Foremost on my Mind: The Good Die Young

It's dangerous being young these days. I don't know that from experience, of course, just from sourcing the radio and Internet.

Three main stories caught my eye recently: The five young people who were stabbed to death in Calgary; the hundreds of students who drowned off South Korea; and the grisly accounts of the uber-trerrorist group in northern Nigeria, that is butchering, burning, and beheading—you guessed it—young people in area boarding schools. More on these a little later.

I'm not young myself: I'm pushing 60 this summer, and some days I feel it. Other days, I think there must be a misprint on my birth certificate. Sometimes I hang out with people older than me just to look younger. However, a senior's discount for coffee at McDonalds always brings me back to reality.

When I was the age of those high school students in Korea, I made a whopping $1.75 an hour, gas was something like .75 cents a gallon, and brand-new homes could be purchased for well below $100,00.

And when I was the age of those university students in Calgary, my own university tuition was calculated in the 100's of dollars, not thousands. I pay more in gas each month today than I did for tuition for year then.

So these tragedies have hit home: I was once that age; I have kids that age; I teach kids that age No one deserves to be butchered to death by a “friend” (he was an invited guest); and certainly no one deserves to be trapped in a sunken ferry boat as part of a school excursion. I'm sure we'll find out why soon enough. And should a school term be tantamount to a death sentence? No, no, and no.

These are the stories that are front and centre as I write. There are others that we see but perhaps don't pay much attention to. Who can forget the hundreds (if not more) of deaths among Syria's young? And those who haven't died have been traumatized, brutalized, and stigmatized because of the war.

With the pain and trauma of those dying—and I am thinking in terms of Calgary, South Korea, and Nigeria, in particular—comes the pain and trauma of those living. Yes, living, as in those left behind: You read or saw the unspeakable grief of the alleged killer's parents, didn't you?

You have seen pictures of the devastation of those Korean parents, as they futilely wait for a good word on the fate of their children, haven't you?

And though I personally have seen nothing from Nigeria, I can only imagine what these folks are feeling. They sent their children away for an education, to better their family's life, to grasp hope for their future—only to be massacred by an army of anti-education monsters.

I'm not going to weigh in on who deserves to die and who doesn't. Within my worldview, I leave that up to God; within yours, you can fill in the blank. All I can say is that I don't see how kids celebrating the end of university deserve to die. Nor can I get my head around why kids on a simple school excursion must drown, through no fault of their own. And you can come to the same conclusion regarding eager students in Nigeria.

It's when you read stories that I've alluded to that makes you want to hug your kids one more time, watch yet another movie with them, say something extra special as you tuck them into bed, and so on. We have no idea when something as horrific as a stabbing, a sinking, or a slaughtering will take place.

You can be sure any of the aforementioned kids never did.

I am not at liberty to speak of a good God allowing bad things to happen. The parameters of a secular and public press speak to that. But I can speak of good parents taking time out of their busy schedule to re-affirm their love for their individual children, high school and university students included.

I'm can think of hundreds of parents right now who wished they had that opportunity one more time.

Foremost on my Mind: Another Off Season

I know the guy in the next cubicle is supposed to write the sports stuff for this paper, but, hey, I'm human, too, you know. I like watching the Canucks, Flames, and Oilers in the Stanley Cup finals as much as the next guy.

Trouble is, anything we watch this year will have to be archived, highlights from years and decades past.

Before we all break out into hysterics about those woeful Canucks, remember that Winnipeg, Ottawa, and Toronto will likewise be missing the playoffs. That leaves only the Montreal Canadiens (note the French rendition of that last word) as the only Canadian team (note the English rendition of “Canadian”) playing past April 13.

I have watched the implosion of BC's favourite home team (that would be the Canucks, Maurice) over these past few months. You may or may not recall my rant of a few months ago, the one in which I lamented the hiring of John Tortorella. The chemistry, style, and baggage that he brought to the Canucks leaves no doubt in my mind that he was not a good fit for Vancouver. I still hold to that.

