Foremost on my Mind: Resolutions for the Rich and Famous

This is the first column of 2014, so I want to personally welcome you to the New Year. I don't know if I have the power to do that, but I do have a keyboard and a platform, so here it flies. In light of last week's glorious column, I hope you are still working on some personal goals (known only at this time of year as “resolutions”) that you have set for yourselves.

Good for you, and may you have success in losing those pounds, wrinkles, clutter, and anger.

Because of the generosity of my spirit, I thought I would make even more New Year's resolutions, but this time, I will do it for others. You see, I am assuming that some of the following name-brand people have made their own, but, hey, they may be too busy—you know, too consumed with their own egotistical pursuits—that they haven't the time to consider any genuine personal improvements.

A number of celebrities come to mind, so space may be a problem. The following characters have stood out in recent months, and all but one in a bad way. We'll see just where my fingers take me.

So, in no particular order, here goes the good will gesture by yours truly:

1. For Rob Ford, mayor of Toronto, I wish the following: A very good weight-loss programme, a sense of integrity, and a brand-new job. He has shamed himself, the honour of his office, the city of Toronto, and the rest of Canada. The last one gives me an opening through which to speak.

I remember the day when most professionals and politicians carried themselves with a certain degree of class. They were people we could look up to—not look out for. Rob Ford has failed this litmus test at every level, repeatedly. Furthermore, whether any of the criminal whispers are true, I cannot say. That, of course, is yet another reason why he must go.

2. For any specific females (can't say “women” or “ladies”) that go by the name of Beyoncè, Brittany, Kim, or Miley, I wish the following: I wish they would get dressed properly when they go out in public. And in Miley's case, if she could keep her tongue in her mouth, that would be great.

Now, before you fall off the couch, thinking that I am actively pursuing their bawdy careers, breathe in slowly. Stay on the couch while I reassure you that I am not. It's just that when I look at the news on my computer, their images pop up all the time, no matter what my news source is. It's both disturbing and disgusting.

I often feel sullied and scandalized after viewing the news, because these women are front and behind (pun mercilessly intended) with their latest photo ops --or would that be “oops”? I don't ask for it, I don't need it, and I don't want it, but it's flaunted before my eyes anyway. Their lewd antics, known by so many fans and offended observers, are unhealthy, unwise, and unreal.

3. For Dennis Rodman, I wish the following: Could someone tell him to please sit down, shut up, and stay out of North Korea? They don't need any more morons over there. North Korea remains one of the most severely repressive states in all the global communities, and it is an enemy of democratic freedom, true religion, free speech, and economic reform. To kowtow with Prince Pudgyface is a shame and a disgrace to all rational people everywhere.

If Dennis wants to do any good whatsoever, tell him to talk to President Him So Fat about the horrific prison conditions for the people that simply want democratic freedom, true religion, free speech, and economic reform. Under the present arrangement, Rodman is a moral and babbling buffoon.

Rodman himself, a former marginal professional basketball player, has a track record of very strange behaviour, both on the court and off.. Everyone is entitled to strange behaviour, I suppose, but there is no place for making it a national norm. If he chooses a certain lifestyle, or if he wants to tattoo himself to the point he looks like a mural, that's his privilege. But for him to represent the USA in any way is unconscionable.

4. And for Phil Robertson, I wish the following: Keep speaking up. Phil, of the Duck Dynasty fame, expressed his opinion on same-sex relationships recently. You know the story, so I won't bore you with further details. It's irrelevant whether I agree with him or even how he did it.

Because of the senseless and heartless agenda of the same-sex proponents, this becomes news. It's just another critical flashpoint in the war of morality—fodder for another column, unless Stalin is back in power before then. My point is that Robertson has the same right to express his opinion as the other guys do. May there be more like him.

Like, say, what happens here once in a while in your local column in southern Alberta,.

Foremost on my Mind: A Brand-new Year

One of the embedded traditions of the Christmas season, just after the turkey(s) at the table and Christmas spirit(s), is that of New Year's resolutions. You know, those promises to lose weight, spend less money on stupid toys, be nice to the jerks in your life, and smile more.

Coming from a sincere (and maybe even desperate) motive, most well-intentioned New Year's Resolutions last for usually for a week--two weeks at the most. It's at that point that everything crashes, including one's self-esteem—and we tend to cover up our guilt by, you guessed it, gaining weight, spending more, and actually being meaner to the very people we wanted to be nice to. And crying behind our smiles.

Not quite sure where this practice came from, but in the main, it's a good one. I'm talking about the promises to be be better, not the crashing and burning. Striving for realistic excellence in relationships, money, and lifestyle, is good, not bad.

Read that again: It involves the quest for “excellence,” something that is missing in most disciplines these days; and it likewise needs a heavy dose of “realism.” Highfalutin aspirations are impressive-sounding, but are dangerous emotional landmines. To carry that metaphor further, dashing recklessly through a field of unseen and unknown bombs may appear to be noble, but it can be a disaster.

One must be careful not to promise the moon, but end up only delivering moonbeams.

I have my own New Year's resolutions. But because this is a public newspaper column and not a private diary, my comments must be somewhat muted, discreet, and vague. Don't like those rules, as such, but they are rules of something once known as common sensibility and sensitivity, and that I like.

On a slightly different note, that's why I hate reality television shows and newspaper tabloids: They exhibit petty, personal, and private affairs (pun mercilessly intended) that have no business being in the public arena. You might say what happens in the bedroom stays in the bedroom.

So my spin on New Year's resolutions is simple: “Promises I mean to keep” could (and should?) also be made by the guy next door, the woman down the street, and, well, you (and me, too). If you don't agree with me, then either I have read the culture wrong and we're in much better shape than I think, or we're all fooling ourselves.

At this point, if I got it wrong, I think it's for the latter reason.

Losing weight and saving money are, of course, the standard resolutions. But I would rank them third and fourth. Character and relationships would be number one and two, respectively, in my opinion. (Notice how I soften my perspective with those helpful words “in my opinion”?)

Character is what you are when no one is looking; reputation is what you are when they are looking. Character is what you are when the lights are out; reputation is what you are when the lights are on. Character is an inner reality that expresses itself outwardly when it has a chance to; reputation has no inward basis.

What I need to do—and you do too, if you're alive—is to work on what (and who) we really are, namely, our character. For example, don't appear to not lie; just simply love the truth. Don't simply avoid smut and vice; just love virtue. Pursuing the positive will not allow much room for the negative. Is it that simple? Hardly. But it's a great start, a new beginning—a new year, if you will.

