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HomeMy WebLinkAboutTimes-Advocate, 1987-09-30, Page 4Page 4 Tunes -Advocate, September 30, 1987 Times Established 1873 Advocate Established 1881 . - Amalgamated 1924 imes Published Each Wednesday Morning at Exeter, Ontario, NOM 150 Second Class Mail Registration Number 0386. Phone 519.235-1331 cn rarao. LORNF EEDY Publisher JIM BECKETT Advertising Manager BILL BATTEN Editor HARRY ()EYRIES Composition Manager CCNA ROSS HAUGH Assistant Editor DICK JONGKIND Business Manager SUBSCRIPTION RATES: Canada: $25.00 Per year; U.S.A. $65.00 C.W.N.A., O.C.N.A. CLASS 'A' Crawl on free trade While free trade is an issue Canada must eventually face, it should be ap- proached at a crawl. The Mulroney government has adopted a dangerous all - or -nothing attitude toward most major issues in the hope of finding a quick method of patching its tattered record. That attitude is reflected strongly in the free trade negotiations. It is likely that Simon Reisman's dramatic pull-out last week was or- chestrated earlier in the talks when it became apparent that Brian Mulroney's trade initiative was doomed to failure. By ending the negotiations prematurally, .the Conservatives • have minimized damage that complete failure would do to their already sinking ship. The Tories, for the first time since they took office, appear to have stood firmly on an issue vital to Canada. That strong stand should not, however, over -shadow the fact that Mulroney has mishandled the issue. Both the timing and the mechanics of the trade talks are flawed. In a time when the United Stdtes imports more than it ex- ports, when most levels of government are in favour of extensive protective tariffs, the Americans are not looking for an equally beneficial trade agreement. It seems that they are looking toward the economic annexation of Canada and will' accept nothing less. Rather than attempting to negotiate weeping changes in the nature. of our trading system, the government should try to reach agreements in small blocks, beginning with the removal of trade bar- riers within Canada and ending with freer trade with all nations. It is possible that the negotiators, busily trying to negotiate further negotia- tions, might salvage something out of the ashes of the talks, but it would be better for Canada if the free trade issue were shelved for another time and another, more competent government. A postal battle Sometime this week the battle to see who runs the post office, Canada Post management or the Canadian Union. of Postal Workers will result in a strike: The public can be excused if it says neither one of them can run things worth a darn. There's little question that Canada Post management, backed by the federal government, and supported by a large part of the Canadian public, is out to cut the union down to size. The idea is that more and more jobs should bedished out to franchises and other private enter- prise operations at lower than union salaries. The post office sees this as the only way the post office can expand and make money. It not so coincidentally will cut down the strength of the union and weaken its hold on mail delivery. The union has its own dream of a bet- ter future: a post office that also sells many goods through catalogue opera- tions and is, of course, manned by unionized Workers. If either side had proved in the past it could do a good job the public might be more willing to listen. But it's hard to know for sure just who is most to blame for the current poor state of mail delivery in Canada.'The union takes most of the blame from the public because of its ar- rogant leader, Jean Claude Parrott, because of the inconvenience of seeming- ly constant strikes in the 1970 s, from the escalating salaries for what seem like a un- skilled jobs. Yet it is Canada Post management. which created many of the horrible work- ing conditions that caused the workers to become so militant. It was Canada Post that was so foolish to build super sorting centres that meant most of the mail in the country went through a few massive plants and thus made the entire system hostage to discontented workers who would throw up a picket line and shut down an entire nation's mail, It is. Canada Post, backed by the government, that seems to think less is more: that cutting back and cutting back and cutting back service will somehow make the.post office more efficient and make money. Saturday mail service .died. Door-to-door mail service in many new areas of the cities -was al3andoned in favour of "super" mail boxes. Some rural post offices closed and rumours continue to circulate about the future of small town post offices and rural mail delivery. Contrast the Canadian system to Bri- tain where the post office makes money and still provides twice -a -day, door-to- door delivery. Yes this is a difficult country jn which to operate a post office but if some good common sense was used by both management and unions, we would cer- tainly, have