My good friend, Trevor Linden (now the Canucks' president), would do well to heed the following advice: Blow up the team. The term “blow up the team” (meaning “to dismantle severely”) is, of course, an idiom, for all you grammar geeks out there.

So when I encourage my buddy, Pres Trev —okay, okay I exaggerate: He doesn't know me—to blow up the team, I am targeting the team's core. Yes, I am speaking of the Sedin twins, David Booth, Alexandre (note the French rendition of his first name) Burrows, and others.

What once worked, doesn't work any more. Or better, those who once worked, don't work anymore. Being the armchair general manager that I am, I know for certain that most players that Linden could trade would garner some serious interest from other teams. I understand from inside information that Kesler and Edler were good as gone at the trade deadline. Why they didn't go, I will never know.

Ironically, the man who didn't let them go, Mike Gillis, is now gone himself.

I must admit that my insider information came from Maurice; trouble is, he thought hockey was something you did when you skipped school. (Maurice, I believe that's called “hookey.”)

Players who string out their time on any team are a real liability. They need to be replaced with younger, hungrier players. Even Tortorella himself is saying that these days. Calgary, ahem, is doing a mighty fine job bringing in young, hungry players; look for them to be a force within a year or two.

Never thought I would ever say that, Mr. Brand.

But players notwithstanding, there is a management issue here at the same time: Gillis is gone, and I think Torts (that's what we writers say when we want to sound cool) should be out the door. In fact, by next week, you might say he could be yesterday's news.

Any one can sit in the weak comfort of their office with a strong coffee—or in a bar with their favourite brewsky—and play General Mangler, er, Manager. Anyone can do that; it's just that when I do it, I write with tongue-in-cheek. I have nothing to lose by sounding off.

I think both the Canucks and the Oilers need some serious shake-ups. Some of their respective moving parts should keep on moving—right out of town. In fact, maybe some of theirs could be exchanged for some of ours.

That could be young players for old, coaches for a coaches, even switching mascots. Just a few suggestions, President Linden. If you need any more, I'll be sitting in the brave solitude of my lonely office.

Oh, by the way, Edmonton can keep their general manager: We have an opening, but we're not quite that desperate.

Foremost on my Mind: Independence!

Independence. It sounds good, looks good, and feels good. Well, sort of.

You think you get it when you move out of your parents' home, and away from all their rules. It's yours, maybe, when you get your driver's license and later, your first car. They tell you independence happens when you get a real job and the financial independence that goes along with that. And it's true that getting married could be a form of independence.

I say “independence” and you think of Crimea getting their “independence” from Ukraine. Or South Sudan from Sudan. Well, sort of. Closer to home--and the catalyst for today's column--the independent faction in Quebec got their collective butts kicked in their recent election.

And that would include being handed to them on a platter, to be precise.

I'm not a politician nor the son of a politician, but I do follow public life issues. So I was interested in the outcome of last week's election in Quebec, mostly because of this persistent burr in the federal saddle: Quebec's push for a sovereign state within a federal dominion.

Provincial politics still intrigues me. If I ever got involved, I would embrace the conservative side of things (surprise, surprise)—you know, the fiscally, morally, educationally, and medically conservative side.

The term “conservative” has fallen on hard times these days: Those that carry the name are anything but (at least in most provinces); or, the name conjures up images of outdated policies, concrete thinking, and male chauvinism.

Sometimes that's true, but mostly it's political mudslinging.

To conserve really means to be cautious, constrained, and careful. We need that sort of leadership at every level in this country. Those are good principles when leading any jurisdiction—including the family.

Meanwhile, back in Quebec, our friends said “yes” to those conservative principles and “no” in a very big way to independence —or at least a referendum on Quebec sovereignty--by voting in a conservative government. It seems that common sense prevailed. The people, marked by an overwhelming fit of the greater good, have spoken, loudly and clearly.

The Liberal party that thumped the Parti Quebecois, so far as I know, is very much like the Liberal party of British Columbia, namely, more liberal than Conservative, but more conservative than Liberal. (Please note which words have the capitals; it actually does make sense.)