Good character then easily leads to healthy relationships. If I am transparent, honest, selfless, and such (all character traits), then these will impact my dealing with others. Good character, a personal quest, will always foster good relationships, an inter-personal goal.

My transparency, honesty, and selflessness are no-brainers when it comes to dealing with spouse, children, neighbours, and colleagues. Happier homes, better neighbourhoods, and productive workplaces would then follow. This is good, not bad; this is uplifting, not degrading.

Men and women of integrity matter; robust relationships at every level matter. Realistic excellence is the primary goal that I have set for myself, and I would like you to join me. Target an area in your soul where there is a need for some improvement, set a manageable goal to change it, chip away at it—then look for some rewarding results!

One place you'll see it is in your renewed relationships. Then it truly will be a brand-new year for one and all.

Foremost on my Mind: Let it Snow

I love Christmas as much as the next guy, so it's easy to get caught up in the balls, bells, bills, and bowls of the season. You may need to read that first line again: I actually do like all the sounds, colours, touches, tastes, and smells (all five senses, by the way) that come with this festive season.

You can have Christmas without the nonsense that passes for Christmas today, but you can't have it without snow. Well, you can, but I'm writing from an emotional perspective right now: You can hear the crunch of snow underfoot, you can see the white stuff everywhere, you can certainly touch it, you can taste it (just make sure it's not yellow), but I have no idea what snow smells like. (Let me insert the smell of a freshly-cut pine tree for argument purposes.)

Perhaps my favourite set of Christmases, other than many out here in the prairies (when there is snow), was in a small village BC's interior, called 100 Mile House. Back then and there, my life for the most part was a lot simpler, the kids were a lot younger, and there was plenty of, you guessed it, snow. It was light, fluffy, and fun to play in.

Christmas has lost a lot of its simplicity for me these days, though at least if there's snow, it covers up the barrenness of the season—witty play on words intended.

One of my struggles is with the commercialization and secularization of the season. There is so much emphasis on the wrong things these days—or maybe it's just simply “things.” We tend to get mixed up in what the real season is all about: In the minds of many, Santa Claus has replaced Jesus Christ; and if he hasn't, then we just simply cross (“X”) Him out (so Christmas becomes “Xmas”).

Note, I said Santa Claus, not some alleged Dutch man that went by the name of St. Nick so many decades ago. Maybe that's where this myth started.

Whoever and whatever he was, I don't believe he resembled the fat, bearded dude that drives a chariot (thanks, Beach Boys), pulled by eight reindeer, eats cookies, kisses Mom, and runs over grandmas--and drinks Coke when the advertising agencies deem it necessary.

Before you get your collective hackles up, let me encourage you to lighten up. Yes, this is a direct yet warmhearted column, a friendly shot at one of the classic icons of this season. You see, while Christmas can be a highly-strained, expensive, and emotional time of the year for most of us, it can have its moments of peace, joy, and good will to all men (and women) at the same time.

The myth of Santa Claus is pretty well in a class all of its own, mostly because it touches a nerve with anyone who really sees clearly Whom he's imitating. You see, when I read or sing about Ole Saint Nick (thanks again, Beach Boys), I see those qualities in Someone else.

Santa is portrayed as knowing all; he is seen as being almost everywhere at the same time; and certainly has power over people. Wordsmiths and theologians would identify those traits as omniscient, omnipresent, and omnipotent—qualities reserved for that one Person.

My angst is that that simple birthday 2000 years ago, with incalculable and eternal ramifications, has been largely set aside. In other words, what happened outside of Bethlehem then has no resemblance to what is happening now.

Even Bible-believing Christians, like myself, are not guiltless: Never enough time, money, or energy for the things that really matter at Christmas (or so it seems). Misplaced time, money, and energy is often drained by the Christmas blitz. It's a time to slow down, but too many of us rev it up; and we end up heading back to our workplaces and regular lifestyles frustrated and frazzled, and wound up and worn out.

I'm not saying every person and not every Christmas, to be sure, but the potential is there.

“It's the birth day (space between the words is intentional) of a King,” so the song goes. No sense having a birthday party without asking the guest of honour to show up. Silly to leave him out, isn't it? He is the reason for the season, and He should be part of the celebration.

And I can guarantee you that He won't run over grandma. Have a very Merry Christmas.

Foremost on my Mind: I'll be Home for Christmas

There's nothing like Christmas music, lights and other decorations, as well as the ubiquitous Boxing Day sales, to get one in the mood for Christmas. Christmas plays, snowflakes, and Aunt Bob's early December Christmas card will likewise do it every time.

It's just the frantic antics that start in August that leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

While it may not quite be “the most wonderful time of the year” for some, it's pretty close. However, if and when I slow down to relax for a week or two (aka Christmas holidays), I would rather do it with a sand shovel, not a snow shovel.

I have celebrated (almost) 59 Christmases. My early ones—you know, the ones that are all about gifts and food, and food and gifts—are, of course, an unfortunate blur. I do have fond recollections of my dad's folks (those Irish Funstons), Uncle Bob, and Mom's always-delicious Christmas turkey dinner. My paternal grandparents have been gone for forty-five years or so, as has Uncle Bob, and I have a wife that cooks like my mother.

I was raised in a home where we had no Christmas tree, no Christmas lights, and few Christmas trappings that many today deem essential to the season. Well, let me re-state that: We didn't have all the clutter and mutter that my generation and the next generation feel are must-haves for Christmas.

But we had fun, food, and warm fuzzies. I venture to say that there are hundreds of families today that would exchange their present experiences at Christmas for said fun, food and warm fuzzies. Can't prove that point outright, of course, but I do see it on their faces.

Christmas is tough for a lot of people, what with physical ailments that aren't going away and family life that is fractured. And the pressure to be excited and upbeat when one is anything but is a stretch for many. That may be not what I feel, but it is certainly what I see.

My take on Christmas is that it does bring out both the best and worst in many people. Worst? Too often people are forced to pay for things they can't afford, say things they don't mean, and celebrate an event they don't believe in. Best? Lots of warm thoughts of others, and taking time out for the people they love.

Good, bad, or ugly, celebrating Christmas appropriately has always been an issue with me, as many of you well know. An analogy is in order here: When the Grey Cup was celebrated a few weeks ago, there were three types of people present--'Rider fans, Ticat fans, and CFL party animals.

