Zurich Citizens News, 1966-11-10, Page 2PAGE TWO
ZURICH CITIZENS NEWS
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Parental Authority
Can it be said that the Canadian fam-
ily is preparing the young for adult life
in a more effective way than ever before?
Perhaps the sacredness of human person-
ality is not only stressed, but practised in
an increasing number of families.
Children are not simply pawns in the
life-sized game of chess. They are indi-
viduals, with rights commensurate with
their maturity.
The authority of parents has become
more responsive to the opinions of youth,
hut surely it has not been weakened. It
is real and influential, not simply heavy-
handed and assertively loud. It depends
more on example, rather than "do as I
say, not as I do". Parents today use other
means than dominating assertiveness to ex-
ercise their authority. Many are engaged
in the work of strengthening those influ-
ences which tend to produce the personal-
ity they find attractive in the young.
Unfortunately, the news media must
report the youth who rebel, who are court
cases, who cause trouble to parental author-
ity. We must remember though that this
group is not a majority.
Many Canadians use fancily consulta-
tion sessions, Older children, when con-
sulted by their parents, can often give real
insight into the problems involving young-
er family members. They are more in
touch with the pressures of school and
authority. They can communicate the de-
sires of the younger child more accurately
than parents who were reared in a differ-
ent generation.
Blood Money
Each month, Canada exports an in-
creasing amount of military explosives,
arms and parts of weapons systems to the
United States. Much of this military hard-
ware is used in Vietnam. According to
officials in Ottawa, exports of military ex-
plosives to the United States this year to
meet needs in Vietnam, will exceed
amounts produced for commercial use in
1965.
Export licences are not required for
sales of such explosives to the United
States. Most of the explosives are small
arms, rockets and cannon propellants. Of-
ten the details of other military exports
are not disclosed because they fall into the
category of classified information.
There can be little doubt that at least
some of Canada's prosperity is due to the
mushrooming production of so-called con-
ventional or non-nuclear arms. With the
war in Vietnam growing week by week,
there is no sign that .this grisly boom will
cease.
The build-up of U.S. troop strength in
Southeast Asia is leaping ahead. Where
five years ago there were only about 2,000
U.S. troops in Vietnam, it is not unusual
for this number to arrive in a single day.
The Pentagon is pumping several thousand
troops into South Vietnam weekly. The
total, counting the 60,000 U.S. sailors on
warships off the coast, is rapidly approach-
ing the 400,000 mark, Scores of thousands
more are in Thailand, South Korea, Japan,
Laos, the Philippines, Guam, Okinawa —
ready to move against North Vietnam or
China should Washington give the green
light.
Around the world, statesmen, church
leaders, even many eminent Americans are
warning President Lyndon Johnson to re-
strain the military monster that is being
created in Aisa. In Vietnam, the cost of
the war is running at the rate of 13
billion dollars annually, and if all the other
costs of Washington's growing military
might in Asia are taken into consideration,
the annual figure is much higher.
In the past, individual manufacturers
of arms have grown wealthy on a wide
variety of death -dealing implements. The
wars they were used in were sometimes
justified, and often were not. Today, na-
tions are in danger of an undue depend-
ence on armaments' manufacture to under-
pin their economies. Canada must not fall
into this trap because of U.S. involvement
in Vietnam. To grow wealthy on the blood
of others was wrong even in less civilized
centuries of the past.
For well-to-do nations to follow this
practice in the present age is inexcusable.
—(Unehurched Editorial—United Church
of Canada).
They've Served Their Purpose .
Over the years, the nostalgia attached
to the little red school house has grown
out of proportion to the service that these
now outmoded institutions have given, but
nonetheless, let sentiment prevail, and let
the little red school house go down in
.history as one of the more important
foundations uponwhich our country was
built.
Physically, these buildings have long
ago outlived their usefulness, and in too
many cases, have been neglected to the
point where they add nothing to the scen-
ery of their respective locales. Often, quite
the contrary.
