Foremost on my Mind: Table Manners

Word is out the that there will be a cash discount (or some other type of reward) for parents whose kids are well-behaved at a certain restaurant. If anyone is voting on this one, count me in: I like eating with well-behaved kids and I love saving money.

How the powers-that-be implement it, of course, is another question.

Conceptually, it's great idea. In fact, recently I was at an eatery in Vegreville, with my wife and son, who were both quite well-behaved, I might add. The sign posted at the till said it all (and I paraphrase): “The management of this restaurant will not tolerate any abuse of our staff.”

That was directed towards the adult patrons, not the children. Many years ago, had there been some sort of cash incentive directed at the parents of these now-adult children, that sign wouldn't be necessary. In fact, when I commended the management for that sign, the hostess was almost in tears as she recounted the abuse that some of her staff had to endure.

But Vegreville could be Medicine Hat or Grassy Lake—or even Bow Island, for that matter. Complaining customers can be found everywhere, not just near the big city, the oil patch, or any other assumed classless setting.

I wouldn't be caught dead being a waitress, for at least two reasons: One, I'm a guy and I'd have to be a waiter, not a waitress; and two, a more serious one, I couldn't handle the demanding, snivelling, and whining on the part of the customers.

And I'm talking about the adults, not the children.

So, to be pro-active and start rewarding good behaviour in children is very good. Very, very good, indeed.

I like it because it's a win-win-win situation: Kids would learn that they are not entitled to a meal out, only to behave any way they want to; adults save money and feel less stress in going out in public with rotten kids; and the restaurant staff will be a safe and happy workplace.

Someone may bring up the fact that there will still be bratty, spoiled kids in the public place—and wonder what to do with them. Let's head that one off at the pass: Place a surcharge on the meal, a “brat” tax, if you will.

How you implement that is beyond me. I'm just a writer, not a cop.

Well, actually, it's not as far out in left field as you think. Parents and teachers give kids timeout for bad behaviour, don't they? Even cops give tickets. Store owners have disclaimers about parents controlling kids, with that sweet little sign that says, “If you break it, you buy it.”

You see, in an era of political correctness run amok, we are afraid to control, discipline, train, and guide kids—and that's starting with our own. And when said troublesome kids wind up in our businesses (whatever they are), those owners and managers are petrified to deal with them.

There's always the fear of abuse, I agree, but that can be said for parents, teachers and cops. However, for the limited chance of abuse, that is no excuse for turning the room, system, or institution over to these junior hellions—who one day grow up to be petty adults.

The simple concept here, Maurice, is that the good should be rewarded and the bad punished. One of the few reasons for the purpose of any government is to carry out that mandate. I read it in the Book many times. It's consistent with how civilized societies have always carried on, fosters hope for the next generation or two, and encourages a pro-active approach to raising good kids.

Saving a little cash in the process is a nice little carrot, I might add.

So, this deal to reward well-behaved kids is a good start. Not sure where the restaurant is, but I think it's in British Columbia. I laud them for their initiative and I look forward to other public eateries following suit.

Now, if I could just stop demanding, snivelling, and whining when I'm in a restaurant, maybe it could work to my advantage, too.

Foremost on my Mind: Feed the Children

There is an increasing brouhaha over women nursing their babies in public places (eg., stores, institutions, etc.). Unless I have missed a line or two in this most recent and intriguing social hissy fit, I continue to be amazed at the hills some people choose to die on.

In a world that becoming primarily anti-child—and by extension, anti-family—I find the apparent outrage very hypocritical, though consistent-- “consistent” in the sense of selective tolerance.

(Maurice, I know the basis of true hypocrisy is inconsistency, not consistency, so let me develop my rant slowly, please.)

I find it strange that these public puritans feel it's inappropriate for women to breastfeed their children in a place where children and adults might see them. Yikes! Skin and intimacy in the public eye—how shocking! We don't have that anywhere in public, do we? (Watch out for my puddles of dripping sarcasm.)

Their suggestion (“demand” is likely more accurate) is that nursing mothers feed their children in some obscure place, like a mall bathroom, or some other place where people won't be offended.

Speaking of being offended, it's my turn--but it may not be from the angle you think.

My offence comes in two parts, namely, the double standard of morality (read: selective indignation) and the persistent attack on the natural way mothers choose to feed their babies.