The connection? Glad you asked! There are those who genuinely believe that God came down in the form of the Babe in Bethlehem; then there are those who don't, but like to at least celebrate family, gift-giving, and other wholesome Christmas traditions; and finally (and these would be akin to the “CFL party animals”), there those who see it as an excuse for excessive drinking, partying, and spending, spending, and...spending.

Even many Christian people, and I'm one of them, have strayed far from the origins of that remarkable event, over 2000 years ago. What we do as a family has little bearing on that stinky stable, with a few country folk (also known as shepherds), somewhere in the back end of a Jewish roadhouse. Maybe this is more of a confession than a column.

My plea today is for you to make Christmas special and significant. How? Have someone who is without family to be part of your family during the holidays. Or look around your circle of relationships and have someone who's lonely over for a games night, a good movie, or even just eggnog.

Man, I'd say I'm lonely enough just to get the free eggnog.

Regardless, I think this is the spirit of Christmas that we need to reclaim (whether you're a student of history or humanity)--namely, thinking of others, leaving your comfort zone, and bringing peace wherever you go.

Makes me think of a certain Someone Who did just that a couple thousand years ago.

Foremost on my Mind: Wasn't it a P.A.R.T.Y.?

I went to a party the other day—and all day affair, no less. Well, it wasn't so much a party as a P.A.R.T.Y. (That's an acronym for “Prevent Alcohol and Risk-related Trauma in Youth” and for clarity purposes, I will refer to it as Party (using the capital “P”) for the rest of this paper.

The venue was Medicine Hat Regional Hospital and the purpose, in my opinion, was to shock the you-know-what out of area grade 9 students. I took some from my school, and two other schools were likewise represented, making for a total of approximately twenty-five students, plus parents and teachers.

The gist of the programme is to expose the youth of the area to the risks of drinking, speeding, and texting while driving. There were also some segments on alcohol and drug abuse. I know that's a brief synopsis, but it's hard to put into a few sentences what I was exposed to in a few hours.

I was impressed with the real life scenarios throughout the day, both by the presenters (from the EMS to the ER to the RCMP), as well as through the testimonies of a man and and woman who showed up to give their stories about respective car accidents that left them disabled for life. Other real life scenarios came via DVD clips, testimonies of people maimed in accidents, with others expressing their outrage and grief at having lost loved ones.

It was pretty graphic, gripping,and gut-wrenching.

I was also impressed with the students from the schools that came. Bow Island's St. Mike's and Medicine Hat Christian High, as well as my own Cherry Coulee, were present. The students were well-behaved and focused; even the adults behaved themselves!

It's the matter of real world education. I can't think of a more accurate way to describe what happens when stupidity and cellphones are combined. Kids attending the Party have known of other kids who have combined cars with drinking and texting, topped off by speed. Just as an aside, there has been an unbelievable rash of deadly accidents over the these past two to three years in the the County of 40-Mile . No doubt kids from area schools knew some of the victims.

This is what I call “real world education”: More often than anyone in educational authority cares to admit, core subjects bear little resemblance to the real world. Dates, formulas, experiments, and, yes, even some grammar assignments, are important, to be sure, meeting the learning-outcomes.

But are dates, formulas, experiments, and assignments that important? Absolutely! Perhaps even more than ever. But one issue I have with the day school system is that there is so little real life context to apply all this (usually) great information.

That's why the recent Party event challenged me personally. While I don't drink and drive (actually, I don't drink at all), I was challenged about my occasional slip-ups when it comes to texting—thus, there was a real world context moment for me.

Seriously, it made me stop and think; or better, stop and text.

And likewise for the kids: Again, they've known of people who have texted or drank while a driver or passenger, or were hit by someone who who was. That's not seemingly irrelevant book information—it's real life.

Party needs to be even more aggressive: Hollywood (here I go again) glorifies the pleasures and highs of uncontrolled drinking, the excitement and rushes of getting behind the wheel of a car, the innocence and importance of drug use. They rarely, if ever, showed the wasted minds and bodies, the broken families and communities, and the utter hopelessness of every form of substance abuse.

So kudos to the sponsors of Party. Keep up the good work and graphic presentation.

It's the one party every young person should go to.

Foremost on my Mind: Feb, you're hairy

I know it's now December and “Mo-vember” is history by a couple of days. I meant to write a witty piece on the joys (or sorrows) of having a moustache sooner, but it took too long to groom it for the occasion.

For the men, that would be joy; for women, sorrow.

I cannot recall when I last went hairless between the nose and the lip. (Now between the lip and the crown, that's a different story.) I think we're talking in terms of years. In fact, there's a couple of my kids who have never seen my bare upper lip, stiff or otherwise.

It has taken years to go from chocolate brown to licorice grey; but it can do that in reverse within two bites, thanks to Russ and Rhonda's special cream-filled doughnuts from their Rolling Pin Bakery: The chocolate brown in question would be the icing from those hot and steaming indulgences.

Just a side note: It strikes me as very unprofessional to teach a serious grammar class with icing splattered on or over one's face/face fuzz. I have never learned the art of scarfing those things without making a mess. But then, do I really care? A messy face is a throwback to the good old days of pre-school. After all, eighty years ago, everyone thought a food fight ending up on the face was cute.

Moustaches and other forms of face fuzz come in handy for many different occasions. I can think of at least three: 1. they keep one's face warm in the winter—which is trouble if it's summertime; 2. they give that certain look of maturity—even if looks are deceiving; and 3. they allow a certain place to hide crumbs for that long, treacherous trip home at the end of a long day.

You are aware of area religious traditions that expect a beard at a certain juncture in life, almost as a rite of passage. I have no problem with that. We wasted English do the same, only our emergence into adulthood is set for when we can drive, vote, or, sad to say, drink. Methinks arriving at the threshold of adulthood could be a lot safer if we went the way of 'air and not error.

I remember when I could count the numbers of hairs in my (attempted) moustache. I heard it called a “baseball team” moustache—nine aside. (Or would that be no runs, no hits, no hairs?) I don't know about that, but it was a grand slam day when I could honestly grow a really hairy lip. The beard came a little later, and I've played with face fuzz ever since.

And when I say play, I do mean play: Sometimes it has been a full beard (if I wanted to look like a hippie or a logger); other times, it has been very trim, almost polite (if I wanted to look like a professional or an urbanite). I even went to big bushy sideburns route, but I shaved those off just after the Vietnam War.

