Foremost on my Mind: Hamlet, Coming to a Town Near You

One of the most poignant sights I ever saw since coming to Alberta was something I saw on the walls of a community hall in Hairy Hill. I kid you not: There is really a place called Hairy Hill: it's just west of Two Hills.

Hairy Hill is not sad for me because it has an intriguing name (even Harry Hill would be an improvement). Nor is it sad for me because there is no Tim Hortons [sic] there.

No, I was sad for the same reason that I get sad when I am passing through the Skiffs, Wrenthems, Etzikoms, and Nemiskams of our world, namely, for once-thriving communities that have become shells of their past. I understand that all of these places, to varying degrees, had farm and auto dealerships, schools, rinks, churches, and more than one restaurant.

What I saw in Hairy Hill, for your information, was collage after collage of grad pictures, probably from the '50s and '60s, if memory serves me correctly. The pictures of these young hopefuls are all that's left of every one of the families they represented: Their empty houses, abandoned stores, decrepit public buildings, and overgrown lots are all that remain.

As an aside, because of the growing Mennonite population throughout this province—and the greater Two Hills district as an example-- I am thankful to report that Two Hills, Hairy Hill, and Willingdon are being reclaimed, slowly but surely, as vital communities.

Call it Quesnelle Forks or Hairy Hill or Togo (in BC, Alberta, and Saskatchewan, respectively), I have always found it very unfortunate that once-thriving communities are now relics to a robust past. And it's not just in Western Canada: Newfoundland and its outports are a sad story; northern Ontario and Quebec were tied in to primary resource industries, but when the need for certain raw materials withered, so did the towns that the work created.

I have always wondered if there could be a creative way to breathe life into these hamlets—even the villages, which are one ladder rung up on the scale of population designation.

As many of my fans, er, readers know, I am not in favour of big government; nor am I in favour of even little government sticking its corporate nose into business that's not theirs. However, having any number of federal and provincial jurisdictions lending a hand to revive these near-ghost towns would be acceptable. I like BC and I have visited Saskatchewan, but my loyalty is primarily with Alberta, so let's focus on our own Wild Rose province, one hamlet at a time.

I can think of many advantages of such a plan. Where do I start? Let me count the ways:

Quality of life and affordable housing would be two that immediately come to mind. Quality of life speaks to the safety of a small town living, of closed proximity to employment and shopping, of a more neighbourly and friendly context. (There are exceptions, of course: I am fully aware of the hellholes that certain towns and villages can be.)

Affordable housing means a quality house under $150,000. It's hard to buy a decent half-duplex in any city for that. While that's one direct reason, it represents other indirect factors—such as not slaving away with two incomes to make payments on a $500,000 house, with all the drawbacks of both parents working full-time produces. Only one parent working outside the home would be a positive impact on the family. It means that you own the house, the house does not “own” you.

Many young people often don't see the value of small town living. They love the glitz, glamour, and glitter of the big city. A spouse, kids, and mortgage payments usually changes all that. To be sure, there aren't the services and selection that a big city offers, but in the grand scheme of things, they don't really matter. You can also drive to the city for your occasional (if necessary) rush. I have done it for years.

Bringing any level of government into the mix is actually dangerous; it would be better to come from the private sector. Some definite parameters would have to be in place if there was any government involvement, especially in the area of initiatives for retailers, manufacturers, banks, and infrastructure. Wooing people out of the conglomeration of the city cosmos would then be an easy sell.

Hairy Hill may never be restored to its original vibrancy. Those earnest grads, whose pictures I saw, have long gone—maybe in more ways than one—but there is a new generation that we need to encourage and entice to take back the hamlets of Alberta.

Maybe start with a Tim Hortons [sic]and build around that. That's a combination of private enterprise and an established success story. Would that make it a “double-double”?