better mail service than we have. It's too bad there wasn't some for the public to strike against both unions and management of this messed - up affair called Canada Post. Blyth Citizen Seasons change When you live in a rural com- munity you seem to become very aware of the changing seasons. in the spring the farmers are out and around op the highways mov- ing equipment from one field to the other. This time of the year you often catch up to the big wagons filled with corn or beans as they are being pulled into town to the feed mills. This is a much more common practice these days since many farmers no longer retain feed for their own use. - • • Not long ago we were going along what we thought was a deserted county road. My wife thought she saw a light and call- ed it to my attention. I hAd seen nothing but slowed down. k Indeed there was something By the 7 Way by Syd Fletcher ahead. A combine was moving along, big enough to cover all of one lane plus several feet into the opposite one. it had absolutely no lights facing to the ttear•though it had four or five bright ones at the front. if my wife. had not seen it the potential for a real disaster was surely there. Fortunately farm families are becoming much more safety con- scious. I have seen a number of tractors equipped with flashing yellow lights which extend'hjgh enough above the wagons behind to be clearly visible. Other times you will see a car or truck with its emergency flashers on following • the tractor. That surely helps the other drivers. Ilopefully people will get in the habit of extra alertness this time of the year so there won't be un • - necessary accidents. 1, Serving South Huron, North Middlesex & North Lambton Since 1873 Published by 1.W. Eedy Publications Limited \11/4 \ 4 o sNi>. nth Wig 'Stilt YOU GAN NAME YOUR OWN SALARY —1 CALL MINE. 'CLEM'i" :r Surrogate motherhood • Surrogate -motherhood has. become a controversial issue recently. i was a surrogate. mother long before it was either popular or profitable. My offspr- ing was a baby chick, but so what! A life is a life. A number or years ago one of our setting hens abandoned her duties after hatching three of her eight eggs. She leaped off her nest. transformed --in seconds from her somnolent, trance -like state of the last three weeks in to a clucking, scratching, over- bearing, over -protective mother hen. The still unhatched eggs were kicked to the four corners of the compass as she showed her new -arrivals how to get along in their new world. All that happened early in the morning, before I left for work. The first thing I did.on arriving home that afternoon was to visit the fowl family. The abandoned eggs -were now as cold as the grave. but i noticed that one had a little pip in it. On impulse I pick- ed it up and dropped it into my bosom . I was busy in the kitchen when. to my surprise, I heard a faint lit- tle "chirp". Next i became aware .Ola little beak hammering away at its eggshell prison. Any creature so determined to live deserved all the help i could give it. i changed into; a fleece - lined sweatshrt and made myself comfortable in my husband's reclining chair. The sound of the door bell brought me back to the kitchen, to greet a neighbour who had brought over a bag of sweet .corn to enhance our dinner menu. As we talked, a bemused. distracted look clouded her face. I could read her thoughts. She was hearing a strange noise that Reynold's Rap by Yvonne . Reynolds could be a cricket. vet sounded suspiciously like a chicken. But that was.ridiculous. Impossible. There was no sign of any such animal in the Reynolds' kitchen. I looked her straight in the eye and said, "No, you're not going crazy. I'm hatching an egg." And I whipped up my sweatshirt to give her a quick glimpse. My neighbour went into such a paroxysm• of laughter i was afraid she would fall off the back steps and do herself serious in- jury. On recovering -most of her composure, she staggered out to the -car and drove away, and i went back to my duties. The next interruption came from my husband. Ile wanted his -dinner. i just looked up from my his ) chair and said. "Sorry. Din- ner is going to be late tonight. I'm hatching an egg." My husband has been married to his crazy wife for.enough years that he didn't even question my veracity. By this time my •little chicken had sensed that freedom was close at hand (or some other part Of the anatomy. if you insist on proper semantics ), and was working furiously to break out. Pieces of egg shell were dropping into my bra. Finally I sensed the impact of what seemed like a extra -large piece. I checked, and sure enough, one wet and Weak but determined_ wee chick had arrived.