Two fires ago, we had plenty of photo collages hanging on a wall in the rec room. I cannot recall how many people wondered who Gwynne's (that would be my wife) first husband was—I had changed my looks (and especially the beard) so drastically. It has gone from brown and bushy to grey and retiring, probably a reflection of my inner soul's development.

Meanwhile, let's stay focused on the topic of discussion: It's great tradition, to be sure, and I think we should keep it up. (Or would that be “on”?) After all, there is no better way to head home after a long day at the school-office-station-farm-site than with a few choice chocolate sprinkles embedded in one's 'stache.

I'm not clear as to how “Mo-vember” all came about and why. I think the dead of winter, traditionally colder months, would be better suited for this nose-duster bit. Trouble is, it's hard to come up with something quippy that flows with February.

Unless it's something like “Feb-you're-hairy.”

Foremost on my Mind: Canada to the Rescue

As I sit in the secure comfort of my snug basement office--heated cement floor beneath my feet, to boot--I am completely incapable of grasping what is happening in the Philippines. Usually, any time-sensitive column written a week before publication is old new by the time you read it (in the secure comfort of your snug office).

Sad to say, this is not that. With the relief effort just getting under way, and with the official death toll still too inaccurate, the bad news from the Philippines will be current news for a while.

Indeed, the mess in the Philippines will be a around for a long time—one long present tense, if you will.

When it comes to man versus nature, there is always only one victor—nature. We have gone through the Hurricanes Sandy and Katrina, the tsunamis in Japan and Southeast Asia over the past few years, so we have ample evidence nature's wrath. And between the recent fires in Australia and not-so-recent earthquake in Haiti, she certainly has been on a rampage.

I have no idea what our friends in the Philippines have gone through, no matter how graphic the television images are. We see just pictures of the tragedy, not the the real thing; and the four other senses are ineffective conductors because we are not there on the spot. News reports are adequate at best, even live ones.

Natural debacles like these bring out the worst and the best in humanity. The worst? The usual looting, killing, and hoarding. And they say the corruption is already rampant among government officials. It disgusts me, but I'm not over there and it's not my family that is starving to death. (That, by the way, is not a token condoning of such evil acts; just a human perspective on, well, human perspective.)

Then there's the bodies hanging from trees, and the accounts of loved ones being ripped from one's arms through the fury of the storm—these are enough to drive anyone to do crazy things. And lack of clean drinking is a pretty good contributor to irrational behaviour.

But, as usual, I want to focus on the best in humanity. What has grabbed my attention the most is the humanitarian aid and services that has poured in from the usual countries. I say usual countries because it's the same few who always step up, while the same many fail to rise up to the occasion.

Two of the afore-mentioned “few” are, of course, Canada and the United States. I know there were other Commonwealth countries (such as Australia), but I am grateful to be part of a country that rises to its global duty when called upon—every single time. To me, sending money and supplies, along with services, is the better way to the dole out foreign aid—not the usual, irresponsible manner (ie., no strings attached) that we normally do it.

I have often wondered why, of the 190 or so countries in the world, that so few are able—correction: willing-- to reach out when disaster strikes. With all the wealth in the Middle Eastern countries, where are they when the chips are down? And with all their passion in faith, where's the goodwill? There is no question that the matter of faith is a key factor: One of the tenets of the Judeo-Christian perspective is serving and helping others.

And I speak of that faith in the broadest sense of the word, not merely along denominational lines. Even from our corner of the country, I cannot tell you how many teams from different Mennonite churches and members of the Evangelical Free Church in the greater Bow Island area have a mission mentality. Teams of common working folk have given up weeks of their lives to serve those in New Orleans; and there are on-going treks to Haiti to dig wells.

General, long-term acts of kindness, the establishment of schools and hospitals are just some few examples of practical faith. This is rarely, if ever, found in other worldwide religions. (I have every intention of developing and defending that statement in a column coming very shortly.)

And as a society that is staggering farther and farther away from these roots, I lament the reality that such acts of global kindness will slowly diminish. You see, when you are raised to look out for yourself or stomp on people to get ahead, there is no place in your thinking for others—especially others in need. Again, part of the healthy legacy of Judeo-Christian teaching is caught up in the phrase ”serving others.”

So whether we do it as a nation, by sending money, aid, or workers to the Philippines in their hour (months?) of need, or as individuals by, well, doing the same, we make this world a safer place to live in.

No matter what Mother Nature has to say about it.

Foremost on my Mind: Leading with Honour

In my other clever column recently—not the dentist one, the politician one—I lamented the challenges of holding public office. There would be too many daily demands for this boy.  Every elected official must be held accountable to his or her constituents, in one way or the other. I think I would disagree too much to be an effective representative.

If I took public office, I would feel constrained to hold that calling with the utmost honour and integrity. I believe I could, but I would likely fall flat on my face by saying the wrong thing at the right time, the right thing at the wrong time—or simply speak from my heart out, not from my teeth out.

You’ve read this column enough times to know I'm quite adept at that.

As you know, and as do millions of Americans now (thanks to the likes of Jon Stewart and other late-night talk-show hosts), there has been a headline-grabbing, gut-wrenching, nerve-wracking, and head-shaking run of antics by some of our eastern elected buffoons.

Whether it’s the mayor of Toronto (Ford), or those three senators from Ottawa (Duffy, Wallin, and Brazeau), Canada most certainly has a black eye for moral incompetence on the international stage. I know the latter three are being stripped of their status because of money issues, but, people, morality is always at the bottom of these things.

As for Rob Ford (I can’t bring myself to say “His Honour”), what an embarrassment! I have no idea what has taken the police so long to get to the bottom of his alleged misdemeanours. They say they have in their possession an indicting video of Mr. Ford smoking crack cocaine, as well as  a mindless rant, but have yet to lay charges of some sort.  I can guarantee that I could never get away with that.

It strikes me as inconsistent that, the higher you are up the proverbial food chain, the slower the wheels of justice turn. “Inconsistent,” of course, is a polite way of saying “double standard.”

I’m trying to follow the complete storyline in both cases. Unfortunately, my primary source is the electronic and radio media, so my information will be a little skewered. You might say that the left is rarely right—pun mercilessly intended.

Between the two parties—mayor and senators—there appear to have been a series of abuses of public offices, money, lifestyles, and trust--then their shameless (and persistent) denials, to boot.

In particular, Ford’s disgusting public shenanigans is just cause for him to resign. No one is perfect, starting with this columnist, but there is an understood protocol for all leaders, a higher standard of behaviour. If Ford wants to get drunk publicly, snort crack cocaine, or drop f-bombs (three allegations levelled at him), that is his business, not mine. However, if he chooses to maintain some sort of honour of the office of North America’s fourth-largest city, that is my business, not his.

