Foremost on my Mind: Good Words Now

I attended something that resembled a funeral the other day. Obviously the person in question was there; plus there were hordes of people taking time out of their busy schedule pay their respects; and then there were the usual eulogies (in the truest sense of that word)

It only resembled a funeral. It was, in fact, a birthday party: My brothers and I put together a birthday bash for the matriarch of the Funston clan—that would be my mother-- Elsie Anne Funston (nee Latta), formerly of Edmonton, Alberta.

I would say that there were possibly 250 invited guests present. There could have easily been more: It was a delicate balance between asking many or few in hopes of avoiding the intimate touch. We would have asked more of her contemporaries, but at 90, she has lost most of them due to their own passing away.

My mother is special for a number of reasons, some of which I have alluded to over the years, so I won't bore you with the facts again. In fact, she is special to me for the same reason that your mother is likely special to you.

I feel a genuine pity for those who A. can't say that about their mother because she wasn't; or B. can't say that about their mother because she isn't (as in “isn't with us any longer”).

The birthday bash, dubbed a “pre-funeral” was the brainchild of one of my brothers. Ironically, he's the funeral director in the family, so he's never too far from death himself. He may have picked up the notion from seeing too many grieving families wishing they could have said this or done that to the loved just lost. I don't know, but that may have factored into this brilliant idea.

The other factor may have been that he has hung around me enough to have some of my maverick, clever ideas rub off on him. Just my humble view, Maurice...

Because of her commitment to her God, her husband, her family, and her church—and in that order, I strongly suggest—she has had an unbelievable influence in her world. When she, Dad, their handsome son and his three brothers moved to Richmond in the late '50s, it was a rural setting, crisscrossed by ditches—though you could almost call them canals. There were acreages, including dairy farms, just minutes from our house.

The Richmond of yesteryear resembles nothing like the Richmond of today, what with its heavy multi-ethnic population and overwhelming urbanization. I hate going there anymore, but I do for one reason only—you guessed it, to visit my mother.

If your mother is from the generation mine is, the following observations are true for you, too: She was always there when I walked the mile or so to school, and there when I got home; the three meals a day, plus the necessary snacks at the appropriate times, were part and parcel of my secure childhood.

Because I had no sisters, and because I was number four in the pecking order (unless, like me, you count from the bottom up), I became experienced in the art of cooking, cleaning, washing, and dusting. Didn't necessarily like it, but in those days one didn't negotiate with parents. Things had to be done, and parents were in charge. (Remember those days?) Cruel parents, I'd say; made me do regular chores, attended church three to four times a week—and of course, we didn't have television.

My brother who did the brunt of the organizing for Mom's birthday bash selected various people to give their respective eulogies (again, used in the truest sense of the word for you wordsmiths), representing a number of decades of my mother's influence. Very clever and heartwarming, indeed, and there was a consistent, positive thread throughout the afternoon.

One thing that really stood out in my mind was the years—no, that would be decades—of her servant's heart, expressed through hospitality, entertainment, church life, and Bible studies. And that was while she was still maintaining a home, with a husband and four sons, as her first (but not only) priority.

But the other observation that really got to me was the fact that no one ever saw her get angry—or even bad mouth people. That would include me: I was home till I was almost twenty-seven years old, and I never saw or heard her get mad. It just never dawned on me; it was so customary that I missed it.

So, a eulogy without the body, a funeral without a casket. What a novel idea!

By the way, is there anyone that you would like to eulogize before they can no longer hear it?

Foremost on my Mind: Stop Means Go

Many years ago, when the Big Dipper was just a little pot, I drove through my first stop sign. That was about a block before I smashed into the curb—not once, but—three times. Not an auspicious way to take my driver test, but the instructor must have seen something beyond my clumsy start. Or maybe it was the $25 bribe under-the-dashboard that sealed the deal. (Okay, just kidding about the bribe.)

Either way, I got my permanent driver's license that day, and have never looked back since--unless I was making a turn.

That was over 43 years ago—and I have never lost the rush that comes with driving. By the way, that is not the same as rushing when I'm driving. Strangely enough, I have rarely blown a stop sign since, and my parallel parking skills have improved significantly, at least as far as the curbs are concerned: it's the cars in front and behind that might tell another story.

So I suppose it comes with the territory that I train (which rhymes with “strain”) my own kids—the boy ones, in particular—when it comes to driving. I have enough of them; you'd think I would get use it. Taxi stops (aka California stops), parallel parking (aka paralyzed parking), and highway exercises (aka Indy 501) are all part and parcel of this adolescent rite of passage.

While it doesn't get easier with age, there is a certain go-with-the-flow attitude that I have developed over the years. It's either that or they stay on trikes for the rest of their lives. But then again, maybe I'm simply taking more tranquilizers than usual. Ear plugs and dark sunglasses also do the trick.

There's a certain level of independence that getting a driver's license brings. And that freedom would be for both parent and teenager.

