HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Brussels Post, 1972-06-14, Page 2Serving Brussels and the surrounding community
PUblished each Wednesday,afternoon at Brussels, Ontario
by•MoLean Bros, publishers, Limited.
Evelyn Kennedy ‘- Editor Tom Haley Advertising
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gBrussels Post
ONTARIO
BRUSSELS
Wednesday, June 14, 19742
Not much problem
We noticed a heading in another
weekly newspaper: - "Police Clamp-
ing Down on Bikes".
Much as we sympathize with the
difficulties the police of all com-
munities face in enforcing the laws
and helping to safeguard the welfare
and lives of citizens; we think
that a campaign to "clamp down a
little harder on cyclists" as pro-
posed in this news report is almost
a complete waste of time.
Do bicyclists make loud noises
with squealing tires and loud ex-
hausts? Do bicyclists endanger the
lives of others by sweeping around
street corners at an unreasonable
rate of speed? Do they stop their
bicycles at late night on the street-
make loud noises and shout raucously
to their companions and other people?
These are but a few of the annoy-
ing and dangerous things in which
cyclists do not have a part. One
would think then that the authori-
ties should turn their efforts some-
where else rather than worrying
about slowly moving silent vehicles
such as bicycles are.
My, what a pleasant and interest-
ing place any community would be if
all the movement on its streets and
walkways was confined to that of
bicycles and pedestrians.
Less noise; less dust; less
danger, and definitely less air
pollution.
(St. Marys Journal-Argus)
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Life, as some sage put it, does have
its ups and downs, does it not?
Item. I have a beloved aunt and a
beloved' uncle. She was widowed a couple
of years ago, and he became a widower
some years ago. They were very close.
Each was living alone in a good-sized
house. They finally decided to pool
resources, sell their houses and live
in an apartment, as company for each
other. They went off to Florida this
past winter. In the same mail I re-
ceived news that she was ill with ter-
minal cancer, and he, at 80, was getting
married.
Well, "Life is the life", as my daugh-
ter said when she was about five. We
thought it a pretty philosphical statement,
at that age. It covers a lot of ground.
Speaking of daughter, the bride. She
and her husband made it to Vancouver
and halfway back in a ten-year old car,
which is about the same age as an
80-year-old man. Coincidentally, my
uncle is going to Vancouver for his
honeymoon.
Kim rolled the car over at Regina,
on the way home. I haven't got the
details, but, of course, it wasn't her
fault. They got $10 for the remains.
I hope my uncle makes it to Van-
couver, and doesn't decide to roll him-
self over in Regina, unless for a very
good reason.
This, prehlde, as usual, leads me
directly into my theme: making speeches.
My daughter hasn't made a speech, my
uncle hasn't made a speech, and I haven't
made a speech. And therein hangs a
tail.
The tail hangs, between the legs of a
good friend of mine. Five weeks ago,
he asked me if I'd make a speech, just
three -or fonr minutes, at a ceremony to
mark the retirement of a dear friend and
colleague.
Reluctantly, I agreed. I hate making
speeches. However, this was a special
occasion. The lady who is retiring is a
fine teacher, a gracious person, beloved
by her thousands of ex-students, of Irish
descent, and a good Anglican. What
more could a person have?
Two weeks later, my good friend, who
was in charge of lining up the occasion,
asked me if I would make a short speech
at the ceremony. Rather puzzled, I told
him he had already asked me. He assured
me that the speeches would be short,
there were only four speakers, andI would
be last. This suited me. He who lasts
last laughs last, Or something.
Another Member of the dough-headed
committee in charge of the big event
kept reminding me that I was to speak,
and needling me about having the speech
ready.
I replied with a certain hauteur that
I never failed to deliver, and that the
speech would be ready. And it was. At •
11.45 a,m. on the morning of the cere-
mony, I sat down and wrote a light
but loving tribute to the victim. The
ceremony began at 2 p.m.
It was a huge success. The retiring
lady was almost overwhelmed. She had
expected a tea with perhaps forty or
fifty people, and some kind of a gift.
Maybe a watch, or a brooch, or an oil
painting.
By 3 p.m., there were over 500 people
in the place, some of them from over
1,000 miles away. Then the speakers
began. They ranged from her first
principal, who plodded with kindly intent
but size 12 brogans, through her early
life, revealing her age and various other
unmentionables.
He was followed by a couple of former
students, a couple of former colleagues,
the local member of parliament, for whom
she wouldn't vote if it meant she was
damned for eternity, and a temporary
colleague.
The temperature in the cafetorium
(how do you like that word?) was about
110. The acoustics were hopeless. A
great groundswell of murmuring arose
from the back of the hall, where people
couldn't hear a word and started having
a reunion.
The speakers were interspersed by
the reading of telegrams from the Minis-
ter of Education, the Prime Minister
of the province, and Pierre Elliott
Trudeau, whoever he is.
I was sweating about a quart a
minute, not from fear, but from humid-
ity. My wife started to get hairy, as
speaker after speaker mounted the pod-
ium. She shot looks and hisses at me,
and murderous looks at the chairman.
My speech rustled in my breast pocket.
The gifti were fatulousm an oil paint-
ing set, a French poodle, live, and an
in-perpetuity scholarship, in her name,
for students of French.
It ended, and the mob's murmur became
a roar. My wife leaped up, went to the
chairman, and said something probably
not worth repeating. She Came back to
me, eyes blazing, and blurted, "I'm
going home. Right this minute."
And she did. She stomped out, which,
as a lady, she'd never have done. This
is how you know your wife loves you.
It didn't bother me much. I hate making
speecheS.
I gave my manuscript to Dear Grace.
On Monday, she, wrote me a note that
can only be Called by that old-fashioned
adjective: beautiful. It meant much more
to me than a thunderous ovation. And
My good friend, who had fouled upi
couldn't Sleep all that night.
Before me, I have five invitations to
speak at various affairs; right up to
May; 1973. Should I burn theta? Bury
them? Accept them. and then find Oa
I'M the speaker witlmit a Speech? Life
is the lire.
Sugar and Spice
by Bill Smiley
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