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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Brussels Post, 1981-01-21, Page 2444\ 1872 4Brussels Post BRU ONT. Established 1872 519-887-6641 Serving Brussels and the surrounding community Box 50, Brussels, Ontario NOG 1H0 Published at BRUSSELS, ONTARIO every Wednesday morning by McLean Bros. Publishers Limited A Andrew Y. McLean, Publisher Evelyn Kennedy, Editor Pat Langlois, Advertising Member Canadian Community Newspaper Association, Ontario Weekly Newspaper Association and The Audit Bureau of Circulation. Subscription rates: Canada $12 a year (in advance) outside Canada $25 a year (in advance) Single copies - 30 cents each Sugar and spice By Bill Smiley The joy of Canadian winters WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 21, 1981 Unsung herds Even newspapers have some unsung heroes. In the case of the Brussels Post, it's those people who write up sports events and the various area meetings. These people write meetings and sports reports up for us every week, never expecting any credit for what they do. The Post staff really appreciate the work these people do for us and would like to thank them for their efforts. If those of you who do write for us don't have your names on the things you submit to us, but would like to have a byline, please let us know. We also appreciate readers who call in news tips and ideas for feature stores, because without you, a paper wouldn't be. possible! Thanks, again. To the editor: Attention volunteers There will be an informal get-together for the, Volunteers who presently serve us and, for anyone who is interested in becoming a Volunteer at Callander Nursing Home, on January 27, 1981 at 2:30 p .m. The main purposes of this meeting will be to: 1. Meet and chat with other volunteers for the exchanging of information and ideas. 2. To set up a volunteer schedule for 1981. 3. ,To provide information to our Volunteers about our residents' needs and how these needs can be met. 4. , To provide information about existing programs and to explore Volunteer suggest- ions re: future programming., 5. To explore the, possibility of setting up a New Horizons Council comprised of resi- dents and community members, and 6. To discuss the Rights and Responsibili- ties of the, Nursing, Home Volunteer. I am looking forward to meeting and chatting with you over coffee. Sincerely, Janis Acheson Activity Director ,Ah, winter! There's nothing like you to put the iron into the souls of Canadians. We can tuff you out. But the trouble, is that the iron stays, in the souls, and our short summer is not enough to make it molten. In other words, everybody over fifty has arthritis. Mine doesn't bother me much, because I'm always trying a new remedy that is guaranteed, and hope lives eternal in the human beast. I've tried carrying a potato in my hip pocket. It was, a sure thing, I was told. But from sitting around on that cold mashed potato for a couple of weeks, all I got was arthritis in the hip, where I'd never had it before. Then I got a kind of wristband, made of some shiny metal, which allegedly had done wonders for arthritis in Japan. Nothing happened except that I got arthiritis in my wrist, where I'd .never had if before. My son, who is a great man for herbs and a vegetarian, except when he's home, when he eats three helpings of meat, had a surefire recipe that would cure arthritis in three weeks. It's an herb from Switzerland, called Devil's Claw. It tastes like a devil's claw that hasn't been washed since his Evilness was kicked out of heaven. You have to drink three cups of the junk, brewed in hot water and left standing, per day, before meals. I was faithful for the three weeks, even though it was an ordeal to look at food after swallowing the swill. Result? I had the worst arthritic knee I've had since a guy kicked my kneecap two inches to the left back in 1944. A kind lady from Alberta wrote that she could get me a special price on some kind of machine that gives • you ultrared (or something) treatments. I declined to answer, on the reasonable grounds that I knew it would turn me into a red.arthritic. I wouldn't mind being a red politically, or a red Indian (something I've never seen), but I didn't want to become a red arthritic, for some reason. My wife has about eight books about arthritis. She keeps reading me bits from. each, and I get so confused I don't know whether to diet strictly, eat like a hog, get into acupuncture, or, go put and roll in the snow, naked. I imagine any or all of them would have the same result. Anyway, my arthritis doesn't bother me at all. It's just a good excuse for getting out of a lot of unnecessary chores, which my old lady is quite young and fit enough to do herself. Scrubbing (my knees are bad.) Wall-papering (my shoul- ders are killing me.) Garbage (doe says don't lift anything over 20 pounds; my back.) Anyway, I didn't intend to write a column about arthritis. As a topic of either conversation or literature, it's about as exciting as the common cold, another subject which winter provides Canadians some stimulating repartee about. What I really set out to do was write an Ode to Winter. And here it comes. I tell my students that any dang fool can write modern poetry, but there aren't many of us left who can make it rhyme. ODE TO WINTER: "Winter, you is a time for Slipping and sliding, Swooping and gliding, Snowmobile riding. But if you decided to spend the winter in Flor'da I'd adore ya." That's all. No need to spoil a perfect bit of poesy. But imagine 'what a modern poet especially a young one, would do with that. Here's a sample, no rhyme, no rhythm: HEY, MR. WINTER "I dig you. Beer and bums after the ski hill. Downing the drinks after the bonspiel. Knocking down farmers' fences with my Bombardier Flyer. You're a white man, Ole Mister. I dig you." Come to think of it, the second ode has more concrete nouns than the first, more action verbs, more appeal to the senses, and sharper imagery. Not to mention a great and powerful use of repetition in the opening and closing lines.It's a better poem. But how can it be a better poem if it doesn't rhyme? As R.J. Needham would ask, who once stated publicly that there hadn't been any good poetry written since Tennyson. I told him that was utter nonsense. He agreed. He was just trying to get somebody to say something. Nah. Winter's not so bad. But my heart sinks when I think that Wilson, the boy next door, is in Grade 12, and will soon be off tocollege. In the mornings, after a blizzard, I sit quietly drinking my tea and reading my paper until I hear his shovel clanging on the back porch. Then I leave for work, knowing my path and driveway are open. In the summer he cuts my grass. I'm going to ask all his teachers to fail him this year. The only other solution is to sell the house. A PICTURESQUE SCENE—The Old Mill Dam at Brussels is a painter-or photographers dream with Winters snow piled deep around it. (Photo by Langlois)