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The Brussels Post, 1979-12-12, Page 2IBRUSIELS ONTARIO WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 12, 1979 Serving Brussels and the surrounding comm unity Published each Wednesday afternoon at Brussels, Ontario By McLean Bros. Publishers Limited Evelyn Kennedy - Editor Pat Langlois - Advertising Member Canadian Community Newspaper Association and Ontario Weekly Newspaper Association Subscriptions (in advance) Canada $10.00 a Year. Others $20.00 a Year. Single Copies 25 cents each. BLUE RIBBON AWARD 1979 14.9X4111 1,40,1 a. .11 to .,6,1001.er:/11.,,V1110,114% .o,Ity ".*•,•PV.15. ,ft."000,Ortri1triFiN't $4.i.kt, Behind the scenes by Keith Roulston Those bad old small towns Brussels Post We are different The community, or weekly newspaper, such as your weekly Times-Review is often jokingly the brunt of little jabs by some readers who look at the news content as somewhat trivial in comparison to what they read each night in the larger dailies. How can you compare a news report on the church ladies social group to the daily story covering the hijacking of a Dutch aircraft that - was ordered flown to Iran? There is no comparison, there isn't meant to be. The weeklies report in depth for their community readers, not just for anybody who wishes to put their money down and read stories ranging from wordly affairs of state to what actress recently split from her husband because of an alleged association•with her co-star in her latest film. Dailies also report news of their own communities but can't touch the depth of the weeklies in that respect. The following is an excerpt from an article which recently appeared in Canadian Business, written by Doug Fetherling. It illustrates that the weeklies across Canada are fast becoming known less and less as small and traditional businesses but are outstripping the dailies in circulation and small magazines in revenues. It is the age of big business for the weeklies. "Few institutions in the land are so beloved-by readers and non-readers alike-as the weekly newspaper. The weekly represents a tradition of homespun wisdom, an idealized cornerstone of democracy and enterprise. The weekly of our imaginations, often with a cutesy name or one too overblown for its minute circulation, is owned and operated by a lone crusader in a green eyeshade: He prints the full names of everyone attending spaghetti suppers at the church. The photograph on his front page is either of a fisherman holding his catch or a hunter beside a dead deer strapped to the hood of his car-depending on the season. His office is a sort of meeting place; he sells stationery in the front and does job printing at the back. "That image is still a fair representation of some small newspapers across the country. But it's no longer an indication of the big business that weeklies have become. "Canada's 1,000 or so rural and suburban weeklies and consumer (Continued on Page 16) There's a favourite way that people (particularly big city writers and media people) like to portray small towns. They just love to get one of those stories that show small town people as small people, ready to persecute those they don't understand, delighting in rumours whether true or not. I don't think' there is anything that can make small town people more angry than that kind of image of small towns. We prefer to see small town people as willing to help their neighbours, friendly and understand- ing. And most small town people are) of course. But then the city image isn't always wrong. When they want to be, small town people can be amongst the cruelest people anywhere. The truth of the situation of course is that small town people are simply people. They are subject to the same qualities of good and bad as people in big cities, br E. isolated ranches or the moon for that matter. What makes small towns different is that they are in effect a world in miniature. The small town society has nearly everything a big city society has except that it's all on a much smaller scale. Whereas in The city people tend to congregate in specialized groups and deal only with their own kind of people)in small towns people of all interests, all professions, all classes exist side by side. While in the cities people are isolated from one another, people in small towns must interact with each other as a fact of daily life. This can have its good side. When there is an emergency we see the best side of human nature in small towns. Whatever normal differences we may have with neighbours and fellow citizens are set aside in order to come to the aid of others. While in a large city people may be able to,sit back and say a problem doesn't concern thern,here we are dealing on a one-to-one bais and the human element is very real. You can't turn your back on someone who needs help if you know him as' an individuallnot just one of millions. On'the other hand small towns can be very cruel at the worst of times. The very isolation of the individual in the big city can be a blessing if a rumour campaign begins against him. He knows so few people and they are so split .up around him that the rumour can't travel very far. But in a small town, a vicious rumour can virtually affect the whole world the person travels in. The people he works with, the people he has for neighbours allare likely to hear the rumour and whether it is true or not, be affected by it. There is not escape. Discrimination can be so much worse in a small town for the same reason that there is nowhere for the individual to go for relief. Class distinctions can be rigid in some communities, though not all, for although communities are made up of individuals each somehow takes on a collective personality. Where city people make their mistake, however, is in assigning either the best Of, the worst of small towns to small town people. We're either angels or devils. The fact that these same qualities can apply to much larger groups of people though is evident by recent happenings in the news. On the good side, take a look at the historic evacation of nearly the entire population of