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HomeMy WebLinkAboutClinton News-Record, 1983-08-03, Page 4PAGE 4 —CLINTON NEWS-1-LECORD. WEDNLa9)AY, AUGUST 3, 1983 The Clinton Novas.0tocord is published mach lilcdnesday et P.O. Dom 2t. Clinton, Ontario. Casae ire. NONE 169. Tai_: 9112-3993. Subocription Soto: Canada 'TEM Sr. Citizen • •19.119 par year It.S.A1. & foreign - •99.99 per year it is registered as socond doss moil by the podt office condor tho permit number 51117. The Noels -Deseret incorporated in 1919 the Myren Norm- ocord, Pounded in 111111, and The Clinton Nova Era. Pounded in ISMS. Toto' press run ®.299. Inc rpGrating THE DLYTH STANDARD) L NOW r . RD AITKEN - Publisher SHELLEY McPHEE - Editor GARY HAST - Advertising Manager MARY ANN HOLLFNBECK - Office Manager A MEMBER MEMBER Display advertising ratios ovoltable an request. Ask ler Rota Cord No. 12 effective Oct. 1, 19111. How are you feeling? • Over the past couple of decades few fields of learning have been given the pro- minence in Western society that has been allotted to psychology. It has reached the point where it could almost be said that no one is responsible for anything he or she does — unless of course the action leads to acclaim and fortune and then the individual is only too happy to take the responsibility. But just let an action lead to misfortune or result in death and the individual suddenly becomes a victim of misunderstanding, of uncaring parents, of unfor- tunate circumstances. Society has now reached the point where people are questioning the impact of psychology on the individual and on society itself. The questioning is mostly of a serious nature. However some of it has a humorous side as the following ditty which is now making the rounds shows. The piece was written by that most famous of all writers — Anonymous. I never get mad — I get 'hostile'. I never feel sad — I'm 'depressed'. If I, sew or I knit and enjoy it a bit, I'm not handy — I'm simply 'obsessed'. I never regret — I feel 'guilty'. And if I should vacuum the hall, Wash the woodwork and such, and not mind it too much, Am I tidy? No, 'compulsive', that's all. If I can't choose a hat, I have 'conflicts', With ambivalent feelings toward net; I never get worried, or nervous, or hurried; 'Anxiety', that's what I get. If I tell you you're right, I'm 'submissive', Repressing 'aggressiveness', too, And when I disagree, I'm 'defensive' you see, And 'projecting' my symptoms on you. Am I in Love? Well, that's just 'transference' With Oedipus rearing his head; My breathing asthmatic is 'psychosomatic', A fear of exclaiming 'Drop Dead'. I'm not lonely, I'm simply 'dependent'; My dog hasn't fleas — just a 'tic'; So, if I'm a cad, never mind, just be glad That I'm nota stinker — I'm 'sick'. behind the scenes Power hungry Dr. Samuel Laidback hated parties. He could never relax becaise people were always asking him for free advice. So when the rather serious looking man came up to him and said, "Doc, I've got a problem,"he told him to take five more Zombies and call him in the morning. But the man kept persisting. "I have this friend who is acting very strangely," he said. "Can't you see the couch is full of people discussing the important issues of the day like will John Travolta make a sequel to the sequel to Saturday Night Fever?" But the man kept persisting so the psychiatrist had no choice. It was either that or listen to two paunchy men talk about the wonderful things jogging had done for their lives. "My friend has always had just about everything he wanted," the man said. "He's the wealthiest guy around. He's big and powerful. He never had to take a backward step from anybody, at least until a few years ago. This little guy poked him in the nose this time, not badly, mind you, but somehow he's never been the same since." "Then the economy got to him for awhile. Oh, he was still rich compared to just about anybody else around but a few neighbours started to catch up a bit because they weren't being hurt so bad by the recession and that really bothered him. See he just took it for granted that he was supposed to be richer than anybody else. It started to bother him." "Sounds interesting," Dr. Laidback said and picked up some more liver pate on a whole-wheat cracker. "So anyway, my friend went into a bit of —from The Listowel Banner. keith rou is ton a depression there for awhile. He started brooding because things weren't the way they were supposed to be and he sulked and we hardly saw him. Then a few more things went wrong, just little things and he seemed to get worse: "Then a while back he seemed to change again. He started coming out of the house again. He got in a heck of a fight with the biggest neighbour