On the first front, malls, movies, and other venues where commodities and ideas are being sold to the public, skin, sex, and moral lawlessness are the order of the day. The raunchier, the better. What was banned in books thirty years ago is now flashed in public today. I find that I have to be so careful where I take my boys shopping, or what movies I watch with them.

But at the same time, these alleged purveyors of purity want to ban mothers from doing what is best for their babies, even if it's in a modest, selfless way.

My wife did it, my married daughters with kids did it, and other mothers in my wide, wide circle of friends did it (and do it), so I have some, er, exposure to what I'm talking about.

On the other front, I see this as another direct attack on the family. It is a very natural process to breastfeed a baby, and that goes far beyond the physical act of drinking milk. There's the bonding, the security, the healthiness, and the convenience that comes with this connection.

Put bluntly, that is the primary and practical reason for women's breasts.

I have never seen a mother breastfeeding her baby in an immodest, flaunting way. I have, however, seen other women flaunt said body parts in an immodest way. And in case you're getting outraged, I don't go looking for it; I don't need to: It comes at me in the form of news stories of the entertainment style, through models that pose for ads, through unexpected (on my part) scenes in movies.

One wonders if there is a genuine desire to ban the unsightly exposure of breastfeeding mothers from our public places, that maybe they should start where it really counts. To me, selling by sexual suggestion is clearly one of the worst vices we have in our cultural today. And a mother breastfeeding her baby ought to be the least of our worries.

These two distinctions are, in fact, polar opposites.

This breastfeeding brouhaha is just another skirmish in the long war on the family. It's really up to the mother, isn't it? There is such a hue and cry about women's rights, yet—and here's where some of the inconsistency comes in—those folks are strangely silent where they should be speaking up—and loudest when they should clam up.

So in the public breastfeeding debate, I side with the mothers who are doing what they know is best for their respective children. And for those wannabe moral watchmen, I tell them to back off.

If they have a sincere issue with women and modesty in public places, go ahead and take a stroll down a mall some week day. Don't look at the mothers doing the right thing on a bench; check out the window displays. Then speak up.

Now that's a hill you want to die on.

Foremost on my Mind: Don't Have a Tarantula, Man

I am clearly the most ill-suited dude to own cows. I like them young and I like them well-done, but it's the time between calf and cutlet that gives me some grief. And the castrating, tagging, branding, and chasing are not for me.

Over the years, I have faced all sorts of challenges in raising cows and just recently I decided that it's time for me and the Bessie Bovines of this world to part company—they to someone else's pasture forever and me to my armchair for at least an evening. I have decided to leave the cow business to those who know what they're doing, and branch out into something else.

Raising tarantulas comes to mind, but I'm still not sure.

I was raised a city boy, and now, forty years later, I'm still a city boy, just an old one. Just as it's hard to teach an old dog new tricks, it's just as hard to teach an old goat new tricks.

In other words, after so many years of attempting to morph into a Roy Rogers, I think I'm better suited to be Buck Rogers. (I know Roy had more to do with horses, but laugh anyway.)

I have no regrets whatsoever in doing what I have done up till now. I wanted to make sure my six sons had exposure to the country life, something I never had. That would be country life with all its trials and triumphs, and I would say that I have succeeded—at least in the trial department.

While I was never raised on a farm, I certainly have always admired those who were, especially those who are now third and fourth generation ranchers. I have always admired men like my former neighbour Clark in how they handle their animals.

Two particular trials stand out in my mind, old hat to veteran ranchers.

The first one involves fences: the digging of, barbed wiring of, and repairing of, once a determined cow has leaped, pushed, or squeezed through. I cannot tell you how many times I have chased cows back, after they destroyed parts of my fences. And no, I wasn't whistling “Home on the Range” while doing it

Each time that happened, I had this overwhelming urge to move back to downtown Kamloops.

I am the world's worst at chasing cows, or at least the worst in the county.  Just ask my kids. They dread knowing that one of the old cows got out, then knowing that the old man will start falling apart immediately. I'm still not quite sure which is worse for them: mad cow or mad man. Gives the term “hyper tension” a new meaning.

I'm convinced my cows usually stay on my side of the fence just so they don't have to put up with the screaming old goat who's chasing them.

