HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Brussels Post, 1972-01-26, Page 2Sugar and Spice
by Bill , Smiley
Serving. Brussels and the sPrrPunding zernninnity
POlished each Wednesday afternoon at Brussels, Ontario
by McLean. Bros, Ppblishers, Wmitect,
Evelyn Kennedy - Editor Toin Raley - Advertising
Member Canadian Community Newspaper Association and,
Ontario Weekly Newspaper Association.
Subscriptions (in advance). Canada $4.00 a, year, Others.
$5.00 a year, Single CopieS 10 cents each.
Second class Mail Registration No. 0562.
Telephone 887-6641.
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russels Post:
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)AN..20,1972. ONTAF IQ
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"I broke into. a jewelry store and made a terrific haul.
Then, on my way home I got mugged!"
The Post Continues
Under a title "Another Small
Weekly Gone" the editor of the
Palmerston Observer in a recent
issue discusses the change in owner-
ship of the Post.
After commenting on the economic
problems facing small weeklies
across. Canada the Observer editor
goes on in these words which of
cour3e are far removed from fact:-
"The Brussels Post will probably
now be relegated to one page of
"Brussels" news in the Seaforth
paper. Brussels Post subscribers
will get the Expositor until their
subscriptions expire. Some dear
lady will be "local correspondent"
and Church meetings will get cover-
age, social activities will be
dominant, but there will be no
controversial subjects aired in the
local press. No Editorial Page. No
Letters to the Editor. No true or
even distorted reflection of life
in the town will shine from the
pages of a newspaper printed in a
distant and larger town. The
biggest single "salesman" for the
town will be lost forever..
"The Brussels Post will join
other small newspapers that have
closed their doors and stopped theIr
presses during the past few decades.
Names of newspapers once familiar
in this small area include The
Atwood Bee, The Clifford News, The
Mildmay Gazette, The Ayton Advance
and the Beeton World. And now the
Brussels Post."
But that's not what is happening
in Brussels at all. The Brussels
Post, as this issue indicates, is
continuing as a viable voice of the
Brussels Community.
"The biggest single salesman"
as the Palmerston editor calls it,
is not lost to Brussels, nor has it
closed its doors and stopped its
presses. The Brussels Post will
continue •to serve the people of the
Brussels area just as long as they
indicate by their interest and
support that they want it that was'.
And if the experience of its
first hundred years serving Brussels
is any indication of what will hap-
pen during the next hundred years,
the Post still will be around in
20/2 to celebrate its second
century.
A lot of people would give their eye-
teeth for some free publicity in this column'
for whatever they're selling. In fact, I
have a large case of mounted eye-teeth
which I haven't bothered returning.
For once, make an exception. In
this case, it's a plug for a television
series. I'm not much of a T.V. hound.
Most of the content is aimed at the 12-
year-old mentality; and this is an insult
to a bright 12-year-old.
Three BBC series, however, were well
done enough to interest me. They were
The Wives of Henry VIII, this year's
Elizabeth R, and The Forsyte Saga. In
each case we had superb entertainment,
without the violence, off-colour jokes and
utter inanity which characterize
so many well-known and avidly followed
shows. I might add that one reason they
appealed to me was that they were not
trying to be "significant", merely good
drama.
I remember saying to my wife, during
the span of the Forsyte family, "Wouldn't
the Jalna novels make a wonderful
series?" She agreed, whereupon I put a
nick in the doorpost. I do this every
time she agrees with me. There are
three nicks there now. Of course, we've
only had this house for ten years.
Now we have it. A Canadian series,
produced by the CBC, which can turn out
first-class stuff when the creative people
manage to wiggle out from under the
meaty, far-from-green thumbs of the
administrators. The Jalna series.
Mazo de la Roche, creator of the
Jalna novels, will never be ranked with
Shakespeare or Dickens. But she was
an excellent craftswoman, with a shrewd
knowledge of the reading public, able to
blend romanticism and realism into a
mixture that has a universal appeal.
It was the same old story. Practically
unknown in Canada, she submitted her
novel Jalna to a U.S. contest and won the
Atlantic Monthly prize of $10,000
(I believe), for best novel of -the year.
She had found a rich, vein of gold.
Like Ian Fleming, who wrote the James
Bond nonsense, and that character who
churns out the Carry On Doctor stuff,
she mined her lode to the depths, ex-
tracting every last nugget, and even
panning for grains toward the end.
Don't mistake me; she was a far better
writer than the others mentioned.
The novels deal with a large extremely
complex family, the Whiteoaks, living on
a big farm near Lake Ontario, and it
covers several generations.
Our pioneer ancestors were about as
much like the Whiteoaks as Pierre
Trudeau is like me. And Jalna is about
as real in rural 19th-century Canada as
Camelot was in the barbaric dark ages.
But this is part of the charm, They're
escape novels, in the best sense of the
word. Yet, the author creates characters
who are not only attractive but memorable.
And the love-hate relationships within
the family are believable, because they
are familiar.
I predict a run on the Jalna novels, if
the TV series is any good. Regardless,
treat yourself. They are available in
most public libraries.
A little incident during the war proved
to me that, despite their regionalism, the
novels have an international appeal.
It was about May 2nd, 1945. The
Russians had just ;liberated" our prison
camp. They were pretty drunk and dis-
orderly, still celebrating May 1st, one of
their big holidays, and they let us out
for the evening. (Next day they locked
us all up again.)
But we had one glorious spring even-
ing of freedom. I set off for the little
town near the camp with Nils Jorgenson,
a huge Norwegian who spoke German.
We watched the Russians still pouring
into the town, a motley and colourful
crew. I remember a huge Cossack-
looking type, with vast moustaches, riding
a stallion . Slung over one shoulder was
a machine-pistol. Darkling from his
saddle was a balalaika. On his other
shoulder perched a tiny monkey. So
help mel
we drifted into town, watched the
Yanks picking up German girls, or trying
to. We saw a big house, set back among
the trees. Went up and knocked, out of
curiosity. A frightened old woman finally
opened the door a crack. Nils spoke
gently to her in German. She scuttled
away. After a few moments, a stately,
white-haired lady with great poise
appeared, and imperiously demanded to
know what we wanted.
Nils said we were just visiting, told
her we were P.O.W.'s, a Norwegian and a
Canadian.
She turned to me, and in stilted but
grammatical English, asked eagerly,
"You know ze Vhiteoaks of Jalna?"
I confessed that I didn't know them
personally, but we had a lively conver-
sation about Rennie, the old uncles,Finch,
and the other characters, followed by a
cup of ersatz coffee. Just a little inci-
dent, but one I'll never forget.
All this free publicity should gratify
the CBC. But I warn them that if the series
is rotten, I shall sear them, scorch them,
fry them, and boil them in their own oil.
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