he had. The two never had gotten along very well. It never came to blows, or at least not yet, but there werr lots of insults and shouting and threats. "Then he started arguing and pushing around his smaller neighbours. This one was trying to cheat him in business deals. That one was trying to get a little too in- dependent. He decided, he told me, that it was time to smack them back into line. He wanted to see things go back to how they'd been in the good old days." "How old is your friend?" the Doctor asked, burping daintily from the liver. "Well it's hard to tell. I'm sure he looks a lot younger than his actual years." "Sounds to me like your friend is going through a rather bad mid-life crisis. A lot of people get frustrated when they find out they can't do the things they once did, or when they find out no matter how much money they've made they aren't necessarily going to be richer than everybody else forever. Here's my card. I could probably fit your friend in on Fri- day." "Gee thanks Doc. But...uh...how big is your office?" "Quite big. Corner suite. Lots of win- dows, locked of course. Deep carpet. Calf- skin couch. Why?" "My friend is a little large. Matter of fact, my friend is a whol'b country: The United States of America." The Doctor dropped his cracker. Do you want a cigarette? Long-term cigarette smok- ing is frequently associated with diminished hearing, suggests a study carried out by two Cairo University researchers. Dr. Amal Ibrahim, an epidemiologist and Dr. Ahmed Fatthi, an otolaryngologist (ear, nose and throat specialist), studied 150 smokers, average age 42.9 years, and 150 non-smoking controls, matched for age, education background, and socioeconomic level. While 83 percent of the non-smokers had hearing in the normal range, the same was true of only 30 percent of the smokers. Among the non- smokers, 3 percent showed signs of conductive deafness (hearing loss due to im- paired conduction of sound waves to the inner ear) and 13 percent had some degree of perceptive deafness (hearing loss associated with the inner ear, the auditory nerve, and auditory centres in the brain.) Among the smokers, on the other hand, 21 percent had some degree of conductive deafness and 49 percent showed signs of perceptive deafness. On average, the non-smokers showed a 9 per- cent hearing loss, compared to 25 percent in smokers. Smoking may have its effect on hearing by promoting atherosclerotic narrowing of blood vessels, including those supplying the inner ear, the researchers sug- gest. They also point out that irritation produced by cigarette smoke can cause changes in the mucous mem- branes of the nasopharynx, the eustachian tube or auditory tube, and the ear drum. Over three million Cana- dians have quit smoking .in the past 10 years. If you want to "Kick the Habit", contact the Huron -Perth Lung Association and ask them about the FREEDOM FROM SMOKING Self -Help rogram. It could be a mat- t r of life and breath! ! lone 271-7500. Hot Dog! Csugar andspice Roughing it in the bush Little old Susannah Moodie, the gentle, iron -hearted, misplaced Englishwoman, whose diaries have become the touchstone of Canadian Literature, the archetype of survival in the Canadian wilderness. She wrote the title of his piece. She was about as Canadian as my great - great -great-grandfather, who was digging peat and potatoes about the time she corn - posed her literary masterpieces. And about as Canadian as Frederick Philip Grove, a Finn, Swede, German — take your pick — who wrote' interminable stories about snow, after he moved or escaped — to Canada. Everyone, except me, begins his/her CanLit course with those two. They're dull, after a taste or two. But poor little old Susie's scenario would have crumpled into wept -over ashes if she'd gone along with me on a recent "roughing it" weekend. True, there was bush. True, there were some weird characters about. True, the flies and skeeters were hostile. But roughing it? She'd have torn up her manuscripts and got on with making bread or maple syrup or digging anew backhouse, or whatever turned her crank. The roughest part of the trip was fighting the holiday traffic. The second roughest part was listening to non-stop stories about deer that were shot at 600 yards, bear that were 12 feet tall, and giant fish that required three men and a block and tackle to get them aboard. Yes, I went on a fishing weekend, as I threatened in an earlier column. Boys oh boys, it was rough. Drove 60 miles. Flew 20 minutes. Camp had P. fridge with ice cubes, hot and cold running water, a propane cook stove, and you won't believe this — a carpet sweeper. The only concession to the primitive was an outdoors john, and even By Rod Hilts this had a