And when his antics hit the international stage, he is representing Canada, not just Toronto.

A case in point would be my own profession: Teachers are held to (or at least should be) a high standard, because of their public and influential position. If they violate that honour, they should resign or be fired immediately. I am grateful for school divisions that still have the moxie to carry out said consequences.

Leadership is a strained, difficult calling. I think of parents, foremen, school administrators, employers—even church elders--to name a few spheres. It’s just so crucial to understand the standards of leadership these days. If we are chosen to lead, we should do it in an honourable way.

Beyond a common sense standard, there should be some sort of criteria or expectations for all said leaders to follow. If I had any clout, which I don't, I would suggest that anyone choosing to lead any any one else should embrace the following guidelines. They're not mine, but they have worked for centuries. I have summarized and re-phrased them, to make them more readable:

“Any one who leads should be of blameless reputation, a [person] marked by self-control and discretion; a [person] of a disciplined life, as well, they must be neither intemperate nor violent, but gentle; not fond of a fight, and free from the love of money.”

Just wonder if the likes of Ford, Wallin, Duffy, and Brazeau ever read those gems. They're from the Good Book, and sure make a lot of sense to me.

I think we would all be better off as a nation if we applied such basic principles to ourselves and our leaders.

Foremost on my Mind: Drill on, Baby

In my clever column about careers last week, I forgot to mention perhaps the actual worst job out there. This particular vocation isn't based on emergencies or blood (read: ambulance attendant)--at least in the main—nor does it involve being hung out to dry in the wind of popular opinion (read: public official).

No, believe it or not, this nightmare job is steady, lucrative, necessary, and convenient. The career, of course, is that of a dentist. I thought I would spill the beans before the usual revelation at one-third down the column, just in case you couldn't wait.

The job is steady, because everyone has teeth—or at least they start life with teeth at some point. I know they literally don't start life with teeth (thanks, but I've been through the whole teething trauma nine times), but ivories generally show up within the first eighteen months.

The job is lucrative, because there are a lot of dental plans that pay for very expensive procedures; and if you don't have a dental plan, you feel the pinch even more (even though it's cheaper), as the cash comes out of your wallet directly. Just wondering if that's why the professionals wear masks: When charging that much to clients, would that be considered a hold-up?

The job is necessary, because those good teeth at age two become riddled with cavities, abscesses, and other breakdowns by the time the kids are teenagers. Filling, pulling, flossing, and cleaning them are an unfortunate consequence of poor dietary habits.

And lastly, the job is convenient, because it is the most logical reason for a kid to skip school all day-- for a half-hour appointment. I have never quite grasped why moms often makes mid-morning appointments, then allows the child to take off the whole day. For the patient in question, it's small-time pain (the appointment) for big-time gain (missing school).

Dentists, like gravediggers, will always be around, even in tough times, it seems. Dentists and medical doctors represent the health component of our society, and there will always be a need to be healthy—or at least attempt to be so.

It's one of life's delicious ironies: We care so much about our health that we don't actually care that much about our health. (Maurice, let me expand: If we actually cared about our health—you know, what we ate and didn't eat, including what passed through our mouths—we wouldn't need to see the medical professionals as much as we do.)

But despite the steady, lucrative, necessary, and convenient aspect of being a dentist, you wouldn't catch me dead being a “Dr. Funstunned, DMD.” You might say that I just couldn't sink my teeth into it.

Can you imagine the following? Every day is consumed with looking into peoples' mouths, smelling their rancid breath, working within a confined space of the width of one's hand (unless it was my Aunt Bob's mouth—then there would be room for lots of fun).

Can you imagine the monotony of doing the same thing every day—drilling and filling, freezing and wheezing—eight hours a day? There really is no opportunity for even small talk; and forget the big stuff. All responses would have to be monosyllabic grunts, with jumpy eyebrows.

My local DMD guy tried to talk to me earlier today about one of his favourite subjects: the Calgary Flames. I think he misunderstood my groaning, gulping, and gagging for affirmative answers. Or maybe he thought I was a Flames fan, what with those monosyllabic grunts and jumpy eyebrows.

I was ready to “bring up” another subject (my breakfast), but that would have been really messy.

I am always impressed with the support staff that these guys (and gals) surround themselves with. In fact, in many cases, they do most of the preliminary work, sometimes even more. Like doctors with well-trained veteran nurses, dentists would be severely hobbled without their hygienists and assistants.

They're usually better looking, too, and that helps relieve some of the pain.

However, the art of dentistry has come a long way since the '60s, I must say. I don't know the costs, of course, because my parents paid for everything back then. All I know is that so much has changed, from room decor to techniques to reading materials—even to what each professional is wearing.

Mind you, pain is still pain, no matter how sweet the surroundings.

For me, I think I will stick with what I'm doing, and that includes teaching in a classroom. After all, it's very steady, fairly lucrative, and certainly necessary. And oh, it's also absolutely convenient: Just need to encourage more moms to make appointments for their darlings, just to give me a break.

Their pain would be my gain.

Foremost on my Mind: Vote for Me

One of the worst jobs in the world for me would be an ambulance attendant. Or for that matter, anything to do with the words “blood, life-and-death, emergency, or accidents.” My toque goes off to those associated with ER, EMS, EMT, EMR, and PTA.

Okay, just kidding about the last one (though sometimes there may be a connection).

Over the years, I have honestly aspired to be involved in law, health, and politics. The first two careers are lost dreams, it seems, as I should have started them decades ago. Don't know if I would have been very good as, say, a naturopath or defense lawyer, but it certainly is worth moping about.

And then there's politics. I have dabbled in some politics, attending rallies here, AGM's there, and presently I hold a membership in the Wildrose party, but that is about the extent of it. I had thought of running for office as a town councillor recently, but that was nixed because I live on the wrong side of the tracks (literally). I am considered out in the country here in the Back Thirty.

So much for “Hizzoner Craig Funston.” Guess I will just stick with “M'Lord Craig.”

But as the effects of coffee, short nights, and a jam-packed schedule wear off, and reason and rational thinking kicks in, I wander. No, I actually wonder: At this point of writing, or at least until the next coffee binge starts up, I have decided that I wouldn't be caught dead running for office.

Running from office, maybe.