The other trial is that of a bull nature—or lack thereof. I have always tried to raise either steers or heifers. The former are fine, but getting a bull for the latter is, well, a trial. No matter how much humans mess with a natural biological order when it comes to the birds and the bees, it's funny how the animals have it right: You still need a bull and a cow to produce a calf. (Natural or artificial, you still need a bull, and a cow.)

It has been difficult to get a bull for my cows. I just can't justify owning my own bull, with such a small herd. Two things can be said about every rancher around me: 1. they have their own bull or two; and 2. they refuse to lend it (or them) out. (And I don't blame them.)

So as of today, I am getting out of the cow-calf business. I have access to weaned steers and I will try my luck at raising them for now. Not sure if they are going to leap, push, or squeeze through my fence, but it's worth the risk.

One of the appeals to tweak my cow business, rather than abandon it, is that the market for meat is still very strong. Many people are loathe to pay for meat at grocery store, not knowing how and where it was raised. I can almost guarantee where mine was raised: either in my pasture or my neighbour's.

Can't say those tarantulas could produce much meat, but I'm sure they don't smash through fences.

Foremost on my Mind: From Here to There

A recent trip to the North made me feel like I was in some sort of United Nations time zone. Let me see: Koreans ran the motels, Filipinos served me at restaurants, and Pakistanis pumped my gas.

Where was the Quebecois when I needed him?

Now before you have a fit about this raving right-wing racist, and every other casual yet common outburst soaked in ignorance, let me clarify one eensy-weensy issue:

I loved it.

I say this in the face of certain fast food restaurants being hauled on the carpet for their (apparent) abuse of immigrants. I say make sure the charges are true, then nail their corporate butts. Taking advantage of desperate workers has no place in a freedom-loving, people-loving country such as ours.

There is no place for abuse of those who have come over to Canada to better their economic circumstances, I agree. But that statement can be taken one of two ways, and I want to pursue the other way, the non-mainstream media one.

The people that gave me my motel room, for example, could hardly speak English. That irritates me a little. Mind you, I could say that about a lot of high school students, who are white, Canadian-bred and born, and living in the lap of Alberta luxury.

These same immigrants—be they Korean, Filipino, or Pakistani—have some things the people they are allegedly displacing don't have: courage, moxie, and ambition. It takes a delicate blend of all three to leave a land where they know the language, food, culture, religion, and habits, for a land where everything is unknown. Many of these people support families back home, so working here in Canada is a financial lifeline for them.

These people should be commended, not condemned.

I have a question for all those wise guys who are up in arms about these legal immigrants: Who else will run the motels, serve the food, and pump the gas? Please note that I am simply targeting the service industries; the trades and professions are another discussion.

In other words, where are the white, Canadian-born and bred, and well-off nationals?

Many of them are on the rigs, making (and wasting) more money than their dads ever did; others just can't be bothered to stoop to such menial tasks as the ones we're discussing. So you see, the immigrants aren't the problem here, folks; it's the non-immigrants.

I have been consistent in my stance on welcoming with open arms, direct flights, and affordable housing for these people. These are the same people that should be encouraged to re-locate to small Alberta hamlets and villages—also dealt with recently in this column.

My grandparents were immigrants.  And so were yours, quite likely. I was an immigrant myself for year, while I taught school in El Salvador. Thus, immigration and all that it entails, is a hot button issue for me.

On a bigger scale, this form of economic support for foreign economies is far more effective than the travesty of financial aid that gets doled out to too many countries--often with zero accountability.

I cannot tell you how many employers that I've talked to are wringing their respective hands as they tell me about how poorly trained local Canadians are. Every Canadian kid? Obviously not. But far too many of them come to a job with that arrogant sense of entitlement, yet without any character or any sense of loyalty or dependability. These immigrants, on the other hand, come to our land eager and ambitious to work.

I can't point fingers at the source of why many Canadian kids won't work , but home would be a good place to start. Kids aren't being trained at home as they once did, and so they don't have that serving mentality it takes to succeed.

It's one of those strange ironies I come across everywhere I travel: I am so proud to be a Canadian when I am served by a Korean, Filipino, or Pakistani.

I agree that we have an immigrant worker problem in Canada: We don't have enough of them.