The Brussels Post, 1972-05-31, Page 240/00101111.111114 low
ESTABLISHED
1072
Ws se s Post
1
wgpNe$DAy, MAY 31, 1972
en uTsAs:ii.:
Serving Brussels ..and the surrounding community
published each Wednesday afternoon at girussels, Ontario
by mcLean Bros, publishers, Winited,
Evelyn Kennedy - Editor Torn Haley - Advertisih;
Member Canadian Community Newspaper Association and
Ontario Weekly Newspaper Association.
Subscriptions (in advande) Canada $4.00 a year, Others
$5.00 a year, Single Copies 10. cents each.
Second class mail, Registration No. 0562.
Telephone 887-6641.
Police merit recognition
In the peaceful enjoyment of all
that is fine in our modern society,
the part the police have played in
bringing about that pleasant state
of affairs is too feeguently over-
looked.
Those words of Commissioner
Eric Silk remind us that this is
Police Week.
Some people may question the
observance of such a week, point--
ing out that a police officer is
similar to any other person in that
he merely gets paid to do a job.
But as our "employees" we expect
them to give bore value for their
wage dollar than most of us would
be prepared to equal.
On TV, a policeman is an oaf
who couldn't find a bull fiddle in-
side a telephone booth. In real
life he's expected to find a little
blonde boy "about so high" in a
crowd of 10,000 people.
We expect them to be friendly,
kind and courteous even after one
of us crawls intoxicated from be-
hind the wheel of a car. We ex-
pect them to let us get away with
minor infractions like failing to
obey a stop or yield sign and com-
plain when they aren't around to
catch the guy who pulled out with-
out stopping in front of us.
We expect them to catch the
thieves who ransacked our home
last night but we resent it when
they tell us to take more precau-
tions and to put a chain on the
door.
We expect them to watch over
our children but resent it when
they apprehend our holy off-spring
for committing an offence.
We expect police to keep traffic
accidents to a minimum by strong
law enforcement, but when we are
caught doing a few miles over the
speed limit we get upset.
We expect them to enforce laws
and at the same time to minimize
their powers.
Sometimes we give them medals
for saving lives, stopping runa-
way horses or shooting. it out with
bandits. Sometimes we give the
medals to their widows.
At a time when respect for the
law - and the people who enforce
it - is in urgent need of revival,
a week to draw attention to their
"impossible. task" is a good idea.
(Exeter Times-Advocate)
Do you remember??
Sugar and Spice
by Bill Smiley
Do you, occasionally, have the feeling
that you'd like to stand up, preferably in
some public place, and scream, "Stop
the world! I wanna get off!"?
This urge, which is becoming a com-
pulsion, seems to be hitting me more
often lately. Perhaps it's the first,
faint symptom of senility.
Twenty years ago, when our kids were
babies and I was leading the hectic, 72-
hour a week life of a weekly editor, I
accomplished a great deal.
I still found time to 'play the odd
game of poker (and odd is the word),
catch opening day of the trout season,
ge in a few rounds of golf a week, see
the latest movie, play with the kids
and tell them bed-time stories, and fight
with my wife.
Today, the kids are grown up and
gone, and my weekly chores have been
pared to a reasonable number of hours.
Yet I find myself so beleaguered that
I haven't played poker for five years,
haven't wet a line or sliced a drive this
spring, haven't seen a movie for a year
and a half, and scarcely have time to
fight with my wife.
Don't say it. "He's getting old."
This is pure malice. I can still out-
dance and out-drink most twenty-year-
olds. I was going to add out-fight. But
let's put it this way. I can still outrun
any coward my age, or up to ten years
younger.
I can still swim a hundred yards in
half an hour; I can walk a block in twenty
minutes, with time out for catching my
breath. I can hit a golf ball 200 yards
with a mere 60-mile tailwind.
Don't say it. "He's caught up in a
social whirl." That's pure imagination.
The only social whirl around here is
trying to decide whether we should go
over and visit Grandad, or ask him to
come and visit us.
No, it's something else. What, in
the world of all that is ridiculous, is
happening, in the prime of my life, when
I should be coasting a little after years
of uphill pedalling?
It's the rotten world, that's what it
is. The danged thing is flying around
faster and faster on its axis, whatever
the scientists may say.
The days are getting shorter and
shorter, the years are flipping by like
somebody shuffling cards, and every-
body is wishing the weekend would come
or saying, "Thank God, it's Friday."
And all God's chillim seem to know
it. The kids are into drugs and seX
as though they'd just been invented and
might be out of style tomorrow.
The trout streams are polluted. It's
easier to flop and watch an old movie on
television, with forty-six commercials,
than to venture into the dark theatre
and become involved.
I play an anemic and safe game of
bridge instead of an erratic and bril-
liant game of poker. The golf courses
are so crowded it takes all day to play
a round.
And even playing around is no fun
anymore. Everybody, instead of view-
ing it with the delighted horror of a
generation ago, has an instant analysis of
the whole affair, in pseudo-psychological
terms.
It used to be fun to fight with my
furnace, man against the beast. Often
it.won, but at least I had the satisfaction
of giving it a few good belts with the
coal shovel. Try that with your friendly
oil dealer and you'll wind up with a law-
suit.
Everybody is sick to death of taxes,
always going up, however.cleverly dis-
guised; of politicians, who seem more
concerned with scoring a point, for or
against, than in leading; of the lousy
postal service; of the growing army of
slobs who diddle the rest of us and live
on unemployment insurance or welfare.
The majority of Canadians are sick
to death of those darlings of the self-
styled intellectural leaders: anti-Amer-
icanism; lack of "true Canadian culture",
whatever thatis; bilingualism, a perfect
example of the real being conned by the
ideal.
However, don't fee 1 that I'm giving
up. The only people who seem to get
ahead these days are those who dig
in their heels: the garbage collectors,
posties and cops, who are now making
a decent (and in the opinion of many,
an indecent) wage; the farmer who re-
fuses to sell out to a corporation be-
cause he believes in what he's doing;
the odd teacher who refuses to be shut
up by a smothering administration.
Perhaps if we all dug in our heels
a bit, the world would not be going to
hell in a wheelrbarrow. Or going around
so fast. I'm willing. How about you?
Maybe too many of us feel that we're
a voice in the wilderness. Not so.
That's where Christ gave the gears to
the devil. And see what happened.
Maybe I sound disgruntled. I'm not.
I'm as gruntled as they come. And
one of the main reasons is that I've
just learned that my favourite uncle,
at the age of 80, is getting married to
a broth of a girl of 72. As ,Iewish
writers have it, "I should live so long!"
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