Foremost on my Mind: Driving Me Nuts

Family life is a funny thing. Not funny in a hilarious way; rather, funny in an odd way.

 

For instance, we beg the kids to talk, talk, talk, but once we get them talking, we want them to shut up. (Okay, “tone down” is a little softer.) When they hit the teen years, some of them either clam up once again, or talk and text all night. A little balance would be in order here.

 

The same goes for learning how to walk: We are thrilled when they can finally walk, but we spend the next twenty years stifling their urges to walk to the store, walk to the park, or go for a walk with that cute kid they found in grade ten.

 

And now there's the whole driving thing: We are tickled pink when they can ride their first trike, their first bike, even their first quad. By that time, there's the matter of learning how to drive a car—without driving us nuts. 

 

Once again, I am in the muddle, er, middle of teaching two (not one) new drivers. Every trip out of the house is quite the adventure these days: It's Driver A on Mondays, Driver B on Tuesdays, and so on. This is a two-for-one deal that doesn't get easier with age.

 

I would love to hoodwink you with glowing stories of my cool-headedness as a driving instructor, but that would be a lie. You think a backseat driver is bad? You ought to hear me in the passenger's seat. I don't carry on conversations much when I am doing the driver's instruction thing: My talk is limited to “watch out,” “turn here,” and “slow down!”—and something that rhymes with “idiot” (okay, okay, slight exaggeration).

 

Which is worse: Watching a novice driver learn the ropes, or having said novice driver watch me drive? It's the old “do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do” routine. I have never been more conscious of so-called questionable taxi stops, shoddy lane procedures, and bad blinker habits.

 

And that's when I'm in the driver's seat. (I sure hope Officer Soanso isn't reading this.)

 

I am still a safe and careful driver, and I believe I could pass my test once again, even though it has been forty-plus years since I took it. This time, though, I would make sure I didn't blow through the first stop sign I come to—like I did on my driver's test!

 

Certain families have special rites of passages. First day of school, first communion, first job, first paycheque, and so on. Novice drivers have become one of our rites of passage—only we think in terms of first speeding ticket, first dent,  and first car.

 

I am happy to say that we have added five additional drivers to the Funston household over the years, other than Mr. And Mrs. F. (that would be the missus and me, Maurice). Where I am not quite so happy is with the number of tickets that have accumulated in that time. I am not naming names, though I will tell you that their last name starts with “F.” Nor will I discuss damage to fenders, mirrors, bumpers, and the ever-present need for tow trucks— that would be cruel and inconsiderate.

 

One thing we have passed along to our (now not-so) junior drivers is the AMA card. And, no, AMA does not stand for American Medical Association (well, actually it does, just not in this case). I speak of the ever-present, always-useful, multi-versatile Alberta Motor Association card. Free towing, discounted hotel rooms, and the like, make it all worthwhile owning one.

 

By gassing up regularly at either one of two unnamed gas stations (think funny haircut or sled dog), we are able to save money on our annual fee. When there are (or have been) so many drivers under one roof, but on one plan, this is a great deal.

 

Life is a trade-off, so the trade-off here is that I need to go through the trauma of training and teaching new drivers, in order to have someone else who can pick up the kids, run the errands, and run me to town.

 

You might say that this whole instruction thing is a matter of driving me around the bend, one way or the other.

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Foremost on my Mind: Are Rights Right?

One of the most misused words in our blessed English language is the word “right.” Used, uh, rightly, it's appropriate. Used wrongly, and I have fodder for this present column.

When can “right” be right? Well, let me count (a few of) the ways: One, you can be right or you can be wrong; two, you can sleep on your right side or your left; and three, you can right a capsized canoe. (Grammar geeks: Notice how I used the word “right” in three separate parts of speech.) When we add politics, anatomy, mathematics, and a host of other disciplines, to the mix, we have a wide variety of appropriate applications.

However, in my growing cynicism of certain forms of education, economics, and employment, I am seeing a horrific use (thus, “abuse”) of the term and the experience of “right”--or better, “rights.” Or you understand my angst by using a common synonym, “entitlement.”

Much of today's misunderstanding revolves around what we feel we deserve, versus what we should see s a privilege. When that line is blurred, and it is these days, we have serious trouble—trouble, as in chaos, confusion, and instability.

