pity, grace, or even vengeance. It is a simple business transaction, and despite the circumstances for the auction, you are not responsible to line the seller's pockets. If that's your motivation, then go to an art auction instead. That's where you can buy things for hundreds of dollars more than they're worth, getting something you can't afford and something you don't need.

And that's about it for advice. The other tip I would give is this: Plan to stay as long as your feet allow you to. Auctions are a great way to catch up on the local gossip. Gossip could include the price of beef (hopefully not too much “bull”), the price of grain (well “grounded”), and the usual politics and hockey talk and state-of-the-world issues.

Auctions are a strange event, in that, I actually enjoy just being a number. Craig Funston never bought that bat, bit, or beaut; #45 did. Though I must say that I am only a number until I traipse up to the trailer and pay for my purchases.

In addition to being a mere number, the anonymity is refreshing. I may or may not see anyone I know; and if I did, I may or may not feel the urge to talk to them—especially if I feel they are bidding against me.

All in all, I would say auctions in rural Alberta are an eight out of ten. Or do I hear a twelve? Fifteen?

Foremost on my Mind: It's My Party...

It's been a long time since someone who was supposed to be Patricia came home from the hospital, fifty-eight years ago this coming Thursday. Patricia didn't come that day; Norman did instead, but Norman, as you read about this grand event last year, ultimately morphed into Craig.

And that, Maurice Rufus, would be yours truly, as in Craig, Norman Craig.

It has been quite a journey for me, firstly in lifestyle—from city boy to country dude; from BC to AB; from sorting room to classroom; from writer to editor; and from being all thumbs to actually having the odd useful finger or two. So far, it looks like I have survived.

And then there is the technological advances—and if not advances, at least technological shifts. For me personally, I was raised without a television, for cultural and religious reasons, a practice I still carry out today, more or less. But if my father wanted a television, it would have come in black and white only. In today's world, that seems so simplistic and backward; but back then, it was still pretty cool.

If kids today had to stoop to watch what I wasn't even allowed to sit down and enjoy, there would be a hue and cry so loud, you'd think the Flames traded Iginla to the Canucks.

Technological advances, as such, are far, far beyond me, even as I write this on my laptop. In fact, my first attempts at writing, decades ago, was on something called a typewriter. Now they say I could actually do this column, all my email, and even watch some action clips, on my smartphone.

In addition to lifestyle changes and technological changes (notice how I subtly dropped the word “advances”?), there have been the language changes over these past five-plus decades. Without going into the wherefores and the whys, back in 1972, for instance, if I were feeling “really hot, despite wearing thongs,” that would mean something very, very different today.

(Maurice, “hot” then meant not cold, and “thongs” were something you wore on your feet.)

Do I mind turning 58 this week? Not really a good question, my friend. (Hint: I have absolutely no say in the matter; I cannot do a thing about it, so I accept it and move on) I find it hilarious, then sad, when women my age try to reclaim a lost sex appeal, or guys try to reclaim that missing hair. Please, please, try to be what you are and not what you once were.

To be honest with you, where I likely struggle the most is concerning the state of my world. I struggle with the ethnic tensions and brutalities, with the economic and marital breakdowns, with the uncertain future and incompetent governments. Of course, any student of history will tell you that genocides, raping and pillaging have always been part of the human landscape.

Let's get real here: The decade I was born in was one very violent, especially in places like the Congo, the Korean peninsula, and Iran. Gang warfare and germ warfare were also in full swing back in the 50's.

Maybe we just hear about it more—thanks to all these technological “advances,” I suppose.

The generation just ahead of me, as in my mother's, circa 1923, must be even more shocked and overwhelmed with all the changes. We often think of the quaintness of the Roarin' Twenties, and are likely relieved we never went through all their difficulties. That is fodder for for another column, but let me hint that I would likely take the side of the simpler lifestyle—fodder, of course, for another column.

In the meantime, it's my party and I'll sigh if I want to.

Foremost on my Mind: How Now Brown Cow?

As I sit here in the brave solitude of my lonely office (believe I've used that line before, but, hey, it's hard to be completely original after nearly six year), I am looking out my window at a lot of money. Well, it's not money, per se, but if I sell them, it will produce money—especially for my boys.

The “them” in question, natch, are some cows, and I understand that they could fetch a pretty good price these days. Butchering them, then, would give us all a “cut” of the profits, if you know what I mean.

My flourishing ranch is comprised of, ahem, seven cows (three cow-calfs and an orphan), so we're not looking at gazillions (don't ever use that word in my Grammar class, please) of dollars. In fact, I'll be lucky if I sell only three of them. Even I know you don't sell the mommas.

Let's see now: Millie has Chuck, and he is destined for our freezer; Patches' calf, Ebony, is actually a heifer, so she has been spared the bullet; and Deli's Khazi is headed out of here soon, in exchange for a different yearling. The fourth calf, Abby, will end up on someone's plate this fall.

Apart from possibly being dead meat (pun intended), there really is no life like a cow's life, in some ways They eat, drink, and laze around to their heart's content, at no charge to them. Almost like teenage sons. Even if they escape, they just stand around and eat some more until their frazzled owner (that would be me), rounds them up—to eat and sleep some more.

Or, as some wag might put it, to slop, slurp, and sleep.

I must say, however, that there are some rubs with being a cow, perhaps enough to make me glad I am higher up on the food chain. One, the same, steady diet of grass, more grass, and most grass, is a little too boring for me. Second, the whole manure thing would be a little stinky and uncomfortable, not to mention rude. (“Aw, Patches, knock it off; you just pooped on my alfalfa pie!”)

