HomeMy WebLinkAboutTimes Advocate, 1991-09-11, Page 4Page 4 Times -Advocate, September 11, 1991
Publisher: Jim Beckett
News Editor. Adrian Harte
Business Manager: Don Smith
Composition Manager: Deb Lord
CCM
Second Class Mail Registration Number 0384
SUBSCRIPTION RATES: CANADA
Within 40 miles (65 km.) addressed
to non letter carder addresses $30.00 pias 62.10 0.5.T.
Outisds 40 mills* (66 km.) or any latter mania address
630.00 plus 630.00 postage (total 680.00) plus 64.20 0.$.T.
Outside Canada 668.00
1,1)1 (ORI 1i.
Pedestrian priorities unfair
I f you should happen through
Lucan in the next few days,
you might notice the ongoing
efforts to install a crosswalk on Main
Street.
The protests of the past few years
have finally paid off and village seniors
will finally be able to cross the street
with a bit more peace of'mind. Howev-
er, this safety has come at the expense
of the village - to the tune of about
$60,000.
The situation is a familiar one in this
area. Exeter wanted a crosswalk and
eventually did the same thing Lucan is
now: paying for it out of town funds.
Hensall and Zurich have also looked
into crosswalks, but have been forced
to write them off as too expensive.
School crossing guards are the only al-
ternative they can afford.
The problem, then, is not that villages
and towns have to provide only the ser-
vices they can afford, but the fact that
the Ministry of Transportation does
provide subsidies to municipalities that
can prove a definite need for a cross-
walk.
Exeter, Lucan, Hensall and Zurich
were all told that their cross -street traf-
fic was insufficient to warrant a subsi-
dy. If they wanted a crosswalk, they
would have to pay for it themselves,
which Exeter and Lucan elected to do.
But if Stratford or London were to re-
quest a crosswalk on a highway within
city boundaries, they would stand a bet-
ter chance of getting a subsidy.
Obviously, the ministry views High-
ways 4 and 84 as highways first and as
Main Streets second. Now while the
ministry can't have people putting up
crosswalks just anywhere, the upshot is
that larger urban centres get subsidies to
improve pedestrian traffic safety, where-
as small towns and villages do not.
Try telling that to the senior citizen
who is no longer nimble enough to scoot
across the street between cars on a cot-
tage -bound Friday afternoon. Tell that
to the mother who has too many close
calls as kids on their way to school step
out into the street, mistakenly assuming
that the big trucks would slow down.
Fortunately, there haven't been many
pedestrians knocked down on local
streets lately, and with the construction
of new crosswalks at the municipality's
expense, it will hopefully stay that way.
But when seniors on their way to the
Post Office in Lucan push the button
and watch the traffic stop to let them
cross, they should remind themselves of
who brought them that convenience, and
who did not.
A.D.H.
Barbecues Part 2
In last week's column entitled
"No gas for me", you leaned
that I once considered a gas bar-
becue useless as an electric
toothbrush. I argued: why go
digging for lava on the slopes
of Mount Vesuvius, when the
Canadian forest is full of
healthy hardwood, the stuff that
honest to goodness charcoal is
made off? In this_ second and
iast'part of the mini-series I am
demonstrating that reasonable
people can change their mind
when new evidence comes to
Tight.
Learning to live with gas
The Sears truck that delivered
the new deck table and chairs
also dropped off a carton
marked "outdoor gas barbecue/
grill". I told the driver he had
made a mistake. But he showed
me the bill made out to Eliza-
beth.
"Over my dead body!" I ex-
claimed. Famous last words.
Elizabeth only said: "I paid for
it, and I'm looking after it. You
have nothing to do with it?
I went over to my office,
thinking no more about the gas
barbecue. When I came home
for supper, the family mom
looked like the assembly plant
for the space shuttle. All over
the floor, and spread out on all
available tables and chairs was
the largest collection of metal
plates, legs, wheels, support
braces, nuts and bolts, screws
and washers, clips, spaces and
cotter pins I have ever seen.
Both Elizabeth and Alexander
were on their hands and knees,
trying desperately to make
sense of it all.
"I may come to regret this,"
said Elizabeth bravely.
One look at the 14 -page "In-
structions, Use and Care Manu-
al" was enough to make me tum
on my heels. As is customary
A
nowadays, Elizabeth had not
bought an item, but an assembly
kit consisting of 83 parts and
the "documentation."