There are some very basic rights that all members of a civilized and global society should have. I see safety on the streets and workplace, personal respect for all, a roof over our head, enough food to survive--just for starters.

Then beyond these broad strokes, there is clearly room for the freedom of worship, leisure, friendship, and opinion. There is also, in an ironic sense, freedom to not cram religion, leisure, friendship, and opinion down others' throats, too. It has always struck me as funny (in a sad way) that the opponents to traditional families, home education, and healthy living are permitted to have their rights, so why not their proponents?

You see, no one has an inalienable right to own his own home, to a post-secondary education, to full-time employment, to a long life, etc. These are not rights; they are privileges and should be treated as such. They should be pursued with complete vim and vigour, and once obtained, they should be cherished, protected, and developed.

Do I have a right to be healthy? No. Do I have a right to have a happy family? No. Good health and family life are privileges and should be treated as such. Conversely, do I have a right to dismiss someone who isn't healthy (= the weak, the infirmed?) Again, no. Do I have the right to take out someone who is different from me? Of course not.

I trust you can see the connection between an apparently superficial discussion on rights, on the one hand, and the serious ramification of the abuse of rights, on the other. It is one thing to disagree with someone else's right, but that's as far as it should go. I have no problem when others express their opposing opinions, even their outrage. It's a free country, and we all have that right.

That's why the Human Rights Act, for example, can be so dangerous. Two things come to mind when I write those words: One, it has been misnamed; and two, it has been misapplied. Perhaps it should be called something like the “Selective Human Rights Act.”

It's rather ironic, isn't it, that in the context of human rights, certain convictions and practices are trampled in order to cave in to those of others.

While we don't have inalienable rights in education, economics, and employment, it's better to have a society that can read and think, pay its own bills, and maintain a meaningful job, than to have one that cannot.

At the end of the day, ignorance is dangerous, dependency upon the government handouts is scary, and an unproductive populace is a seed plot for for every conceivable difficulty. And certain European countries, on the brink of bankruptcy, have bought into this lie of inalienable rights (read: unaffordable and unreasonable level of perks). They are paying a severe price for such warped thinking.

The student anarchists in Quebec last year felt it was their right to demonstrate. Sorry, but not at the expense of public property and safety. Or clerks who loiter and text during store hours may feel it's their right to do so. No, that job, people, is a privilege, not a right. Go ahead and add racial tension, Idle No More, wildcat strikes, and general lawlessness to that list of examples; these eruptions occur because one person fed another lies about their entitlement.

Am I entitled to express the above opinions? Of course I am. So does the person who chooses to disagree with them. This public debate is a mark of healthy democracy—disagreeing agreeably.

And this, I suggest, is perhaps one of the most basic of all human rights.

Foremost on my Mind: A Good Word in Life

Over the past few days there has been a seemingly inordinate number of deaths in my little circle. I am thinking of three passings in particular: Two hit close to home, and the third one provoked me with a fresh perspective of how we handle the death of heroes.

Unless you got hit on the head with a rock at the recent Tim Hortons Brier in Edmonton, you will be aware that Hugo Chavez, late president of Venezuela, passed away after a long battle with cancer.

Then there's a young woman, whom I won't name at this point. She too passed away after fight with cancer—with operative word “fight.”

Finally, Stompin' Tom Connors left the stage for the final time, you might say.

Hugo Chavez was a champion to many in the world, representing what a poor boy can become if he really tries hard. Wealth and education, hallmarks of most politicians, were missing from his political resume. Strange study he was: He apparently was the people's president--a populist leader, if there ever was one. But he also had strong despotic, anti-democracy philosophies, hobnobbing with many leftist, totalitarian regimes throughout the world.

My plain uneasiness with his death is that he and I were the same age. That may be the only thing we had in common, but mutual age is a link, nonetheless. Such mortality is a part of life—and death, if you will—but especially only hits home when someone your age passes away.

The next death, that of the young woman, daughter, wife, and mother—let's go ahead and call her “Janet”--is even closer to home. I knew her when we both lived in Kamloops, BC. She used to babysit my kids; I hung out with her father when we were both in the Kamloops Ministerial Association. When I first started teaching, I actually taught her a few times as a sub.

Unlike Hugo who was peer, Janet was young enough to be my daughter. She had a full life ahead of her. She had fought this cancer thing through unconventional ways, to her credit, with moderate success. She was an active follower of God, and in the minds of some, that should have meant that nothing bad should happen to her.