I'm sure you've heard all the political jokes (or is that redundant?) out there, but maybe not these:

Question: Why can't Alberta get even more payback for their primary natural resource? Answer: That's because all the oil is in Alberta, but all the dipsticks are in Ottawa. (Dodge the rotten tomatoes.)

Question: How would you define “politics”? Answer: “poly” means many and “ticks” are things that annoy you—so that definition is “many things that annoy you.” (Pause for the heckling to stop.)

So here in the public record I state that I will never run for office in the foreseeable future. Good to have that caveat (fancy word for a warning or proviso)-- “caveat” being foreseeable future. (Or as my Aunt Bob would say, “Never say never, meathead.”)

We think of all the jerks, er, perks of politics—salary, expense account, offices here and there, status, and such. And they are there. There's not the 9-to-5 grind, to be sure, but there are many other grinds, most of which I know nothing about. I think keeping everyone happy and off my case would be one of the greatest challenges. Between whiners and winos, it would be a tough slog to be a politician.

My greatest headache (or pain in another part of my anatomy) would be two-fold: Taking a stand for what I think is right, and then trying to getting something actually done. They say that getting things passed at the government level is like getting elephants to mate: It takes a long time to, ahem, do it, with a lot of clumsy, awkward positioning, then another long time to actually bring to fruition, followed by years of slow development. (Please don't try to carry the analogy any further.)

With a populace divided over so many fundamental issues, it's actually a wonder that any government gets anything done as much as it does, seeing that there are many levels (and sub-levels), within both the elected and bureaucratic hierarchy.

The process is flawed, even if it is the British parliamentary system. Just watching the gong show also known as parliament is enough to turn off any thinking person. Hey, maybe that's why so many thinking people refuse to participate in the voting process.

If I were an MP or an MLA (and I do know the difference—do you?), I would be hard-pressed to clearly represent my constituents' needs. Pull any number of topics out of hat and see what I mean: abortion, same-sex marriage, education, taxes, transportation, health—and I haven't even started with the heavy stuff. Throw these issues out at a family gathering and see what I mean.

As an elected official, I would have a duty to be my constituents' voice in the legislative assembly or parliament; but as a conservative, evangelical follower of God, that would be a stretch. How would I speak to matters I do not personally agree with?

Some of the greatest parliamentarians were these same conservative, evangelical followers of God, with many monumental accomplishments. William Wilberforce and the abolition of slavery comes to mind. A number of Alberta's premiers a few decades ago were likewise.

I hear a siren: Maybe I'll take that job after all.

Foremost on my Mind: In All Thy Persons Command

It strikes me that some people have too much time on their hands these days. It's actually a problem I wish I had. I do eat, read, sleep, write, watch, work, etc., and I would be happy to do more of the same—if, in fact I had the time.

The people I am thinking of are those who spend a little too much time at their local cool coffee shop, jawing, gossiping, commiserating (a fancy word for being miserable with other people), and maybe even actually drinking coffee.

People with too much free time have participated in anti-pipeline protests, railway blockades, and university demonstrations. The trouble is, within these movements there are genuine concerns held by sincere opponents. I have no problem with that—just problems with anarchy.

Some things in this world are so sacrosanct (another fancy word for things honoured or revered) that we shouldn't even think about tweaking them.

Okay, I exaggerate a little: We should have the freedom to discuss why we struggle with religious holidays, or Father's Day, or someone's weight issues—but we should be careful when we openly challenge or harass others in their cherished and private matters. Political correctness is not the same as political sensitivity.

So if you, or one of your friends, has an issue with, say, the name of the Washington Redskins (with Redskins being the hot button these days), go ahead and express your opinion. It just seems quite irrelevant and removed from my world. Being a white Canadian probably factors into my perspective.

This is my seventh paragraph, so I must be getting near my point. It is as follows: Sons. Sons, as in “all thy sons command”--you know, that line that has been an integral part of our national anthem for decades. The word on the street—or would that be the local cool coffee bar?--is that “sons” is to limiting, too exclusive, maybe even too sexist.

I can't grasp what the alternative would be, nor am I very motivated to find out.

Again, being a white male Canadian (still) may keep me at a disadvantage from grasping the real issue here. I am aware that female soldiers serve Queen and country; I respect their right to choose to serve. Some have even been killed in action, and I am sincerely grateful for their sacrifice. However, I don't feel for a moment that the term “sons” is disrespectful or insensitive to their service.

You have heard of Thomas Mulcair, leader of the federal New Democratic Party. You should be aware that Thomas and Craig (that would be me) rarely, if ever, see eye-to-eye on anything. I respect his right to differ with me, and I trust he (and his party) can be mature enough to allow me to hold my views.

These views could include the wise use of natural resources (read: Alberta crude), the freedom for citizens to own guns (read: no gun control), the crucial role of traditional families (read: not same-sex), and so on.

When Thomas and Craig agree on something, that's well, something: I was (pleasantly) shocked when I discovered that we both agree that taking “sons” out of our national anthem is stupid, short-sighted, and unnecessary. Not sure if he used those words precisely, but he's not a county-famous columnist trying excite people. If “stupid” is too strong, I'm sorry. How about “petty”?

Some things we just don't mess with, no matter how politically correct (a fancy term for having lost one's common sense and balanced view) they appear to be. Taking “sons” out and coming up with with something else may appear to have a noble element to it, but it doesn't.

The question begs: Why? Then it begs one a bit louder: Why now? Finally, it screams: What's next?

What's next could be “manhole” becoming “person trench.” Will “mother nature” morph into “divine essence force”? Some of that tinkering has already taken place, especially around the Christmas, er, festive holiday, season.

If these people get their way here we'll have to drop Mother's Day, because many women cannot (or do not) want children; and motherhood is apparently a state of repression for all women everywhere. That sounds ridiculous, to be sure, but it all comes from the same goofy mindset.

I repeat: Freedom of speech, even if it's merely freedom of opinion, is one of the most cherished qualities of a civilized society. It should not be abused or even trivialized.

It's enough to make me drop in on a cool coffee shop for a strong one.

Foremost on my Mind: An Attitude of Gratitude

I am assuming that the stuffed turkey is no longer at your table as you read this. And no, I'm not referring to the one with two legs and two wings: I'm talking about the one with two legs and no wings: Uncle Reggie and his family from Saskatchewan.

As usual, as I write this, we haven't had our dinner yet; but as you read it, we will have. We anticipate a quiet dinner: We have never really gotten into having family over for Thanksgiving dinner. When I was younger, we were often at a Bible conference or in recent years I was teaching at one. That is still an option, just not a regular one.