"The man at Sears told us it
IMMINMOlimier
Peter's
Point
•
Peter Heasel
would require just an ordinary
screwdriver and one hour's la-
bour to put in together," Alex-
ander complained.
They had been at it all after-
noon and had accomplished lit-
tle more than sorting out the
components.
1 hated to rub it in, but
couldn't help to remark: "It
takes me five minutes to put a
charcoal barbecue together."
Elizabeth refused to tell me
how much the kit had set her
back. She knew how I felt
about these things. Under no
circumstances would I have to
get involved in the construc-
tion, operation, maintenance or
storage of this contraption and
its volatile fuel.
I must hand it to both of
them: they did persevere, in
spite or perhaps because of my
sneering. After two days of
hand work, the beast was in-
stalled on the deck. The first
meal was nothing mundane like
hamburger or steaks, but Eliza-
beth and Alexander did a huge
roast on the rotisserie.
At first I thought 1"d boycott
the whole affair. But after all
their toil putting the barbecue
together and making it work, I
didn't have the heart. I tasted
the roast, and I had to admit: it
was darn good. My little char-
coal grill doesn't have a rotisse-
rie, and so I couldn't make a di-
rect comparison.
Next evening, Alex cooked
hamburgers. Sure I'd taste them.
Why spoil their fun? Besides, I
was hungry.
"Well?"
"They don't taste of charcoal."
"Oo they taste of gas?"
I had to admit they did not
taste of gas. But they also didn't
taste of charcoal. Just of ham-
burgers.
And so it has been this sum-
mer. Elizabeth and Alex have
done all the barbecue cooking,
while I was allowed to watch.
They've treated us to grilled
salmon steaks and whole rain-
bow trout, to London broils and
spare ribs, to sausages and
steaks.
Our deck now looks like eve-
rybody else's deck. With a stat-
us symbol. Neatly covered up
when -not in use, with a black
vinyl hood.
—4 --know nothing about it, and
I'm frankly scared of the pres-
surized gas system. Elizabeth
and Alex are looking after
everything.
I don't know why they're do-
ing it. Maybe they didn't like
the stuff I cooked on charcoal
all those years. Maybe they're
ashamed to have friends over
and see me hover over my rick-
ety little grill.
Whatever their reason, I'm
glad they're,,eel1ttjoying their tech-
nological tf umph. I guess I'm
just an anacronistic old fogie. A
sentimentalist when it comes to
old habits.
Alright, I'll say it: gas barbe-
cues are O.K. There. I've recant-
ed. And yes, the food tastes
good, too. What more do you
want me to do? Smear ashes all
over my face? What ashes?
There are no ashes.
"Men are never so likely
to settle a question rightly
as when they discuss it
freely."
... Thomas Macauley
FMMsd Eaok Wednesdayat 424 Main 5t.,
Ease, Oates NOM 156 by J.W. ladyPrblioatloa. Ltd.
Telepho..1.51!-4.35•
GAT. OR10112108311
"Walkout be damned — I'm going to go on a sit-down strike instead."
Wrong numbers, from hell
It was very nearly 11 p.m. by
the time I walked through the
door. The phone began to ring
almost immediately. No one
ever calls me at this hour.
It must be very important, I
thought.
Well, I must confess that if I'd
just got into bed I would have
probably thought more along the
lines of This had better be very
important.
Anyhow, I picked up the re-
ceiver and said "Hello" in my
usual dulcet tone. The receiver
went 'beep'.
Oh, an overseas call maybe?
I'm used to the delays that
transatlantic calls require to
complete the connection, so I
said "Hello" again. The only an-
swer was another soft beep. Af-
ter my third 'hello' and a third
beep, I clued in to the fact that
there was no human at the other
end of the line. What there was
was a fax machine desperately
trying to find some intelligent
life with which to communicate.
There being none around, I
gently replaced the receiver on
the hook. _----. — --------ed to send obtanews release on
foolishly calling a residential
line. You can't get angry and
tell it not to call back again.
There is nothing, absolutely
nothing you can do.
It didn't call back again, thank
Hold that
thought...
By
Adrian Harte
goodness. Evidently it was one
of those machines programmed
to make only two attempts. But
what if, just what if it belongs to
a govemment office? What if
the Ministry of Inconclusive
Studies had got hold of my busi-
ness card and someone had acci-
dentally entered my home phone
number into their automated fac-
simile machine's memory bank
instead of the Times Advocates
fax line number? That would
mean that every night they want -
I didn't time it, but my best
guess puts it at exactly three
minutes until the phone rang
again. Again my 'hello' was re-
warded with a beep, just as I
knew it would be. It had auto-
matically called back.
