HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Brussels Post, 1980-06-11, Page 2WEDNESDAY, 'JUNE 11. 1980
Serving Brussels and the surrounding community.
Published each Wednesday afternoon at Brussels, Ontario
By McLean Bros. Publishers Limited
Evelyn Kennedy - Editor Pat Langlois - Advertising
Member Canadian Community Newspaper Association and
Ontario Weekly Newspaper Association.
\. Subscriptions (in advance) Canada $10.00 a Year.
Others $20.00 a Year. Single Copies 25 cents each.
BLUE
RIBBON
AWARD
1979
rr MUNE LS
MTN' 10
4Brussels Post
End of an era
Cranbrook has now lost its general store and a history shared by
generations has faded further into the past.
Like many other small communities, Cranbrook fell prey to not being
able to compete with larger centres and stores where all 'of the family's
needs can be picked up at once.
At least the people of Cranbrook were able to save their library
which provided a much enjoyed service, especially to the older people
of the community. Thanks to Mrs. Marg Saxon they still won't have to
go very far for their reading entertainment.
Perhaps, someone with a lot of incentive and new ideas will think of
something more profitable that the building could be used fdr, instead
of a general store. It takes people and a community effort to keep a
business going. Perhaps the people of Cranbrook will come up with a
use for the general store so that its past history and owners will not be
forgotten.
Short Shots
When, was it-?
Archie Grewar recently donated some old pictures to the Post, one
showing the Brussels main street before it was paved
Sugar and spice
By Bill Smiley
(Continued from Page 1)
something found that simply must receive
attention. That keeps them busy at least part
of the time. In addition both of my sons are
quiet proficient dishwashers (they do not like
drying). That suits me just fine for I loath the
greasy stacks of dishes. They are also adept
in assisting to prepare meals. The not so
pleasant part came when it was time to say
goodbye. David, B.A., M.S.W. leaves for
Winnipeg on Monday where he has accepted
a position as Director of the Manitoba John
Howard and Elizabeth Fry Society. His wife
and tons will join him there in a few weekS.
Needless to say, being a sentimental
creature, there were tears along with the
goodbyes and good wishes for the future.
My dog Sheba was exuberant over the
weekend with two young boys around to fuss
over her. She frolicked excitedly wherever
they were around. Sheba danced with ,
excitement whenever anyone picked up her
leash to take her fiir a walk. Perhaps it would
be more accurate to say she took them for a
run. She got more exercise on that weekend
with them than she does in a month alone
with me. After they left I saw little of her.
For the rest of that Sunday she retreated to
*her favourite "snoozing" 'spot and slept for
the rest of the day:
My
In theory, women are the sentimental sex,
men the hard, unfeeling sex. In reality, this
is pure horse...wait for it.:.feathers.
Underneath all the cooing and crooning
and weeping, hidden behind the ah's and
oh's and other symbols of maudlinity,
women are about as sentimental as turtles.
This is said in no disparaging sense. I
detest sentimentality, though I have nothing'
against sentiment. Thus, I despise myself
for being sentimental about things: old
shoes, old hats, old hip waders; old houses,
old cars, and even old ladies.
There is nothing of this in my wife. Oh,
she can get sentimental about the way I used
to baby her, or the joy,,the children were
before they grew up, or her school days in
the one-room country school-house. In other
words, figments of the imagination.
But 'when it comes down to things I love
and cherish, she's as sentimental as a
meat-grinder.
Just the other day, she threw out my golf
shoes. I'd had them only twenty-one years.
They were a size too big when I bought
them,) and my feet skidded around a bit
inside them; the spikes were worn down to
pimples, many missing. But they were old
'friends. I felt low for two days. She didn't
turn a hair.
This week, she made me buy a pair of
dress shoes, black. I had a perfectly good
pair of black shoes. As usual, I had worn
them only to weddings and funerals for the
first four years, then to work for the last
three. They were good shoes. Cost me $22.
But they weren't good enough, in her
opinion, for some dam' fancy party we were
going to. It didn't matter to her that they
were comfortable (it takes about three years
to break in a pair of shoes), still quite black
when sufficient polish was applied, and only
a few scuffs here and there, about the size of
a thumbnail each.' Out they went.
Have you any idea what a pair of decent
shoes cost these days? By George, they must
be using humans for skin. Blacks for black
shoes, brown people for brown shoes, and
Scandinavians for white shoes. No animal
hide, alive or dead, is 'worth what they're
asking for a bit of leather.
My old lady recently bought a collection of
strings of leather that wouldfi't make a.
medium-sized jock-strap. It was called a pair
of shoes. It cost $135.' They were made in
Italy. I'm going to write the Pope. •
But I mustn't digre'ss. Latest victim of my
wife's complete lack of sentimentality about
Old and cherished things was our car. The
Big Car, as mk.grandboys called it when
they climbed, crantpcd, out of the poky little
Datsun their mother drove, and in which, she
carried a pail of water to fill the leaking
radiator every' thirty-five miles.
Those little' fellows loved it. They didn't
old shoes
even notice the rust. It was a veritable
playhouse, the Yellowbird,.' anothei pet
name. They were at their happiest when we
were steaming'down the highway, crawling
around my feet, pushing buttons, twisting
dials.
It was sheer bliss for• them when they got
everything going at once. A cold winter day,.
The air conditioning turned to full cold with
the fan on. Windshield wipers flying at top
speed, and one- kid pushing the window
wash button, the other punching buttons of
the radio, turned to full volume, or trying to
put on, simultaneously, the headlights and
the emergency brake.
Do you think any of those good times,
those tranquil moments, meant anything to
my old lady. Not on your life. This week
I bid a fond farewell to the Yellowbird, wiped
away a surreptitious tear, and climbed into a
new car she'd made me buy.
No fun there for the kids. No air-condition-
ing to switch . on suddenly, making Gran-
dad's hair stand on end. It's a two-door, so
no more playing with the locks and leaning
against the door and.watching Gran go out of
her mind. Caged in, like little animals.
Have you bought a new car lately? Neither
have we, but fairly new Our last one cost
2,000 and Was only five years old. It lasted
over three years and was still valiantly.
breasting the waves of traffic on the
highway.
When I asked for prices on a new one, I
turned red, then white, and had to' be helped
to a seat. Had the sales office not been so
magnificent, rather like the lobby of a bank,
I think I should have, perhaps, vomited.
There are more ways than one in which a
car agency resembles a bank. Their interest
rates are similar, though, to be fair, slightly
lower than the eighteen-odd .per cent our
banks, those holieSt of holies in our economy
gouge.
Their salesmen are somewhat like those
well-groomed young men at the bank, not
exactly accountants; not managers, who
guide you smoothly through a maze of
figures and papers to 'the stony reality that
there is no easy way out, no way to really
save money, no way to beat inflation.
There was one pleasant difference this
time.. The car salesman was a former
student, Ernest Moreau, a craggy young
man with a sense of humor, a sweetness of
spirit, and a sense of the ridiculousness Of
things that was a charming change from' the
dull, humorless, unknowledgeable young
men I've met in the bank lately.
Yep, we've bought a car, new shoes, the
works. And my wife showed no more
sentiment over the old ones than she would
have over last week's laundry. I wonder if
she could discard an old,• well-used man with
the same equanimity. I fear so.