Yet they are put on the auction block,
and in too few cases, are strings attached
as to their ultimate use. Many of them
end up as chicken houses, or storage build-
ings, and continue to depreciate in appear-
ance, Others are converted into dwellings
of a type by people who are interested in
making a quick dollar or in placing an in-
expensive roof over their heads.
To a large degree, it's like trying to
make a silk purse from a sow's ear, this
business of making a house from an old
school. Regardless of the time and effort,
the buildings usually end up looking just
what they are, old, wornout schools.
For the sake of the comparatively few
dollars realized from their disposal, would
it not be better to bash them down, burn
them down, or otherwise see that they are
completely removed from the landscape?
In this way, all that would remain would
be the nostalgic memories of a few passers-
by, and the legend would continue to grow.
It is important that we have legends and
perhaps the importance of them would out-
weigh the dollar value received under the
swinging hammer of the auctioneer. ----
North Kent Leader.
In Flanders' Fields
In Flanders' Fields, the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders' Fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe;
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies blow
In Flanders' Fields.
Zurich • &RA N,w.
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WHERE'S THE 25th HOUR
This week, I have a lot of
things on my mind, but none of
then is worthy of the brilliant,
penetrating essay in which you
wrap your garbage.
Therefore, the column will
be something of an Irish stew.
Or a Hugarian ragout, Or bet-
ter still, a French pot-pourri.
That's pronounced popery.
Speaking of which, congratula-
tions to all my Hogan friends.
They can now eat meat on Fri-
day. And destroy the market
for fish. And miss all those
wonderful food values in fish
and turn into meat -stuffed, red-
faced birds like us Protestants.
Speaking of which, one of
our churches had a "folk" serv-
ice last Sunday. The occasion
was a conference in town of 300
Christian boys. We billeted two
of them. For Kim's sake, I or-
dered, from the billeting chair-
man, two six-foot, handsome
chaps with rich fathers.
What we got were, well, two
boys, A short, chubby, cocky
one; and a long, skinny, shy
one. Neither was handsome.
Neither had a wealthy father.
But the service Sunday was
first-rate. You should have seen
the look on the gray -headed
elders as they belted ,out, "Go
Tell It on the Mountain", with
the electric guitars whanging
away. The other accompani-
ment, a sort of dull rumble,
was the bones of John Calvin,
Martin Luther and John Wes-
ley, twirling in their graves.
And the red-headed kid, dart-
ing from organ prelude to choir
loft to electric guitar, back to
organ for the offering, back to
choir, back to guitar, was our
baby, busier than the proverbi-
al one-armed paper hanger.
Speaking of church reminds
me that I'm supposed to be
guest preacher at our church
this Sunday. It's Layman's Sun-
day. Very inspiring. All the lay-
men get up and bellow hymns
off-key. Those who can't even
sing off-key read the scripture.
And whatever is left over
preaches the sermon.
Haven't quite chosen my text
yet, but there are still several
days to go, and I've narrowed it
down to three. or four. My first
idea was, "Frailty, Thy Name Is
Woman". Then I decided that
"Something Is Rotten in the
State of Denmark" might be
safer. By the way, these are
from the Bible, I hope..
There's always the old stand-
ard, of course, "The Demon
Runt." But I don't think I could
stand the snickers. And my
brother brought me a jug of
Newfoundland `screech' recent-
ly, from the Kingdom of Joey,
Perhaps I'll settle for the
theme, "The New Morality", If
only I can find out, before Sun-
day morning, what it is, I'II be
in business. As near as I can
discover, it's doing whatever
you want and, getting away
with it.
Speaking of which, I feel
both wicked and guilty, because
I don't answer letters. Here's
part of one from a weekly edi-
tor belaboring me for defend-
ing today's kids.