touch of the exotic: a wild rose growing between the two seats. Night before I left, one of "the boys" phoned and told me to bring some. heavy line, because the muskies were moving in and gobbling up those five -pound bass. I might as well have taken a piece of cotton thread from my wife's sewing machine. Now, I'm not knocking it. I had a fine weekend. But it's a bit much when you have to keep moving your feet because so- meone wants to clean the carpet under them. And it's entirely too much when you see guys washing their armpits, at a hun- ting camp, in hot water. Last time I was at a hunt camp, the only thing we ever washed were our hands, and sometimes our feet, when we fell in the lake. I'd warned my wife that I was going to rough it, and that the food would be camp food, mostly canned stew and stuff. Told her to have something decent, like a pork chop, for when I got hgme.-Expected to eat some fish. Know what we had for dinner, first night? Young, tender leg of lamb,and not that frozen stuff. With mint sauce natural- ly. Fresh young carrots and potatoes. Dessert. Wine with dinner. Second night was pretty ordinary. Just two pork chops each, with apple sauce, and again, fresh vegetables. And wine. And it wasn't just thrown on the table. The cooks served you at your place. All you had to do was push your wine glass or coffee cup pasta big, hairy arm, and it was filled immediately. Roughing it! Lunches were pretty rudimentary, though, and by the second day I was get- ting sore that I had to make my own. There was nothing but sardines, tuna, cold lamb, ham, and eight pounds of salad, plus Campbell's soup du jour and fruit salad, with a bit of old cheese to top off. Breakfasts were sparse, however. A mere four cups of coffee, three eggs, half a pound of bacon, and a big portion of fried spuds, plus toast and the best homemade marmalade in North America. Nobody was able to fish until mid-day, by which time the bass had. also, eaten and were sulking in the depths. Certainly didn't get sick of eating fish. Seven of us caught two smallish bass, just before the plane arrived to fly us out. I know it sounds like a weekend at a big, rich resort. But it wasn't. The moment I arrived, I began to feel uneasy. And my feeling grew. These other guys weren't there to fish. They were there to work get- ting the camp ready for the fall hunting season. To the great dismay of myself and another, guest, the regulars pulled out paint brushes, law i mowers and other such horrors of civilization, and went to work. They painted and piled wood and slashed underbrush, and generally did so much manual labor they'd have all been on strike if asked to do so at home. The other old fighter pilot and I retreated into the kit- chen and did the dishes. My hands are still all shrivelled up from doing dishes. Aside from that, I came home in pretty good shape. I thought I'd gained at least eight pounds, but the deer flies and skeeters took care of that. I lost two. My arthritic foot is destroyed for the summer. I've lost the hearing in fny right ear from trying to clout a mosquito with my left hand, while holding a five -gallon can of gas in it, and My fishing tackle in my right hand. But that was nothing, compared to the evening poker games, in which everything is wild except the joker. Have to tell you more next week about the typical personnel among any group which belongs to a "camp". An open letter to parents and young people The following article was written by Cpl. Dale Martel when he was NCO i -c Field Detachment. It was originally published in The Golden Star, in Golden, B.C. Since then it has appeared in a number of newspapers across Canada. It was also published in the fall edition of 'Me Quar- terly, an RCMP magazine. Cpl. Martel's message is so important that we felt it was worthy of sharing with News -Record readers. This is an open letter to all parents of all young people everywhere. I am writing in response to some of the questions you ask me daily. I am not just one police officer; I represent every officer in every city and town in Canada. You may know me only as the cop who gave you a ticket last summer, but I am also the guy who lives down the street from you. I am the parent of three children and I share with you the same hope, ambition and dreams that you have for your children. I am faced with the same problems you have. I share with you those moments of agony and ecstacy. I share with you the feeling of shame, guilt and disappointment when my boy or girl gets into trouble. I am also angry and sick at heart with trying to do my job and being tagged the bad guy, when all I ever wanted was to avert the kind of tragedy I have just witnessed. The scene was a long stretch of