For the last few years, we have been eating one of our own turkeys. We butchered almost twenty this year, keeping only a few for ourselves. The rest go to friends who want good farm-fresh, pastured meat.

I don't know where the tradition of thanksgiving slipped into our culture, or why it's in October, or why the big bird is part of the food fare. It is so similar to our friends to the South, yet in terms on time of year and point in history, it's a little different.

The cynic in me thinks it was a Wal-Mart conspiracy, spreading out the joy of shopping (= spending) over a few months, leading all the way up to Christmas. The kid in me, of course, thinks it's great.

Speaking of kids, as a parent, I have spend so much time training my own children to be thankful that often I fail to remind myself of the same. In other words, whatever words, responses, or gestures of gratitude I instill in my kids, I should keep in mind for myself.

And actually none of us adults are off the hook either: Are we really grateful for what we have? And, for that matter, for what we don't have?

Let me count the things that I am grateful for, even though I rarely voice them like I should.  At least in this context, I can write about them. Here's hoping you agree with me.

One, I am grateful for my family. That would include my wife of thirty-two (and counting) years, plus all my kids and grand-kids. But I don't stop there: I think of my siblings, their wives and kids, and the generation (and generations) before them. We are of the Irish-English stock, and I am grateful for those that, like your parents or grandparents, had the pluck to leave kith and kin, to sail for Canada.

Two, I am grateful for my country. I love Canada and the freedom we have to speak, worship, vote, live, and travel. I may or may not agree with the politics—no matter what level I look at—but in the grand scheme of things, we have it good here.

If you're have any doubt, do a quick current events test, using the names of North Korea, Somalia, Syria, and Nigeria as answers. Yes, we have a national debt, unresolved First Nations issues, gangs in big cities, and many other problems, but overall, this is a wonderful place to live.

Three, I am grateful for my health. I have had a few scares over the years, but, hey, I'm still sitting in front of my word processor, aren't I? We too often take life for granted, like we're entitled to our 70 or 80 years. Well, here's news for you: We're not. Take each day as a present (pun mercilessly intended). The past has passed, and tomorrow is elusive as a butterfly. Breath in today's air.

Four, I am grateful for living here in Alberta. Years ago, with some mild resistance from family, I took the plunge and shifted east to Alberta. Many of you have read of my migration, so I won't bore you with repeat details. Two house fires later, two pink slips later, a few off-the-road-adventures-in-the-middle-of-winter later, we are still here—and I would say, for the most part, thriving.

Overall, Alberta has been good for my family and me. I have been stretched and challenged at every level, making me a better husband, father, writer, teacher, businessman, farmer, and believer. A soft, stagnant culture produces soft, stagnant citizens, something I never want to become.

Lastly, I am grateful that this newspaper to allow me to rant and rave on a regular basis. I never dreamed that my overture to the then-editor many years ago would lead to this weekly blast. Okay, it's usually a blast; sometimes it's an explosion of nerves and sweat. I just make it appear easy.

So, you need to think of things you're grateful for. That's how your parents raised you, that's how you raised your kids. And that includes thankfulness for a stuffed turkey like Uncle Reggie—even if it's for the fact that he won't be around for another year.

Foremost on my Mind: Freedom to Raise or Raze?

I see where Moronville has been wiped off the map. That would be the country of Moronville, not to be confused with the town of Morinville, just north of St. Albert. No, Moronville (rough translation: “village of morons”) is the witty name given by a county-famous columnist for any property stolen by people who are part of a movement called Freeman-on-the-Land.

You will have read about some clown in Calgary who has just been evicted from his “embassy.” Okay, not a real embassy, of course, but some widow's house that he took over as a Freeman-on-the-Land sovereign citizen. What a moron (hence, Moronville)! Even foreign countries negotiate deals with host jurisdictions. Man, years ago, we used call freeloaders like this deadbeats, layabouts, and shysters.

He's quite a man, too: Takes on old widowed pensioners in Alberta and Quebec. Even beats them up.

Freeman-on-the-Land is a growing movement of individuals who feel it is their God-given right (though they may not use the divine term) to take over property, houses, and other jurisdictions as their own personal space. No, make that their own “personal country.”

Country, as in space, dirt, land, and buildings. Country, as in someone else's property. Country, as in simply moving into and setting up so-called embassy. These clowns have at least part of the Canadian anthem correct: “...glorious and free”--with an emphasis on the word “free.”

They don't rent it, lease it, or buy it. They simply take it over. And somehow because there's an alleged political, colonial angle here, it doesn't seem as serious as it really is. Back in the olden days, when right was right and wrong was wrong, this was called stealing.

I know of people who take over abandoned buildings in a rundown part of some city's downtown district; we call them “squatters.”

But this thievery is beyond squatting. At least with the useless building downtown, they're, well, useless. These are often homeless people with nowhere else to go. While I don't side with them in their approach, at least there isn't the same arrogance or belligerence as these “freemen.”

These so-called sovereign citizens, despite the highfalutin name, initially agree to rent a particular place. But theirs is only lip service, my friends.

You see, their intention is duplicitous: They have no intention of honouring the law, paying their bills, or carrying on like any responsible citizen. Their goal is to turn the rental unit on its head, and convert it into the embassy of some dubious foreign country—for free, no less. I don't know, but I assume there's a flag and an anthem to go along with their delusion.

Even in the spirit of common sense and accurate communications, they should at least know the correct meaning of the words. In other words, when they speak of “citizen, embassy, and government,” they don't mean them in the same sense that you and I would.

The word “anarchy”comes to mind, encompassing the sum and substance of this movement.

Three generations ago, when many of your forefathers moved on to the land and took it over, it was at the invitation by government. Their sole purpose was to establish a homestead where they could work the land, raise their families, and become responsible citizens, usually in a country that was new to them. And their ownership was confirmed by a legal document drawn by the government.

These clowns—for that's what they are—do the complete opposite: They wreck the land, and do not work it; they operated outside of family life; they are responsible all right—responsible for a lot of grief; and have a very twisted view of government.

I read an outstanding column just recently about “lawlessness” (oh, right, that was mine last week). Here's yet another example of the spirit of lawlessness that needs to be checked right now.

In addition to being parasites, they are invaders. If they are from another country and have invaded our country—something they would agree with—then they need to be dealt with as such. How else are we supposed to deal with such enemies of the state (again, their own perception)?

Maybe if you have a quarter section somewhere, or an old house sitting on your family's original homesite—you know, the one your diligent grandparents may have built a few decades ago--go check it out.