Here's an illustration for you: Getting one's license is the difference between a snake and a lizard. The former crawls and slithers, and gets wherever eventually; whereas the latter scurries and darts, and get wherever a whole lot quicker.

(Maurice, the lizard in my illustration would be akin to some kid getting his license, after having spent sixteen years crawling here and slithering there.)

I have six sons, and have just completed this well-deserved rite of passage with a third driver. That makes three down, three more to go—and I'm referring to drivers, not stop signs.

The advantage of having another driver in the house is incalculable. It's one thing to live in, say, Medicine Hat or Lethbridge, where walking or busing are viable options. Down here in the Back Thirty, walking is what we do to chase cows, and busing means going to school five days a week.

Beyond that, all destinations are a distance, and distances call for driving--meaning getting the mail, going to that part-time job, even visiting one's neighbour in the next township.

With a sixteen-year-old driver in the house, now someone else can take the garbage to the dump, er, Waste Transfer Station (also affectionately known as the WTS Store). It also means that when we run out of chocolate bars or Monster drinks, it's not the old man (that would be me) that has to trundle out to the store.

(I don't believe the driver in question reads this column regularly, so let me break the news to him personally.)

With the new freedom comes new restrictions, namely, no quick trips to Lethbridge to have coffee at the mall, no taking the truck without asking, and no cruising the coulees when the spirit moves.

Then there's the matter of insurance. I have little problem with exorbitant rates for the young male species of our race, what with no proven safe driving record. We had to do a little creative economics so the boy wouldn't have to mortgage his future for the sake of a little drive here or there. After removing a window here and a mirror there, we got the annual rate reduced significantly. I even tried to limit the number of tires, but that fell, er, flat.

Oh well, three more stop signs to go.

Foremost on my Mind: Please, Mr. Postman

The very first full-time job I ever had, once I got my teaching degree, was that of a letter-carrier—also known as mailman or postman. I'm good with any of them, even with the Canadian-esque term “postie.”

So you need to know that I have a soft spot for Canada Post, for many reasons: as a former employee, as a father of a present employee, and as a consumer of some of its services.

Even though I left the job almost three decades ago, I do have a few good memories. As I recall, I found that there are a lot of pluses with being a mailman: free exercise, fresh air, angry people and loud dogs that love to greet you—but their bark is worse than their bite. And that went for the dogs, too.

If done right, I was usually home sometime just after 1:00 PM every day. The striking fact is that I was paid till 3:00 PM, for work I did not do—not good economic sense.

There is no question that I was in better “shape” back then: I didn't have the bowling pin figure that I do now, and the only cardiovascular issue I had was trying to spell the word. Back then, I could huff and puff and blow any house down; now, I just huff and puff.

The current dilemma of Canada Post is they are considering shutting down door-to-door delivery across Canada very shortly. They are in such desperate shape to save money, they're going after door-to-door delivery.

I suggest that they may just simply delay the cutbacks, or tighten hours of delivery: They should pay for work done, rather than pay for work not done. And don't forget that you read it here first.

There is no doubt that Canada Post is in serious financial trouble, and has been for several years. Most crown corporations are. That's why government and business don't mix well. I'm not an economics major, but I do know that good money after bad is a recipe for financial chaos.

Any organization with limited accountability, militant unions, government support, and diminishing need, is an organization destined for trouble. And on that basis, Canada Post is in trouble—serious trouble. Less snail mail and more email doesn't help, either.

Where does one start, when it comes to pointing out areas they need to work on? I could speculate, insinuate, and tabulate, but I would be spouting off—and I do that enough already.

The most obvious area would be the mailmen themselves, because, well, that's what's under discussion. I am thinking, in particular, of the paid hours in which they don't work. I have alluded to that problem already, and I doubt if things have changed. To cut out all door-to- delivery seems mighty drastic, especially when a tweak here and there would do.

That's like cutting off one's hand when there's only a sliver in the finger: No, skip the amputation and just deal with the finger.

Mailmen, in my humble opinion, should be paid for the hours they work. They have so many hours in any given day to deliver the goods. It is well-calculated and doable. If they want to rush through their route, no problem; if they want to get home, or, as was the case with many of my colleagues, get to that other job, no problem. But if they want to get paid for not, ahem, delivering the goods, that's a problem.

They should only get paid for the hours they work—no more, no less. (Maurice, six hours work means six hours pay—not eight hours pay.) That's how any sound business operation works.

If you calculate the money Canada Post lost on only one individual on a daily basis, on the above formula, then multiplied that by every postie in the depot, times the number of posties on that same day in every Post Office throughout Canada, you would have staggering figure to work with. Then multiply that by every day every postie has worked throughout their lifetime, and you will quickly grasp where they could save some money.

That's no economic trickle--that's a flood.

I don't know if Canada Post has thought of plugging its leak or not. They sure haven't attempted to contact me for more ideas. If they want to, they can contact me at work—and I'm always there long after 3:00 PM.