He says, "Give me one of the
depression kids, with a grade
eight collection of myths, fa-
bles, a few facts, a smattering
of the three Rs, and the seat
out of his pants. The last is
most important. The kid would
be desperate for a job and
would learn more spelling and
grammar in three months from
an old comp book than your
gold-plate system teaches in the
years from six to 16."
Mrs. C. Braham, of leruder-
beim, Alta., writes telling me
what to do about my refrigera-
tor that stank when the power
was turned off and the meat
went rotten. Thank you, dear
lady, but you're almost as lousy
a correspondent as I. Your let-
ter is dated August 10. I re-
ceived it this week.
And how do you like this
chap from a publishing house
asking when I'm going to write
a book? All I can say is that if
he wants to take over for a
week, I'll produce a book. All
he has to do is: write a column,
a sermon and a letter to the
town council from the library
board; try to keep my wife
from going around the bend;
help my daughter with her
"weak" subjects: Latin French,
Math, Science, Georgraphy; read
and criticize 89 essays; set two
exams; rake the leaves that
have fallen from 14 trees; throw
into the cellar a pile of fire-
wood that's been rotting in the
rain for two weeks; answer all
my letters; prepare lesson plans
and teach all day; .drive my
daughter 200 miles for a music
lesson on Saturday; and help
with the dishes.
I'm game if he is. A book
would be child's play.
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THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 10•, 1964
From 2 My Window
13y Shirley Keller
GOING ONCE—GOING—GONE
At the risk of becoming an
incurable addict, I threw cau-
tion to the seven winds last
week -end and uttered two words
I am quite apt to regret for
the rest of my husband's life.
The words? Seventy-five.
The place? An auction sale!
I used to scoff at the ardor
of some people as they followed
blindly after the gabbing auc-
tioneer, hardly able to breathe
until the very last pickle crock
and cider jug had been sold
to the highest bidder, Then,
in elated jubilation, they car-
ried home their treasures —a
leaking feather tick, two rusty
flat -irons, a nightmarish study
in water colors of George Drew,
a musty butter churn.
In truth, I scoff no longer,
I have experienced the ex-
citement of purchasing mer-
chandise at a price I can de-
cide, rather than shopping via
the more conventional method
where articles are tagged at a
certain price—take it or leave
it.
I really hadn't intended to
open my mouth. I'd always
been very careful at an auction
sale not to move my hands, my
lips, my eyes, a muscle until
the bidding had ceased. In fact,
until Saturday I was rooted to
the spot, paralyzed with fear
at the mere thought of placing
a bid.
I think perhaps it was a series
of three tiny remarks which
loosened my tongue sufficiently
to shout (to my own surprise)
"seventy-five" when some cur-
tains were on the block.
Earlier I had watched my
neighbor enjoy her first experi.
ence as a bidding customer,
She assured me, "There .was
nothing to it."
Then I observed my friend,
obviously a sophisticated bid-
der. She nodded so slyly as
the auctioneer's watchful eye
scanned the crowd, indicating
so silently and easily the
amount she was willing to
spend. She told me with pride,
"I go home with a lot of tittle
bargains".
The clincher was the eonvee
sation I had with an acquaint-,
ance who I admire greatly. She
said, "I just started to go to
sales this summer • but I have e
ball. You get the bug you
know. Mostly the things I
want go too high for me, but
it's lots of fun to bid until they
get out of your range. And
once in a while, you get what
you want at a price you want
to pay. What could be nicer?'
I didn't get started to laid
until the sale had nearly ended;
and it took only one hid for
me to "get the bug" as my
friend had predicted, Eery
time the auctioneer took a
breath, I was tempted to in-
terject a bid. I found I was
eager to bid on everything I
saw, useful or not, and the ex-
citement mounted each time a
new article was introduced. I
spent very little for the enjoy-
ment I received.
I have found a new challenge
—a new sport! Honestly girls,
it's more fun than bowling and
twice as much fun as bargain
hunting anywhere else.
11181
Al!
C1118111
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