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The Brussels Post, 1972-12-06, Page 2Erin g in g -home the 5ree Sugar and Spice by Bill Smiley promomoip russeTs -ost wEDNESpAy,,, DECEMBER 6, 1972 !MUSSELS ONTARIO: Serving Brussels and the surrounding community Published each. WecineSday afternoon at Brussels, Ontario by MeLean Bros. POUshers, Llinited, Evelyn Kennedy - Editor Torn H4ey. - Advertising Member Canadian Community Newspaper Association and Ontario Weekly Newspaper Assoc.ation. Subscriptions Sin 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. Invite letters We welcome and encourage Letters to the Editor on any matter of public interest. All letters, in order to receive consideration, must be signed by the writer but pseudonyms will be permitted on the under- to the editor standing that should any reader question the identity of the writer, that identity will be disclosed. Readers are reminded that the opinions expressed in the published correspondence are not necessarily the opinions held by this newspaper... Small towns need a voice A tri-level conference of re- presentatives of the Federal, Pro- vincial and large city governments has been going on in Toronto this week and we've heard plenty of ba- loney about the views of various levels. It's about time such a confer- ence was held, although we could do without all the propaganda that spouts from the mouths of provincial officials at all of these gatherings. The provincial government people (Charlie MacNaughton in this case) always pretend they are just about destitute and always blame the greedy federal government for the problem. The federal government (they say) scandalously refuses to hand over all their money to the province.And of course the municipal governments are dependent on the provincial government, whether it is Liberal or Conservative. But at these conferences the municipal people get a chance to hear the federal side of things, and get out of the position of begging to the provincial government. Even cities like Toronto are virtually under the thumb of the provincial government because they depend on provincial grants for nearly all segments of their affairs. But if huge cities are slaves of the province, how much worse is the situation of the small towns and rural municipalities. They don't even have the weapon of a large population to scare the govern- ment. They can only take what Mr. MacNaughton and his buddies deign to hand out. And the situation will get worse as the province imposes regional government on the smaller governments. What is needed is a conference similar to the present one, but one to examine the problems of small towns. Many government people in both the federal and provincial levels think only cities are import- ant, but the future of the small town is immensely important to the province and the country. There are problems that must be examined, and examined soon, before it is too late. (The Blyth Standard) It seems to me that kids don't have much fun anymore. Today I was read- ing a short story with a group of eight- teen-year-olds. It was about a shy, fluttery spinster out on her first public date with a widower who was courting her. They went to a dance. She trip- ped and fell and her man came tumbling down on top of her. It was funny, but pathetic, and the kids, who are sensitive to humiliation, exuded sympathy, especially the girls. we talked for a bit about the things that make people shy or awkward or self- conscious: acne, obesity, a colostomy. Fine. A good discussion. But then I asked if any of them had had the same experience - falling flat on the dance floor. Horrors, no! Of course, the way they dance nowa- days, it's almost impossible to measure your length on the hardwood. Most of them dance by themselves, and it's pretty hard to topple unless you're blind, stoned. On slow pieces, those rare occasions, they are clutched so tightly that it would take a bulldozer to knock them down. • Most . of the time, in fact, they don't even dance, just listen to the clangour and thump. And it's pretty hard to fall down on a dance floor when you're not dancing . I mean, it's the sort of thing you have to work at. Anyway, I just sat back, looked them over, and shook my head. "You kids haven't lived. Nobody has really lived who hasn't gone sprawling on a dance floor. preferably bringing down his or her par tner in the process." There's nothing like it to spare the ego down to size. And it helps if you do it before a large and appreciative audience. I can recall at least two occasions on which it happened to me. Once was at the Cascades, of fond memory. The second was at the Legion Hall in Tober- mory. And I have living witnesses. My wife doesn't know about the second one, so keep it quiet. But I can well recall the sensation. One moment you are gliding about, leap- ing and pirouetting, a veritable Rudolph Nureyev in Swan Lake. The nest, your pas des deux somehow turns into a pas des trots, you .discover that your part- ner is not Margot Fonteyn, and you're flat on your back, head spinning from the thump on the floor, and a broad who a moment ago was light as thistledown, sprawled across you like Strangler Lewis winning the deciding fall. There's only one thing to do. Leap to your feet, laughing hollowly, and so quickly that the spectators might think it was all part of the performance. They never do, of course. And it's pretty lonely out there in the middle of the floor when your partner, who has been shamed for life, gives you a look like a cold shower, and stalks away forever. "What? Don't you people ever go to a country dance and get hurled about?", I badgered my students. Nope. So I had to tell them what it was like. When I was their age; we used to strike off many a Friday night. Usually for Wemyss, where they had the prettiest girls (Jo and Vera Dewitt, Ursula Brady) and the best music (Lorne Consitt on the piano and Mr. Dewitt on the fiddle.) There was no question of taking girls. We couldn't afford it. But , there was always the hope that you'd get to take one home. However, they always seemed to have several huge brothers or cousins lurking about. It was about $1.00 for the evening. Fifty cents for• the dance, eighty-five cents for a mickey of gin, split four ways, and the rest for gas for some- body's old man's car. "Have you never got into a square dance and „.been literally swept off your feet?", I questioned my girl students. Nope. But some of them looked as though they rather liked the idea. And I thought of those burly farm boys, getting into the spirit of things and whirling the girls around until the latter were actually flying. Occasion- ally, sweaty hands spelled disaster, and one of the girls would go flying off into the lunch the ladies were organizing. The lunch was part of the admission fee of And I thought of occasions when I had got into a doh-se-doh with a particu- larly enthusiastic and buxom farm wench, and, because I couldn't foot it like the ' farm boys, been swung around in circles with both feet three inches off the floor. A couple of belts of raw gin, and couple of dances like that, and you were ready and willing to go out into the snow and gaze, palely and greenly at the moon for a half hour or So. Inside the hall, with a wood stove almost red hot, and a hundred or so bodies steaming, it Was always aboUt 130 degrees. And this was in the days before Ultra-dry deodorants. But I don't remember anybody smelling anything ex- cept hOt arid perfumey. Eventually, there'd be a fight, or lunch would be served , then it was into the Model A and shiver home through the winter night. No heater. But, oh, what a night we'd had, and oh, what stories we regaled our less venturesome school-mates with, when we fore-gathered at the pool room on Satur- day afternoon. Poor modern kids. Do they have any fun?