Well, it did and now there is a whole network of grieving loved ones left behind.

Finally, there's Stompin' Tom Connors. Never personally knew him, but have heard one of his songs many times—that ubiquitous ditty that has been an iconic part and parcel of the hockey rinks for decades. What little I heard of his music, I didn't really care for. Yet there was something simple and sincere about his singing style, and that won him many fans.

What a timely segue to my primary point today! As the torrent of tributes pour in for Mr. Connors--on the airwaves, newsprint, and Internet--I am both baffled and bemused at its timing. Now that he has passed on, everyone and his desk-mate, it seems, is singing (no pun intended) Stompin' Tom's praises. Obviously, one can't give a eulogy (in the truest sense of that word) when one is alive, can they?

But why not?

You see “eulogy” is roughly translated “good or well word.” Funerals are always marked by eulogies, taking time to spell out the many wonderful qualities they had. I've always found it strange that we rarely do this for them when they are alive.

Wouldn't it be better if that person you think so much of heard how much you loved them, how much they have influenced your life for good, how much better the world is because they have contributed to it—before they die? Why do we wait to honour them after they have passed away before we speak well about (= eulogize) them?

We all have a desperate need to be loved, appreciated, and desired. Wouldn't a lot of grief—for both listener and hearer—be averted if we took the time and effort to let that special person know what we thought of them today, even next week?

Flowers of praise and bouquets of honour are best delivered when people can smell, feel, and enjoy them.

Foremost on my Mind: There's No Business Like Snow Business

Last time I checked my fuzzy muzzle, I was reassured that I wasn't a polar bear. That may be one reason why I don't handle blizzards very well, even when I am protected by the confines of a car, school, or house. Or body fat, for that matter.

Such was the case last week (last night, at time of writing, so the chills, emotions, and memories are still raw), when I was one of those brave souls—or would that be brave fools?-- who was out and about during that Sunday evening climatic attack.

Owing to circumstances beyond my control, I had to travel from Elkwater to Medicine Hat to the Back Thirty in the late afternoon. The goal was make a beeline​ for home--well before the snow, darkness, and hunger took over my reasoning powers.

Well, hunger won out, so I was slowed for as long as it took me to say “and I'll take fries with that, please.” (Actually, it was nothing of the sort: I just thought I would throw that in to make the column more interesting.)

By the time I left the Hat, I knew I was in trouble: Whiteout condition, icy patches, a slow pace (for the previous two reasons), and no real sense of exactly what lay ahead of me were prime conditions for a very crummy trip home. I was relieved to hear, then, on Radio 660 (somewhere between Seven Persons and Whitla), that the storm warning had lifted, that the snow and wind had stopped, and that all was clear.

Right: Clear in Calgary, because the storm had shifted to the deep south.

Through a stroke of luck (or would that be Divine providence?), I was able to tuck in behind a very large truck and follow it almost all the way from the Hat to Bow Island. I was able to keep up with him for the most part, following his back lights and dark outline through the otherwise blinding conditions.

You might say that fools rush in where snowplows fear to scrape.

The rest of the trip was dreadful and draining, with a touch of the white-knuckle express, and we made it home safely—a four-hour trip that should have taken only two. Under normal circumstances, that part of the journey would have been seen as awful, but because the Medicine Hat-Bow Island segment was so bad, it was actually half enjoyable.

Now I'm I finding out two other things: How fortunate I was as a driver and how fortunate I am as a citizen. In the former fortunate state, I saw plenty of cars off the road; and there were plenty of those that I didn't see. I've heard about those poor souls today.

And in the latter, there is the reassurance that there were community halls, civic centres, and cafes that were not only opened for but filled with stranded travellers—people who stopped (or were stopped) from going any further. I had considered the same, but the gambler (or, again, the “fool”) in me decided to push on.

Bad weather that shows up at the wrong time (“wrong” being defined as the very hour we're driving through it, or at least plan to) is part of what makes southern Alberta so, well, special. It also identifies not only what we face, but also who we are. (Maurice, that means open, warm, sensitive, and alert.)

I have always found it reassuring (upon reflection, of course) when the locals rally to help their fellow-Albertans, be it through fire, snow, wind, or rain.

And I bet no polar bear ever had it so good.