Foremost on my Mind: The Spirit's the Medal

As I write this, the Olympics are still going strong. By by the time you read this, they will be history, replaced by the usual daily pulp of wars and rumours of wars, NHL trade deadline gossip, and Rob Ford's latest antics. And throw in Miley Cyrus's latest obscene tour while you're at it.

All the hoopla about Russia's anti-gay decree, the terrorism threats, and biased judging will have passed into oblivion, unless some wag chooses to turn his or her reflections into a book. If so, I'll pass, as I have enough books in my library that I haven't coloured yet.

Not having cable, I have had to resort to watching highlights on my computer, when I so choose. Most of my information comes from the paper or cyber form of news. And some of it also comes from the gossip at the local shop. Trouble is, I don't go down to the local coffee to gossip, so that source is out.

What little I did saw and read about was unbelievable. I am thinking, in particular, of snowboarding—which I don't do as an Olympian or non-Olympian: It was likely one of the craziest, goofiest, daringest [not a real word, Maurice—I'm just trying to be funny] feats I have ever seen.

Some guy called McMorris, a dude out of Saskatchewan (not a hotbed of mountains or even hills, the last time I scanned the horizon) was very impressive.

Olympic results are often a difference of milliseconds, of miniscule twists and turns. Only three people win the medal, but the difference between the next four placings could easily be literally one one-hundredths of a second.

Hockey comes to mind when I think of twists and turns. The American women's hockey team would be champs today had the puck been a a few inches to the right. A yawning, empty net, was there for the filling, but the puck was off by oh-so little.

Speaking of hockey, there have still been some rumblings about who got chosen for the Canadian men's team and who was left out; of those who had the honour of representing their country and those who did not; and those who were sometimes scratched and those who played every game.

Should Claude Giroux have gone? Eric Staal? The owner of Giroux's team, Ed Snyder, thought he should have gone. And Staal made it clear he was very, very bitter for not being chosen. Others not chosen were either nowhere near a mike or seemingly had too much class to open his flap.

Unlike Staal, who put the “twit” back into Twitter.

It's a thankless job to be in management of any sort, but especially in something as iconic and public as the Olympic hockey. I think Mike Babcock has the hardest job of all the Canadian administrators: Who starts in net? Who gets scratched? What line combinations need to be, well, re-combined? Is Sydney Crosby hurt?

There's a subtle lesson unfolding in all of the above, and it transcends hockey, the Olympics; it permeates every segment of our crumbling society. It's called “sense of entitlement” and it is becoming a greater and bigger issue than anyone appears to care to acknowledge.

Is Claude Giroux entitled to be on the men's Olympic hockey team? No. Is the fourth-place finisher entitled to a re-count? No. Is Roberto Luongo entitled to start in half of the games? No.

The longer answer is also No, but deserves some fleshing out. You've read it here before, but we have developed a supremely warped view of personal rights and rewards. There is a move afoot when it comes to diverse spheres such as students, firemen, and house buyers. There's a sense that each is entitled to a passing mark, a permanent job, or their own special home because they are entitled to it.

They're not; that Olympic skier who is slower than the three people in front of him or her doesn't deserve a place on the podium. The best finisher gets gold, the second-best gets silver, and the third-best gets bronze. Pretty straightforward, if you ask me.

Thus, the Olympics are really a metaphor for life: Work hard and do the best you can; you may not get a medal for whatever you do, but you will get something much more important, namely, that intrinsic sense that you gave it your all.

The Olympic games will come and go every four years, but it's the Olympic spirit that will live on. Only a select few make it to the games, but that spirit of excellence is for all humanity.

Foremost on my Mind: Send in the Clowns

[This is an open letter to Maurice, my second cousin twice removed (but not removed far enough—a line I've used before). He lives in Cornville, Iowa, and I need to bring him up to speed on some of the Canadians that are making waves south of the 49^th these days. You're welcome to read along.]

Maurice, buddy of all buddies, how are things in Cornville?