Suddenly, I realized 1 had dis-
covered a whole new kind of
wrong number. But you can't
enlighten a fax machine that is
cheap long distance rates, my
home number would ring...not
once... but twice...late at
night...night after night.
This thought made me slightly
desperate. The only possible so-
lution I could see would be to
borrow someone's fax machine,
take it home and hook it up,
ready for the mistaken machine's
call. After receiving the fax, I
Letter to Editor
could find out who it was from
and call them up the next day
and give them what for.
Short of that, there is nothing,
absolutely nothing I could do.
Well, I had thought of letting it
talk to my answering machine
for a while, but I don't think
anything would be solved.
No, this is a whole new era of
technological misfortune. A
prime example of technology
gone awry. The wrong number
that wouldn't die.
There are other instances of
warped technological advances
that come to mind. Putting pol-
ka favorites on compact disc is
certainly one of them. And then
there is that new kind of sticky
stuff that they sell to kids these
days. They make balls out of it,
they sell it as slime, but I'd per-
sonally like to catch up with the
industrial chemist who used a
multi million dollar laboratory
to invent plastic snot.
But getting back to the phone
call, I can say while it has only
been a few days the machine has
not called again. But I'm not
ready to say I'm safely off the
hook (sorry, very bad pun).
Even if it was only a one-time
mistake by someone at the other
end, there is no guarantee that a
wrong number couldn't be en-
tered into an automated fax's list
of numbers to call. It could hap-
pen to me. It could happen to
you.
And there is nothing, absolute-
ly nothing you can do
Aid urged for Mexican workers
Dear Sir:
In August 1989, I met a group of
ten Mexican farm workers, men
who come to Huron county flow
Mexico every year to work on. a
fruit and vegetable farm near Exet-
er for five months during the
spring, summer, and early autumn.
They come to Canada eagerly to
work ten hours a day, six days a
week, for less than six dollars an
hour, because that sum is almost
ten times what they earn in Mexi-
co - when they can find world Un-
employment insurance, old age
pensions, free medical and hospi-
tal care - all the social services
that too many Canadians take for
granted, do not exist in Mexico.
Compared to Mexico, there are no
poor people in Canada. Many Ca-
nadians complain about their poli-
ticians and taxes, and they are
right to do so, of course. But if
they lived in the same way as do
more than 98 percent of the Mexi-
can people, they would really have
something to complain about!
"I thought I was poor because I
had no shoes, until 1 unit a man
who had no feet." - Old Arabian
4
Proverb.
From September 7, 1985, until
March 31, 1987, I lived in San Mi-
guel de Allende, a colonial city in
central Mexico founded in 1542.
While I was in Mexico I studied
Spanish, and came to respect and
admire the Mexican men and wom-
en I knew; their generosity and
cheerfulness despite the harshness
of their lives, and their daily strug-
gle against poverty and
political corrup-
tion.
In September
1989, in response
to my request, the
Seaforth Lions
Club came up with a
big pile - nine of those green gar-
bage bags full - of old, no longer
used clothes for men, women, and
children, for these men to take back
with them to Mexico. This year
wrote a letter published in The Hu-
ron Expositor on August 28, in
which I asked the people of Sea -
forth to give any old clothes they
no longer need, want, or use, to
these poor people. As I write this
letter, 11 days after that letter was
4
published, the people of Seaforth
have donated enough clothing that
I have had to ask my neighbour
with the big truck to assist in bring-
ing these clothes to the Mexicans I
know near Exeter.
I would like to suggest that what
the people of Seaforth have done
for the Mexican campesinos near
Exeter, the people of Exeter could
do as well. Last summer a woman
in Exeter told me that there are far
more Mexicans than I realized -
possibly 90 to 100 - as well as a
large number of Jamaicans, work-
ing every summer in the Exeter
area. Many of these other Mexi-
cans, most of whom I have not
met, work in Canada 10 to 12
hours a day,, seven days a week!
If Exeter would like to become
involved with the Mexicans work-
ing near their town, and I could be
of assistance as an interpreter, just
say the word, you'll be heard, 1'il
be there.
Yours sincerely,
Paul Copeland
Box 577 Seaforth,
Ontario, NOK IWO
l