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HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Citizen, 2000-11-22, Page 5THE CITIZEN, WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 2000. PAGE 5. Other Views Talking about the write stuff I heard an expert on orthography rattling on the other day over the airwaves of the CBC about the computer — specifically the grievous effect the infernal machines are having on the penmanship of The Nation’s Youth. Now, I’ve done my share of rmtching and boaning over computers but responsibility for the way I write with a pen is not on the list. My handwriting was illegible long before computers infiltrated our lives. I’ve been spectacularly unreadable for as long as I can remember. Well, almost. Like most of us, I spent the first five-or six years of my life unable to use a pen and paper to produce anything you could actually make out. Then school kicked in. Under the tutelage of a succession of vigilant and unforgiving old bats, I learned to clutch my pencil in a white­ knuckle death grip and labouriously scrawl out the letters of the alphabet, painfully progressing from crude (and frequently backward) block letters to that oversized, looping cursive script they all insisted we master.. By the time I was 12 or thereabouts, I had quite a nice hand, actually. Neat and flowing and easy to follow. My teachers were impressed. Even my mother bragged about it. But the next thing I knew I was in high school and I suddenly had to take a lot of notes quickly. I didn’t have time to worry about how my handwriting looked, or whether anyone else could read it. By the time I got out of high school, I knew fragments of trigonometry, a smattering of history, was intimately acquainted with the The responsibility of a nation One of the most difficult questions which must be answered in our society has to be the level at which we hold a person responsible for his or her actions and how much we take pity on that person. The same question holds true for nations. I make these comments because now and again I read a letter or an article or hear verbally the assertion that charity begins at home and, before we start handing out money and other forms of aid, we should concentrate solely on removing poverty and its associated ills from Canada. Along with that goes the suggestion that other countries, no matter how poor, should look after their own poverty. Coupled with that is the assumption that, if we only throw enough money in the general directions of a problem, it will go away. Better, it is argued, we throw the money at our problems than at others’. Well, we have been throwing megabillions of dollars at such problems in Canada and they most assuredly have not gone away. The same holds true for less fortunate nations; untold billions have been thrown at these nations and in most of them there is not much to show for it. What can be done to improve the system? For openers, we might consider as Hawed our assumption that throwing money will do the trick. Many of the recipients, be they nations or individuals, are simply not up to the task of handling money wisely. Some people on welfare cannot even succeed in the simple task of transferring money from their welfare cheque to the landlord. Some nations do exactly the same thing; they spent the money foolishly on senseless projects or else cannot transfer the money to the sectors where it will do the most good. Sometimes the right hand does not even innards of pickled frogs, a couple of dozen French verb declensions and what a dangling gerund was. I could even recite Marc Antony’s funeral eulogy. What I couldn’t do was write about any of it, because my penmanship had regressed and deteriorated to a pre-school level. A note from me looked like it had been written by a seven-year old suffering from advanced hypothermia. My handwriting was so pathetic, several people mistook me for a medical practitioner. Which has always mystified me— how doctors can get away with writing prescriptions that look like they stuck a ball­ point between their toes and dashed it off. Bad enough that they’re writing in Latin shorthand and metric measurements — flagrant illegibility should not be the third horseman in this mix. The doctor with bad handwriting is a comedic stereotype, but why are we laughing? These are people who are supposed to be meting out specific drugs and dosages that could be the difference between life and death. I can hear the pharmacist on the witness stand now: “Oh, ‘Aspirin’! I thought he wrote ‘arsenic’ — sorry.” And it looks like I’m not the only one who’s nervous. The Metropolitan Medical Center in Atlantic City, New Jersey is now herding Raymond Canon The International Scene know what the left hand is doing. One example which comes to mind and in which I was involved was a program paid for by Canada which channeled money into developing a cottage industry in Bangladesh which would reduce unemployment in that country. The industry in question was that of making shirts; it was argued that women could set up a small operation in their own home making shirts which could then be exported. The project was hailed as a success since in Bangladesh women have a most difficult time finding work. Men do, too, for that matter, but not to the extent that women do. I got one of the first shirts to wear and found it to be of excellent quality and style. But the rejoicing was premature. It turned out that Canada was unable to import any of the shirts because of another agreement which controlled the number of textile products coming in this country. All this in spite of the fact that the most that Bangladesh shirts would have taken of the Canadian market would be a measly one per Final Thought You don’t live in a world all alone. Your brothers are here too. -Albert Schweitzer ______________________________________ practicing doctors into a classroom for the purpose of teaching them how to write all over again. That's right — hand-writing classes for doctors. And what’s more the doctors are