They say that contented milk comes from contented cows. That makes me wonder if that's one of the reasons why so many people are lactose-intolerant. I have had (and almost felt) some cows that weren't all that docile out here. A quick head-butt (no, Maurice, that has nothing to do with being a butthead) from an agitated cow can prove costly and dangerous. If you are facing said agitated cow, you might just think where it could crunch you. Ouch.

As mentioned earlier, I have always named my cows. To me, that is so much easier than referring to to the “black one over there,” or the “black and white one with a bag.” However, unlike dogs and cats, they don't respond to their assigned names. Hay and “hey” generally work best.

My simple point is that I have no problem enjoying a steak that used to be Poopsy or Agnes. At that stage, it's just meat—nothing more, nothing less.

In fact, just the other night, I asked the humans around my dinner table if we were eating Red (Patches' first calf). No, I was informed, it was the nameless steer we had to buy last year when Millie's calf “caught” (hope you rancher guys are impressed with my grasp of ranching lingo) so we couldn't butcher her.

Before naming them, I used to try to tell them to “moooove,” but they didn't get my witty, human humour. They don't even wince at stupid jokes like that; probably too busy eating, drinking, and sleeping.

I've got kids who are raising chickens and turkeys and cows. They see the value in cows, more than the other investments: You basically leave cows to themselves, give them access to water, and—voila!-- the cheque is in the mail. Chickens and turkeys, on the other hand, need constant care, especially at the brooding stage. And if you do chicken and turkey tractors, the work load is considerably greater.

I've just looked up again and my four-footed investments have shifted once again. That must mean my money is on the move, doesn't it? I'm wondering if they're going out for supper, likely over to the other side of the fence, you know, where the grass is always greener. They need to be careful so they don't mess with their supper.

Or, for that matter, mess on their supper.

Foremost on my Mind: A Wise Compromise

A lot of things change in the course of thirty-one years—some good, some not-so-good; some planned, some spontaneous. Thirty-one years ago today, I walked down the aisle and made a commitment for life—a fancy-pancy way of saying it's my 31^st anniversary today.

Okay, I exaggerate a little: It wasn't an aisle, it was her folks' back yard, somewhere between the two maples trees, next to the rockery, just south of the chicken house.

Over three decades ago, I was fairly self-centred, naive, had a bit of a temper, and was really touchy, especially about my weight challenges and non-athletic skills. Unfortunately, some things just never change, even the crummy personality issues.

Marriage is not for the fainthearted. We have been duped into thinking that it will be all sunshine and milkshakes, all joy and glistening teeth, a life without trials, failures, and heartaches. That's the tripe we're fed from Hollywood and Harlequin books, and, sorry to say, even fairy tale books that we read to our children.

That beautiful babe and that handsome hunk—if one is “fortunate” to meet and marry one—will not last forever. No matter how many pills or how much sleep, what sort of skin cream and what sort of exercise regimen, the aging process kicks in. (Maurice, that would make you a year older than last year, but maybe not a year better.)

Life's externals, a very false measurement of satisfaction, are not the only things that impact the marriage. Children, employment, finances, neighbours and relatives, and housing are a few of the other factors that will affect our marriages for good or for ill.

Every officiant should spend hours in pre-marital (not pre-martial, please) counselling. It is their moral duty; it should be their legal duty, too. Too many couples have walzed into the marriage with so little understanding—I guess we would call that “pre-knowledge” for their lack of experience--that it's little wonder so many marriages crumble and fall apart within ten years.

So many couples spend more time prepping for the ceremony and the honeymoon than they do for the marriage itself. Not good.

There are alternatives, and I am thinking specifically of those that mimic the real thing. “Shacking up” on a temporary or long-term basis are two of them. Perhaps I'll comment some other time on those options.

There have been arguments thrown in my face over the years about the piece of paper that is signed at the wedding ceremony (as in “it's only a piece of paper”). To be sure, if the only difference between this husband and wife and that husband and wife is a mere slip of paper, I agree. But part and parcel of the whole concept of a wedding ceremony involves the public declaration of wholesome, committed love for one another, a public vow to that effect, in front of the myriad witnesses, and the general motivation to be genuinely dedicated to one another for life.

Things happen (go back about four paragraphs, so I don't have to repeat myself) that will rock the very foundation of even the most committed couple. Sometimes, believe it or not, they just simply lose interest in each other; other attractions pop up, and that could include another potential mate, but it could be other hobbies or habits, even career demands.

The word out there is that more and more couples are divorcing after the kids have left home, after they have been married for thirty years or more. However, today's column is about marriage, not divorce.

So, thirty-one years ago, I was a mailman in North Burnaby, a diehard British Columbian, a city slicker, someone committed to public education, and prepared to have only a couple of kids. Never in my wildest dreams (and I have lots of those) did I ever imagine that I would be and do and have what I represent now.

I had far more answers about marriage and kids back then—or at least I thought I did! Now, I probably have more, but “maturity” has allowed me to shut up about them—unless I get asked. Even then, I rarely opine on something as profound as marriage. However, seeing that you asked, if I were to pass along any advice about some sort of success in marriage, it would not include money, sex, or status.

No, I would humbly say it is—drum roll, please-- “compromise.” That would be compromise, as in C-O-M-P-R-O-M-I-S-E. That has a nasty association with it, so let me re-work it for you: Learn to give here and take there. It may not exciting or exhilarating, but it will help your marriage stand the test of time.

And we all know that we need marriages today, more than ever, to hang in there.