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.