Maybe, just maybe, you'll find some foreigners claiming it for their own.

Foremost on my Mind: It's the Law

I met one of Washington state's finest the other day: He clocked me at fourteen miles per hour over the posted speed limit (Washington hasn't gone metric yet), and now I am ten times that amount lighter in the wallet.

I wanted to protest that I didn't know they had lowered the speed limit just a couple kilometres, er, miles, back; I also wanted to argue that I needed to get to the Sea-Tac airport to pick up my daughter; and I wanted to tell to tell him that it didn't seem fair that the other ten cars around me were doing the same speed.

Actually, I wanted to tell him a few other things, but they were both unmentionable and unprintable.

The truth be told, I was speeding, and it's against the law to speed. I broke the law and I was wrong. You see, I was raised by two very good parents: Remember those old-fashioned moms and dads who loved each other for decades, who had a firm yet loving idea of discipline, who co-operated with various institutions (local school, church, and police)?

They raised me and my older brothers with that quaint notion that if you “do the crime, you do the time.” Okay, they weren't that funny; that's the role of some witty newspaper columnist, who read it himself somewhere else.

The point is simple: A generation ago, we were producing families from good homes who knew what it was to face consequences for breaking the law. It's changed somewhat these days, what with knowing the difference between right and wrong, truth and error, good and bad, not quite as clearly defined any longer. I admit that those comments (in terms of good and bad parenting skills) are on the slight generalization side of things.

Last time I checked, lawlessness is lawlessness. The only difference is in degrees: some are big, some are bigger, and some are the biggest of all.

Over the past year or so, we have tolerated the Occupy movement, the Quebec university student movement, Idle No More movement, all in the name of freedom, rights, and justice. I see them as activities done in the name of lawlessness.

Trouble is, there may be some token justification for their cause, but they are going about addressing or solving it in a very wrong and dangerous way.

I suppose there are two extremes are both worth monitoring, namely, a police state and a lawless state. My concern here is the latter. As always, it starts in the home, where children must learn to obey the laws of the parents. From home we move on to day school—whatever form it takes—where the students must follow the rules of the school.

Whether it's home or school, for the most part, said rules are generally there for the good of all members of that community, no matter how small. Little outbursts can lead to out-of-control tantrums and physical violence, schoolyard pranks can lead to community vandalism, if not held in check.

Kids need to learn to obey mom and dad, teacher and principal, because one day they will get out into the real world and be forced to obey a boss here or a cop there. Even in the workplace, wildcat strikes, unnecessary absenteeism, and slacking off, are all forms of lawlessness. On the other hand, unions are often formed because there is an attitude or practice of lawlessness among the management.

Whether it's the mobs on the lakefront streets in downtown Chicago, the sandy climes of Daytona Beach during spring break, or some railroad track just outside of Milton, Ontario, lawlessness of any stripe is unacceptable in a civilized society. Note: I said “lawlessness,” not peaceful protest. Do not get the two confused.

If I have issues with the government, I don't shoot the leader; I vote for a more acceptable candidate—then hold him or her accountable. The former is lawlessness, the latter is peaceful protest (or exercising my democratic right). Or if I am horrified with the butchering of defenseless babies, I don't shoot the killer doctor; I support victims, I promote adoption, and I encourage abstinence. And I would vote for those who agree with me.

I would have exercised my democratic right last week on the Interstate-90, but Canadians can't vote in America. I simply voted with my foot and slowed down. That makes for a cheaper, wiser, and saner response.

Come to think of it, cheaper, wiser and saner sounds like a good response to a lot of things these days.

Foremost on mt Mind: Good Wood

One of the saddest sights on a prairie landscape—next to seeing Calgary Flames pennants waving in the wind-- is the state of so many neglected wooden out-buildings. The sadness is because of what they once were, as well as what they could be.

Re-stated: past usefulness and present potential. All quite possibly lost.

These buildings are Exhibit A when it comes to the Second Law of Thermodynamics (= things left to themselves will deteriorate and wear down). Be they farmhouses or granaries, or other sheds of any description, they are finished, having been replaced by newer, more time (and weather)-resistant buildings.

Check out any homesite in your neck of the, uh, grassland: If a family is living there, they are probably in the new house, with the old one just sitting there, like an old person waiting to die. Sometimes, though, they get fixed up and used for the hired hand.

That's the past. For the present, and for a number of reasons, I would like to see them torn down completely. They are fire hazards, eyesores, and useless—at least in their present condition. I personally obtained five from my neighbour Claude years ago that were in great shape, and they re-invented themselves into five distinctive and useful buildings on my Foremost acreage. To date I believe they are still standing, still functional.

You might say I was too dumb to build these myself, but too smart to not use them somehow.

Essentially, everything that was wood—I suppose that would be all of it—could be put to use. If the buildings are still in good shape, they could become tool sheds and chicken houses; even a creative carpenter could convert one or two into a guest house or two. If I had the skill, that's what I would do.

Would that be “Little Granary on the Prairie” Bed and Breakfast? Just wondering.

For those buildings that are no longer intact, the parts of the whole could be very functional as used lumber. Anyone who has ever been inside these granaries is well aware of the great shape this wood is in. Taken apart, very carefully, of course, they could become part of a used lumber inventory--or material for the start of another shed. And most of that wood has never seen the light of day, only adding to its durability.

Furthermore, there are pieces of wood that are too short for construction, yet too good for destruction. I suggest—drum roll, please—material for picture frames. Not a new idea, I'm sure, but one I haven't read about or seen implemented much. “Useless” pieces of wood that may not be more than two to three feet would be perfect specimens.

It could be pitched as authentic “prairified” (no such word, Maurice—that's why I have to use those squiggly things), for the simple fact that there's a lot of history in those frames. It would look good, and give a nice pioneer feel to, say, a Robert Duncan or Norman Rockwell picture.

I think there would be no problem presenting this concept to art shops and framing stores in the big cities. People in Calgary and Edmonton, Vancouver and Victoria, for starters, would pay wonderful money for this western iconic wood.

Got any old buildings you want torn down? Getting them razed (not “raised,” Maurice; that's going the other way) is half the battle. Few can be bothered with such grunt work, so that actually might be the toughest part of this vision.

But once they're gone, your homesite is a whole lot prettier (and neater), and said buildings have found new life, even if it's fragmented, cut down, and shipped away.

Old lumber lying around? That's no longer good-bye—it's good buy.