My friend, I want to ask a big favour of you, maybe two or three. You see, there are some characters up here in Canada that have strong American exposure, and well, they're making us look bad. Just wondering if you could spread the word around at, say, your next Water-Dripping Lookee Disco Dance. You need to let people know down your way that these clowns do not represent rational thinking and normal behaving Canadians. And I'm sure they don't represent most of your people.

One is a civic politician, and the other two are singers—so that would make all three of them grandstanding entertainers, with absolutely no accountability for their actions, attitudes, or addictions.

The first bozo is someone called Ford. You have Henry Ford, the car guy; we just have Rob Ford, who's the size of a car. He's the duly-elected mayor of Canada's largest city, Toronto, and has been in the news for months for all the wrong reasons. He is a pompous twit, a national embarrassment.

Remember the War of 1812, when you guys took the city of York, then we (British) took it back? Well, why don't you take it back again, along with its mayor. You see, York morphed into modern-day Toronto, more or less. If we hadn't been so victorious, Ford (the Focus-sized one) would have been your problem. I know you have had your challenges with other rogue mayors (hello Newark, New Orleans, and Detroit), so what's one more?

In some corners, he is a populist leader; others say we need to tolerate him. Well, tolerance is another name for cowardice, and no one seems to know what to do with him. I suggest we put him in a box and mail him as a gift to you. We can send it by water—over the Niagara Falls, if you want.

The next goofball also has roots in Ontario. He's a lot skinnier, younger, and richer than Ford. He goes by the name of Justin Beiber. Maybe you've heard him, or least heard of him. His neighbours in Beverly Hills have, and they can't stand him, especially the one who recently had his house egged by Justin and his groupies. Then there was the matter of the recent street racing in Florida. We could list the rest of his misdemeanours, but his rap sheet is too long for this column.

He should be home with his mommy: After all, nineteen is a very young age to be out on his own. He has rocketed to fame, and all the nonsense that goes with it, far too quickly and early in life. His fan base and the media have all contributed to his idiocy, but at the end of the day, he alone is to blame.

For that matter, I don't even think that he's a good singer. When I think of great singers, I think of those whose names rhyme with Williams, Como, Souther, and Orbison.

The other thing that really gets me is that he professes to be a Christian. I wish he's shut up about his faith. I like those true Christians who live their life by the Book, where their walk matches their talk. Beiber is anything but, and is an embarrassment to those of faith. So we don't want him here, either.

The last guy is one that you may not have heard of much. He would be the “Young” in Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young—Neil Young, by name. Like Beiber, he lives in California—a 1,500-acre spread, if you will. Mr. Young has associations in his “neighbourhood” with deep pockets, along with a virulent pro-environment agenda. They are reputedly the ones who underwrote his recent singing tour, the one where he denounced the Alberta oil sands.

Where he crossed the line, in my opinion, was when he compared the environmental toll on the oil sands to that of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Not clear how he could have made that comparison; he obviously hasn't seen the oil sands up close and personal. However, I am clear that he is spreading misinformation (back when I was a kid that was called lying), both in geography and history.

His timing couldn't be worse: Your dictator, er, president is about to pronounce his blessing (or otherwise) on the Keystone Pipeline—a conduit of oil right here from Alberta that will benefit the economies for both countries. Or maybe the timing was planned by his socialist comrades. Please take him and tell him to stay put on his ranch, where he can ride his toys all day—likely filled with gas that was made from the oil pulled out of the ground from you-know-where.

It is always a struggle for me to put up with common people, like you and me, who, when lifted up into a position of power and prestige, shoot their mouths off—whether they know what they're talking about about or not. And then their fans, who think only with their ears, side with them every time.

So if you could take them off our hands, we'd appreciate it. If you want to trade, we'll take a couple of your NHL hockey teams—for example, the Florida Panthers and the Phoenix Coyotes—straight across.

That would be an even trade: losers for losers.