highway with a sharp curve at one end. It has been raining and the roads were slick. A car travelling in excess of 80 m.p.h. missed the curve and plowed into an embankment where it became airborne and struck a tree. At this point, two of the three young passengers were hurled from the vehicle, one into the tree, the other into the road- way, where the car landed on him, snuf- fing out his life like a discarded cigarette on the asphalt. He was killed instantly. He was the lucky one. The girl thrown into the tree had her neck broken and although she was voted queen of the senior prom and most likely to succeed, she will now spend the next 60 years in a wheelchair. Unable to do anything else, whe will live and relive that terrible moment over again many times. By the time I arrived the car had come to rest on its top, the broken wheels had stopped spinning. Smoke and steam were pouring out of the engine, ripped from its mounting by a terrible force. An eerie calm had settled over the scene and it appeared deserted except for one lone traveller who had called it in. He had been sick to his stomach and was leaning. against his car for support. The driver was conscious, but in shock, and was unable to free himself from under the bent and twisted steering column. His face will be forever scarred by deep cuts from broken glass and jagged metal. Those cuts will heal, but the ones inside cannot be touched by the skilled surgeon's scalpel. The third passenger had almost stopped bleeding. The seat and his clothing were covered in blood from an artery cut in his arm by the broken bone end that protruded from his forearm just below the elbow. His breath came in gasps as he tried desperately to suck air past his bloodfilled airway. He was unable to speak and his eyes, bulged and fixed on me pleadingly, were the only communication that he was terrified and wanted my help. I felt a pang of guilt and recognized him as a boy I let oft with a warning the other night for an open container of alcohol in his car. Maybe if I had cited him then, he would still be alive now. Who knows? I don't. He died soundlessly in my arms, his pale blue eyes staring vacantly as if trying to see into the future he would never, have. I remembered watching him' playing basketball and wondered what would happen to the scholarship he would never use. Dully my mind focused on loud screaming and I identified it as the girl who was thrown from the vehicle. I raced to her with a blanket but was afraid to move her. Her head was tilted at an exaggerated angle. She seemed unaware of my presence and whimpered like a little child for her mother. In the distance, I heard the mournful wail of the ambulance winding its way through the rainy night. I was filled with incredible grief at the waste of so valuable a resource, a youth. The ambulance began the job of scraping up and removing the dead and injured. I stood by, watching as hot tears mingled with rain and dripped off my cheeks. You ask me why did this happen? It happened because a young person, stoned out of his mind, thought he could handle two tons of hurtling death at 80 m.p.h. It happened because an adult, trying to be a "good guy", bought for or sold to some minor, a case of beer. It happened because you as parents weren't concerned enough about your child to know where he was and what he was doing, and you were un- concerned about minors and alcohol abuse and would rather blame me for harassing them when I was only trying to prevent this kind of tragedy. It happened because, as people say, you believe this sort of thing only happens to someone else. I become sick with anger and frustration when I think of parents and leaders who believe a little bit of alcohol won't hurt anything. I am filled with contempt for people who propose lowering the drinking age because they will get booze anyway, so why not make it legal. I am frustrated with laws, court rulings and other legal manoeuvrings that restrict my ability to do my job in preventing this kind of tragedy. I would give anything to know who furnished these young people with that booze. I spent several hours on reports and now will take several months trying to erase frltm my memory the details of that night. I wi{tl-.not be alone. The driver will recover and spend the rest of his life trying to forget. Yes I am angry, and I pray to God that I might never have to face apother parent in the middle of the night "and say your daughter, Susan, or your son, Bill, has just been killed in a car accident. For your sake, I hope It doesn't happen to you, but if you continue to regard alcohol_ abuse as part of growing up, then please keep your porch light on because some cold, rainy night you will find me at your