lining up to sign on. Why? Perhaps it’s the fact that a recent study shows up to 25 per cent of medication errors in the U.S. are related to illegible handwriting. Or maybe it’s that lawsuit that was settled in Texas last year. The one where a jury ordered a doctor, a drugstore and a pharmacist to pony up $667,000 to the family of a man who died as a result of a misread prescription. Which reminds me of the old joke concerning a physician notorious for his lousy penmanship who replied to a dinner invitation with a scrawled note that looked like it had been written by a man operating a jackhammer with his other hand. The hostess couldn’t make out a single word of it. “Eve got to know whether or not he’s attending” she complained. “Simple,” says a friend. “All you have to do is take the note down to the Pharmasave. Druggists can always read doctors’ writing.” Desperate, the hostess hurries down to the Pharmasave. She goes to the prescription counter and hands the note over. The druggist glances at the handwritten note, grunts, then disappears into the back room. “Getting a second opinion,” figures the hostess. Five minutes later the druggist comes back out to the counter and hands a small vial to the hostess. “That comes to $10.95,” says the druggist. “Oh, and good luck with those hemorrhoids.” cent. The Bangladeshis did everything that was asked of them; it is we who have to take responsibility for the failure of this project. Charity may well begin at home, but if a nation is going to indulge in foreign aid it has to avoid the two pitfalls which I mentioned above. It all reminds me of the time I spent as chairman of the outreach program run by our church. We allocated our money very carefully to both domestic and foreign projects. We made sure that any funds were actually channeled into helping the people targeted, not into some bottomless pit. We even sent some of our young people to work on the projects and contributed money to their expenses. This gave us two benefits. We had an even better idea of how the money was being spent and our young people had marvelous opportunities to help others in Europe, Africa, Asia, Central America and the Caribbean. Letters Policy The Citizen welcomes letters to the editor. Letters must be signed and should include a daytime telephone number for the purpose of verification only. Letters that are not signed will not be printed. Suomissions may be edited for length, clarity and content, using fair comment as our guideline. The Citizen reserves the right to refuse any letter on the basis of unfair bias, prejudice or inaccurate information. As well, letters can only be printed as space allows. Please keep your ^letters brief and concise. So far I’m smarter Well, I finally got my house back. A rather clever interloper had moved in and for several days recently, he upset the usual comfort of my haven. My story begins like Diary of a Mad Housewife before moving into The Twilight Zone. It was a typical early evening at the Gropp household, dinner preparations underway, a load of laundry begun when with vacuum in hand I began my attack on Ani’s furballs. Pulling out the couch, I was bemused to discover a number of pieces of dry dog food. At first, I puzzled over what strange new behaviour my hyper-kinetic pooch was displaying now. But as the initial surprise gave way to a dawning enlightenment, I recognized the possibility we had a rodent in our midst. Yet, seeing no other signs of Pixie or Dixie, then enjoying two days of no kibble thieving, I was lulled into a false sense of security. Peace of mind was short-lived, however, as that evening while settled in front of the television, I watched Ani go berserk, to put it mildly, at the piano. Howling, panting, sniffing, she scratched and dug, prowled from side to side. Now my warrior, who has been working long, long days, was already tucked in for the night while this frantic search was being conducted. And while I’m not terrified of mice, I am also not inclined to spend any time with one. Thus, my solution was to retire early that evening. Bolstered by daylight the next morning, and recognizing that my solution had actually been no solution at all, I launched my offensive attack. Cheesy bait in hand, I laid my trap before, smugly anticipating success, I headed out to work. Much to my dismay upon returning I discovered, however, the wily critter was not to be so easily tricked. Nor was he for some time. Two moie evenings I listened to him delightedly toying with us, messing with our minds, frustrating poor Ani, who was always It in the game of hide-and-seek. I could hear him playing with what I presumed to be bits of dog food be managed to snatch while we slept, content in his safe little ivory tower. And two more evenings I went to bed early. Before I did, though, on the second night I got my son to come listen because by this time my husband thought I was hearing things and I was beginning to question my sanity. However, with affirmation that I was no crazier than normal, what became scary was how clever this little fellow was. His game began like clockwork at the same time every evening. He never showed himself. He left no signs. He ignored the trap. Assimilating this information my imagination, made more active by solitude, took on paranoiac dimensions. My uninvited houseguest had become my intellectual equal. (I know, I know, I left myself wide-open on this.) But suddenly, what had seemed a routine bit of pest control w.as not. I was doing battle with an inferior creature and he was winning. Energized by my humiliation, I decided I could no longer underestimate my opponent. Rather than assume I could win I needed to understand why I wasn’t. And when I actually considered the situation, it all became so simple. Move the supply of dog food and change the bait (a marshmallow became his last meal). While this last bit may sound callous, please believe I get no pleasure from his demise. But, my house isn’t big enough foi a mouse and me. One of us had to go. And so far, I’m smarter.