` We put the new-born into a chick -sized box lined with a cosy scrap of flannelette, turned the oven to low, and kept baby bird snug and warm until nightfall. We then took the now fluffy baby to the Karn. and sneaked him in under the hen. 1 felt I had done my part with custom hatching. but that mother hen could bring up little chick far better than I could. And what did little chick think about all this'' The ungrateful lit tle wretch's only comment: before disappearing under its warm feather comforter, was a derisive "cheap'•. Epilogue Our little bird grew up to be a mother hen herself. Does that make- me a surrogate grandmother?. A major crisis When Stephanie cried and said that Rhubarb was missing, I did not immediately recognize that we had a crisis of major propor- tions on our hands. Rhubarb is the current name of Stephanie's old better -than - genuine Cabbage Patch doll. Her original name was Penny, follow- ed by Melanie. As owner/mother Stephanie is entitled to change the names of her dolls frequent- ly. So one day she came up with the name Rhubarb. Why Rhubarb? Only people who don't understand the mind of a girl barely six years old could ask such a question. The search for Rhubarb began in the logical places: Stephanie's room, under her bed, her cup- board, the laundry, • the playhouse, under the porch. No Rhubarb. For about two hours, three children and two adults looked for a fairly large doll that should have been easy to find. In vain. After much cuddling and kissing, Stephanie finally agreed to go to bed; hugging her bunny instead of her doll. I was sure, i told her, that Rhubarb would turn up in the morning. I was about as sure of that as of winning big in the lot- tery (especially since i never buy tickets any more). The things you tell children to calm them down! There was no time for a Rhubarb search in the morning. The school bus cannot be kept waiting. When Stephanie came , home in the afternoon, she was a pale little girl with red eyes. Still no Rhubarb. Alright, I said, not to worry. After supper, we'll make a real- ly thorough search, and you'll see, Rhubarb will be found. Stephanie trusted Me and ate her supper like a good girl. • Then Operation Chessboard went into effect~ The whole pro- perty, inside and out, was divid- ed into 64 squares, and each one was closely examined. • When it got dark, we used flashlights. By 9 p.m. the search had tote called off because the troops were showing signs of fatigue. Another night with Bun- ny. Still no Rhubarb. The remaining 20 or so squares were covered the next day. Nothing. Later that night it rain- ed hard, and Stephanie woke up every ten minutes wondering if PETER'S POiNT • • Rhubarb would drown if she were outside. "Of course not," I said, "Cabbage Patch dolls are drown - proof." "How do you know?" Stephanie asked. Clearly her trust in my omniscience was beginning to crack a little. "I know," I said, "because I read it somewhere." "What if she is afraidof the storm? What if a stranger picks her up? What if a bear eats her?" After the children were asleep, the parents had an urgent meeting. This was definitely a crisis. Clearly, the doll had to be somewhere. We traced every move the children had made within the last few days. Next morning we did a telephone blitz. We called the haircutters, the school, the bus company, several friends and relatives, the .Sweet Shop, Mr. Grocer, the library, and the police. Negative. Rhubarb did not surface. - Would our local fire brigade take on an assignment like this? Propably not. Next day we fanned out from our place in all directions. Down the line and up the road we look- ed 'in every metre of ditch and behind every tree or bush. A suspicious looking pink speck in- side a culvert turned out to be an old candy wrapper. We collected a lot of litter that day, but no Rhubarb. - Mother forked over a pile of money for a new doll, A beautiful, lifelike doll with a face like the Gerber baby. Stephanie acknowledged her politely and asked with sadness in her brown eyes: "When is my Rhubarb go- ing to come back?" i had learn- ed my lesson and said nothing. About a week went by. At first Stephante seemed to grow paler and thinner. Then she recovered from her loss and began to be fond of her new blue-eyed, blonde girl doll whom she named -- for no conceivable reason -- James Africa. "Why do you call her James?" 'Alexander asked, "She is a girl doll." "I know;" said Stephanie. "Then why do you give her a boy's name?" "James is also a girls's name," she informed him. "But why Africa? She doesn't look as if she came from Africa, and she doesn't come from Africa, so why do you call her James Africa?" "Because I like the name." Obviously Stephanie was beginning to forget Rhubarb. That Saturday we all went for a walk across the fields near our house. Il'had rained during the night, but the day turned out to be sunny. There, on a pile of old logs, was Rhubarb! Stephanie raced to her doll and hugged the dripping, faded bun- dle: "See, I told you she would come back!" How. did Rhubarb get to that log pile? And why did the little person who placed her there not remember? Arid what are we go- ing to do" with this drenched, messy thing? None of this con- cerned Stephanie. Rhubarb was found. On to new adventures. Thank heaven for little girls.