HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Brussels Post, 1972-08-09, Page 2Serving Brussels and the surrounding community
published each Wednesday afternoon at. Brussels, Ontario
by McLean Bros. publishers, Limited.
Evelyn Kennedy - Editor Torn Haley - Advertising
Member Canadian Community Newspaper Association and,
Ontario Weekly Newspaper Association.
Subscriptions Sin advance) Canada $4.00 a year, ethers'
$5,00 a year, Single Copies 10 cents each.
Second class mail Registration No. 0562.
Telephone 887-6641.
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 9,1972
Counting your chickens
The Glengarry News recently car-
ried this little gem which came
from Chitty's Law Journal:
There was a man who was in the
business of raising chickens. How-
ever, he raised no corn to feed the
birds and the hens refused to lay
eggs until they were fed. Nearby
there was a farmer who grew large
quantities of corn, so the chicken
farmer went to him and offered to
work one day each week for a wage
of $5.00.
The agreement was made. The
chicken farmer went to work each
week, earned $5.00 and gave the
Money back to the farmer in return
for five bushels of corn.. For a
time everyone was happy. The hens
got their corn, their owner earned
$5.00 a week and the farmer had the
labor of the chicken farmer one day
each week.
Then one day the chicken farmer
went to the farmer and said, "The
price of everything is going up so
much that I cannot work for less
than $7.50 a day."
The farmer agreed that seemed
fair enough, but added, "I agree
that prices are going up and that
you should get $7.50 a day, but
prices have gone up for me too and
I can't sell you a bushel of corn
for less than $1.50.
The chicken farmer agreed that
was fair so he worked for $7.50 a
day and paid $7.50 for five bushels
of corn. Finally he got $10.00 a
day and paid $2.00 a bushel for corn
And the farmer was happy and said
to his wife, "Things are good. I get
$2.00 a bushel for my corn."
And the chicken farmer said to
his wife, "Things are good. I get
$10.00 a day for my labor."
And the statistician said,"Isn't
this wonderful. National incomes
are at new high levels."
And the politicians bragged about
it and said, "It was our party that
did this for you."
Everybody felt so good about it
that they voted for the politicians
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Arrow heads, Clayton?"
AriT606,5,
I've suddenly discovered that my wife
isn't such a lazy bum after all, and that
most women aren't appreciated by their
husbands.
- Last week I wrote an idylic column
about how peaceful and beautiful it was
at Grandad's, out in the country, over-
looking the bay, quiet, restful and all
that guff.
It wasn't guff at the time, but it is
now. It's neither peacefulnsr quiet around
here, though it's still beautiful.
Yes, we're still here. On the eve of
our departure, my silly old woman stepped
out of the car, twisted her silly old ankle
and broke the silly. old thing.
We didn't know it until nex tday. I
thought it was probably a bad sprain.
But on the morrow it was the shape and
colour of a fully matured beet, so off
to the hospital for X-rays.
That was quite an experience. It
was one of those dripping hot days, and
also a Saturday. Normally, a small-
town hospital is a pretty quiet place. But
on a Saturday afternoon in mid-summer,
in tourist country, the emergency ward
is a bit of a mad-house.
We were lucky. The girl at the desk
had gone to school with my wife and had
our names written down before I could
open my mouth. Another school friend
is a nurse, and though off duty, came
in and helped in many ways.
There was one doctor and one medical
student on the job. In poured the pat-
ients, and I couldn't help admiring the
way the staff coped, in the appalling
heat.
I hope Doc Leeson, another old friend,
had his breakfast that morning, because
he certainly didn't have any lunch. Here's
an Indian girl with a sick baby. Here's
a twelve-year-old boy being carried in
by a worried father. The boy haS cut
his leg badly. Tourists.
Here's a young kid who has burned
his hand badly. Here's a young fellow
with his hand all mangled. Here comes
a very pregnant lady, just about ready to
pop.
I see the doe in the office, a cup of
coffee he's trying to snatch held in one
hand, phone in the other. I know it's
a bad one, because he's lost his Joking,
jovial, personal manner and looks graVe.
Two orderlies and the medical student
tear down the hall in the direction of the
ambulance garage. Running, flat out. Sure
enough, It is a. bad One. Plane crash
just a few miles out of town.
The doe can't leave. He has to read
X-rays, bandage wounds and deliver a
baby. But he phones for help at the acc-
ident scene and goes right back to work.
He's disturbed, because he's a flying buff
himself.
But he doesn't show it. He goes right
on toiling with ailing humans, joking,
calling them by their first names, doing
six things at once. (Later he told me
there were two killed, father add son, in
the crash.)
He finally got a look at my wife's
X-rays, cheerfully told her yep, it vas
broken, and swiftly and skillfully made
and slapped on a walking cast.
The nurses though running in all dir-
ections, found time to put her in a wheel-
chair, get us out to the car, and loaned
us a walker, a thing you push ahead of
you, hopping on one foot.
What a difference from the imperson-
ality, and even inefficiency so often found
in a big city hospital. There, too, there
are dedicated people doing their best,
but there's a mass of paperwork, a cold-
ness, a lack of intimacy that is rather off-
putting.
Well, I've digressed, but the hospital
scene impressed me deeply.. It's the
way a hospital should be: friendly, con-
cerned, and With a minimum of red tape.
Anyway, the old girl is lying on the
chesterfield with her leg propped up and
feeling furious and frustrated. She's the
type who does everything in the house at
about eighty miles an hour, and the speed
at which I do them,' about one-tenth
of that, is driving her insane.
Every time she remembers that she's
going to be hobbling for six weeks, can't
go swimming or play golf, can't get at
her washing, she gets angrier. I try
to cheer her up ny saying she's luck y
she isn't in a full leg cast, in traction
for six months. It doesn't seem to help.
To her, immobility is anathema.
Meantime, I'm re-learning a lot of
the things I used to do when the kids
were little, but have sloughed off, ever
so casually, over the years.
Cooking. Last night for dinner, small
new potat oes, boiled in their skins, butter-
ed young carrots and beans, sirloin steak
and salad. To-night, sausage, broccoli
spears and whatever else turns up.
Housework. I've made my bed, after
only three days vacuumed the rug and
done about eight thousand dishes. Just
finished Washing out a brassiere and some
socks. cope.
However, it will be a joyful day when
the lady of the house can get off her
backside and get back to doing all those
thingS that take her so short, and me
so long. Housewives of the world, I
salute you. I'll never again ask, 40 what
in the world do you do all day, when
I'm at work?" Never. Now I know.
Sugar and Spice
by Bill Smiley