Mississauga, more than a quarter of a *million people, People from around the world were amazed at the peaceful, orderly way the evacuation was carried out and the way the whole community responded. It's especially re-- markable when compared to the blackout that hit New York a few years ago and ended in large scale looting, rioting and murder. Or the heavy looting that came out of the crippling snow storms in the eastern U.S. a couple of winters ago. On the darker' side' however, one only has to pick up the paper any day of the week to see the horrible hatred that is brewing over the Iranian situation. Our media has become a Vicious rumour-spreader, making it hard for us to know what is true and what is just hate propaganda making Iran and th ,e Ayatollah look like devils and madmen. On the Iranian side the same thing is going on making Americans, President Carter and anybody who supports them appear evil. It's the worst of smalltown intoL erance on a huge scale. And it's frightening. It's perhaps the most frightening l, aspect of the whole horrible Iranian hostage affair. Whole nations now have the kind of unthinking hatred shown by lynch mobs. It's more frightening. than the kind of intol erance sometimes exhibited in small towns because there is no easy way out. In a small town an outside authority can usually restore order. But there is no outside authority capable of restoring order.in this situation. The United Nations and the World Court can talk but that's all. It makes the worst of smalltowns look like peanuts. Sugar and spice By Bill Smiley A family Christmas again It looks as though the Smileys are going to have a family Christmas this year, for the first time in quite a few. As I write, son Hugh is to arrive tomorrow from Paraguay. There's no way we're going to get rid of him inside a month. Daughter Kim and the grandboys are going to get out of Moosonee for Christmas if they have to hire a dog-sled. We are a very close-knit family, and it should be a grand occasion. Close-knit. As in pulled together by needles. Hugh, in his inimitable way, has wandered from Paraguay by easy stages, spending a few days here, a feW weeks there. He seems to have friends, more commonly known as "marks", all over North and South America; who will put him up for a feW days, and feed him, for the sheer pleasure of his cornpanionship. He started out from Paraguay in September. In October we had a letter from Florida, saying he was staying with friends and taking a course in massage or something from an ancient Japanese gentleman. A month later he phones from Toronto, collect, and announces his second coming. Actually, it's about his fourth. His mother was ready to welcome him . With open arms and a half-open ,wallet. But the more he dallied and dillied, the hotter she grew. By the time he phoned, collect, she had' a full head of' steam on, and the conversation went something like this: "I suppose you have no money, as usual." "Right, Mom." "I suppose you have a winter overcoat?" "No, Mom." "Well, I'm sick and tired of you kids (he's 32) coming home without a penny and expecting to be taken in and coddled." And more of the same. Hugh hung up. My wife, in an agony of guilt, promptly phoned everyone who might know where he'd called from. No luck. Then she called her daughter, who retorted, "Do you want -to hear another of your children hang up on you?" And promptly did. I was quietly watching the Grey Cup game, and wondering why I should be interested in a lot of burly young Americans smashing each other around; About 24 hours later, Hugh put through another call; this time not collect He was sticking somebody else for the phone call. He knows his mother: She apologiied all to hell. He said, typically, "Mom, you could have bought me a Winter coat with all the monet you spend on long-distance calls." It made her mad again, but she couldn't help laughing. That's what I mean. We're a close-knit family. With needles. All I do is hold the wool and try to stay out of needle-range, not always with success. I remember when J used to tell the kids stories about' what happened to me in the war. They liked them better than the usual bed-time stories and fairy tales. Most of them were fairy tales, come to think of it. I can see what will happen this Christmas. Hugh will be regaling •us with stories of swimming a barracuda-infested river, struggling in the coils of an anaconda, being shot at with poisoned blow-pipes. My wife will be wide-eyed. Kim will be regaling us with stories of the tough Indian kids she's teaching, who arrive spaced out, drunk 'or pregnant, and the horrors of the unreliable taxi service intn town. My wife will be absorbed, terrified, fascinated. The grandboys will be eating peanut- butter and honey sandwiches all over our brand-newly-recovered Chesterfield suite. Teir grandmother will be just plain furious. And I'll be sitting in a corner, relegated to getting some more wood for the fireplace, taking squealing, furious Balind - off to bed, and wondering when I can get in a word about,the dreadful kids. I have in Grade 9 this year, my battles with the administration, and the shrinking of My potential pension through inflation. In the face of all that exoticism, I'll probably be driven to the grave. If this happens, the turkey won't be prepared, 'cause I always do it. There'll be rivalry in the horror stories. Both of our Children will plead extreme poverty, demur the value of the presents they 'got, and nip out to visit friends on Christmas Eve, while the Old Battleaxe and I make the gravy and whip the turnips. And beat the grandboys, if we can catch them. Ah, but it'll be grand to have the family together again; There's nothing that can touch getting up on Chriitmas morning, tihittinngo, on,and looking after the grandboys for five hours while the "young people" sleep On the other hand, there just might be. I am investigating a return ticket to Hawaii, single, for the holiday Season. If I left quietly, without fuss, and nobody knew where I was, I could come beck on January 2, knowing full well that my wife would have kicked the whole mob out.