doorstep, staring at my feet with a message of depth for you. the regio ders F rids needed for M tI research Dear Editor: Last September on the Telethon, a tremendous announcement was made of a major discovery which has produced a significant clue to the possible cause of Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy - the worst kind! You and I as Canadians can be justifiably proud of this achievement, as the research team responsible is Cana- dian, located in Winnipeg at the University of Manitoba. Their efforts, funded by MDAC, have brought a wave of hope to many young people affected by Muscular Dystrophy around the world. MDAC, a national voluntary health organization, is endeavouring to maintain and augment revenues to meet the ever- increasing costs of research, pa- tient/clientt care services and equipment. Compounding this challenge is the phenomenal growth of new pa- tients/clients registering to receive the benefits of our services. We've never needed your help more. The Jerry Lewis Labor Day Telethon for MD is crucial to our fund-raising and awareness objectives. This year we will be producing live 15 -minute cutaways from the Las Vegas show in 13 centres to get our message across to as many Canadians as possible. We respectfully request your support in the fight against MD by making use of the enclosed camera-ready public service ads throughout the month of August and the first week in September. We thank you, and our campaign theme best sums it up — "We Can't Win Without You!". Sincerely, Brian W. Nisbet, Director of Telethon and Media Relations. A bureaucracy gone amiss By W. Roger Worth In a not -so -funny way, the seemingly in, evitable growth, of bureaucracy in Canada is stifling the nation's entrepreneurs, as well as ensuring that many new jobs will not be created. The bureaucrats, and the millions of civil service employees who follow their orders, are the "nine -to -fivers" that have the duty to carry out the wishes of our duly elected representatives. They work for the government agencies and departments that dispense unemploy- ment insurance, collect taxes and buy everything from soup to ships in addition to the thousands of other transactions that occur between governments, business and individual citizens. Without question, bureaucrats are need- ed. These are the people who are hired to protect our interests, as well as our dollars, all the while supposedly seeing that public money is spent responsibly and that rip-offs are kept to a minimum. Yet there comes a point when we may have too much of a good thing. It has recently come to light, for in- stance, that Ottawa has nine bureaucrats sitting behind desks in the nation's capital overseeing a $70 -million foreign aid pro- gram in Bangladesh. Meanwhile, these people are giving orders to only three Canadian field workers in that country. Something's amiss. Says one of . the Bangladesh field workers: "It can cost $100 work of telex cables to Canada to justify a $25 expen- diture." This top-heavy management situation is not unusual. The Armed Forces, for exam- ple has more corporals than privates, and the number of senior federal civil servants earning more than $60,000 tripled last year. More important, perhaps, is the way the highly placed bureaucrats view the business community, particularly the small business sector. Even the smallest businesses are now forced to spend about 10 hours per week on red -tape, paper - burden and government forms, many of them designed to keep the bureaucrats happy. It's true, governments claim they are reducing this maze of paperwork, but it is still an important factor in any business operation. Then there are the bureaucratic in- vestigators. These are the people who oversee tax collection, unemployment in- surance, workers' compensation and a multitude of other government programs. Complaints about their heavy-handed methods of operation abound, and there have been repeated suggestions that the bureaucrats simply don't understand what makes a smaller firm tick. That, in fact, may be the case. Few dal servants have experience in the business world, and many seem to believe all businesses are out to grab as many dollars as they can, legally or illegally. Naturally, that is not true. Yet it is an at- titude that stifles many smaller firms from expanding, and forces others to throw in the towel. For these en- trepreneurs, the bureaucratic paper maze has developed into an obstacle that cannot he overcome. no you hare an opinion? frity not write us a letter to the editor, and let everyone know. V/ letters are published, providing they can be authenticated, and pseudonyms are allowed. All letters, however, are subject to editing for length or libel.