If you're still confused, look at federal politics as an example: BC and Quebec's Liberals would be somewhere between Stephen Harper and Justin Trudeau—just to the right of centre.

Independence has a cost, and wiser heads prevailed in Quebec recently. Unseen costs and hitches plague every everyone who breaks away. Unknown demands and crises show up at one's door on a regular basis. Unwelcomed pressure points are part and parcel of independence.

You're probably saying, “Do you mean a kid leaving home or a province breaking away?”--and the answer is “Yes.”

You see, leaving one's parents' home is fun and exhilarating—for a few weeks—as is that newly- obtained driver's license, the car, and the new job. Everything has a price, nothing is free, and euphoria is soon replaced by reality, freedom is trumped by tasks, and independence is supplanted by dependence.

Now, frame the above around any independence movement, and you get the picture.

Whether it's Quebec or some African outpost, sometimes independence is a horrific pipe dream, with a steep price to pay. Some day we should examine the disaster of the African nations' pursuit of independence, not only in terms of what they left behind, but what they have become.

It seems that the voters in Quebec may have learned that lesson in advance.

Foremost on my Mind: The Ugly Side of Spring

We are now sitting at the time of year I call “the ugly side of spring.” It's not winter, it's not spring, and it's not pretty. But I do like it only because we are (hopefully) only weeks away from the the pretty side of spring.

So “pretty ugly” would be somewhere in between.

I take it you're dying for me to explain what I mean by “ugly side of spring.” Well, it's the time between the snow and the grow (aka the white and the green), and the ice rink and the golf course (which would be the white and the greens).

I know we've had a long winter, and who's to say we're finished with the snow and the ice? After all, it's Alberta and it's not early June (it's only early April). We all have our stories, and mine is that I have driven to a wedding in the sun in June and driven home in the snow--all in the same day.

The ground cover slowly recedes in March, so by the end of March and beginning of April (that would be now, Maurice), we tend to get this soupy, bleached surface, commonly known as grass, that's part of a lawn, pasture, or playground. Until then, though, rubber boots are the footwear of the day.

Chores can be odious enough, but I hate doing them at this time of year for the above reason. Between the muck and grime around my hay bales, it really adds to the workload of feeding my cows. And those who have real cow/calf operations will feel it even more (pun blessedly intended).

On the one hand, I am glad to get rid of the snow and the ice, but there is something pristine and pure about the white stuff. It's everywhere it should be, and sometimes where it shouldn't be. The ideal is to have snow-covered fields, with dry pavement on the highways. But the key is that it also acts as a cover-up for the mess beneath.

Imagine snow as a blanket or a rug: Peel it away and you might be surprised what's underneath.

Another advantage of the white stuff is that there is minimal risk for prairie fires. Buildings may burn—I lost two houses in the middle of a snow-covered property—but fields will not. That changes where spring turns to summer, summer to fall.

But the ugliest side to spring, if you will, involves a completely different world, namely, the other, bigger world out there—hockey. That would have been my reference to “the ice rink and the golf course.” Within a couple of weeks, certain teams will trade hockey sticks for golf clubs, while others will “play on” in the play-offs.

Boy, am I witty or what? (Who just said “what”?)

You see, there is this enterprise called the National Hockey League, a business in which grown millionaires play a boys' game for a few months of the year, many until the end of May or early June.

That is, unless your team name rhymes with Oilers, Flames, or Canucks.

That then becomes another reason I call this the “ugly part of spring.” You see, in the fall and winter, there is hope, optimism, and some national pride in this sport we call our Canadian pastime. But by the time January and February roll around, hope becomes angst, optimism becomes doubt, and the emphasis of national pride in hockey slowly slides into baseball.

Or, as Cousin Reggie would say, that would be a shift from the Toronto Maple Laughs to the Toronto Boo Jays

And all the terminology I used for mucky, soupy, and grimy ground surface comes into play for how I feel about the Edmontons, Calgarys, Vancouvers, Winnipegs, Torontos, and Ottawas of our world.

Oh well, when it comes to grassland or Canadian teams in hockey, it's been a long, hard winter and is gearing up to be yet another ugly spring.