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The Citizen, 2003-07-02, Page 5THE CITIZEN, WEDNESDAY, JULY 2, 2003. PAGE 5. Other Views Friends, Romans, Country skfxrlch Bonnie Writing is simple: you just jot down amusing ideas as they occur to you. The jotting presents no problem; it’s the occurring that is difficult. - Stephen Leacock ne thing that just about everybody who doesn’t do it for a living knows for sure: being a writer doesn’t qualify as a real job. Writers get used to the old one-two punch you get at cocktail parties and barbecues. A stranger asks you what you do; you tell them you’re a writer. And they come back with “No, I meant what do you do for a LIVING.” And even if they believe you, they still think it’s kind of frivolous. An eminent Canadian brain surgeon once made the mistake of telling Margaret Laurence over the hors d’oeuvres that when he retired, he planned to become a writer. “What a coincidence,” responded Laurence sweetly. “When I retire, I plan to take up brain surgery.” I don’t know how the profession of writing got the dubious rap, but I suspect it might be laid at the doorstep of Thomas Huxley, a 19th century British scientist and big supporter of Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution. Huxley is the bloke who posited the popular notion that if an infinite number of monkeys sat down in front of an infinite number of typewriters and hunted and pecked for an infinite number of years, they would eventually type out the complete works of Shakespeare. Whether or not his contention is true, the subtext is pretty clear: writing is no big deal. Today’s politics no laughing matter The state of humour in Ontario politics is a joke. The three parties in the legislature have discussed the issue and agreed, a rarity, there is not much humour expressed there these days and nowhere near much as there should be. They were paying tributes to Sean Conway, a Liberal retiring after 28 years as an MPP during most of which he was the legislature’s most admired orator. New Democrat Gilles Bisson said Conway had a special ability for keeping a sense of humour even in partisan debates and gently ribbing opponents without hammering them into the ground (the usual goal today.). Typical Conway wizardry with words included describing former Progressive Conservative premier William Davis’s notoriously tortuous way of speaking as “like the old Colonial Railway, which twisted and turned, chugged up hill and down dale and meandered through the remotest sidings before eventually reaching its destination.” Conway assessed Michael Cassidy, an abrasive NDP leader, as having “the personality of an ice-cube wrapped in sandpaper.” Margaret Marland, a veteran Tory, revealed herself as a recipient of Conway joshing and a good sport, telling a joke against herself. She recalled arriving in the legislature one July with her hair dyed experimentally a flaming red and receiving a note from Conway saying “Oh my, Mrs. Marland. I didn’t realize how early the fall colours were this year.” Public Safety Minister Robert Runciman, another paying tribute, agreed humour has declined, but added a little when he said ruefully he is wary of praising opponents, because he once commended David Christopherson for having done some good work as an NDP solicitor general and the NDPer quoted him in his literature and got re­ Arthur Black Given enough time, even a chimp could be a great writer. Not surprisingly, a lot of writers demurred but the idea caught on anyway and, over the years, began to take on- the patina of accepted truth. It even extended to other potential bards in the animal kingdom. Recently, Nathan Banks, an artist in New York, painted randomly chosen words on about 60 meandering members of a Holstein herd, in order to see if they would eventually line up and form something approaching a Petrarchan sonnet. Meanwhile in England, a writer by the “name of Valerie Laws attempted to, as she put it, “break down the barriers between literature and quantum mechanics” by painting the words of one poem on the flanks of a flock of sheep, hoping that the sheep would rearrange themselves to form a brand new poem. John Milton, eat your heart out. Still we shouldn’t be too quick to scoff at the abilities of our fellow creatures. I remember only too well what happened when my bearded collie, Homer, decided to apply for a part time job at The Citizen. Making his rounds one morning, he’d seen an ad in the window of the newspaper office Eric Dowd From Queen's Park elected. One indication of how rare humour is these days is that this writer opened a file on humour in the election campaign and it contains only two entries and neither will cause readers to fall off their seats. One was Tory Premier Ernie Eves twitting Liberal leader Dalton McGuinty after he was referred to repeatedly as “Donald McKwinty” by a businessman who introduced him at a chamber of commerce breakfast and “was a good and close personal friend, no doubt.” Eves also suggested the Liberal’s promises will force up taxes, so his campaign slogan should be “Dalton McGuinty - he’s got what it takes to take what you’ve got.” It is tempting to throw in former Liberal premier David Peterson’s comment when Eves’s predecessor, Mike Harris, continued to receive police protection after he retired. Peterson said, “If you let them, the Ontario Provincial Police would sleep between you and your wife at night - they have a more aggravated sense of your peril than you do.” But this would not really qualify as election humour. The dearth of humour is due to the more confrontational stances of the parties toward each other since right-wing Tories got into government in 1995. When opponents accuse Tories every day of handing government benefits to donors to their party, and Tories give them the finger or call that read: “HELP WANTED. Must be able to type, handle a computer and be bilingual. We are an Equal Opportunity Employer.” Homer went in, trotted up to the receptionist and barked. When she looked down, he walked over, sat in front of the sign and whined. She got the idea and took the dog in to see the editor. “I think he wants the job,” she said and they both laughed. While they’re laughing, Homer hops over to a vacant typewriter, rolls in a piece of paper and starts typing out his resume. He finishes the page, signs it with a paw print, takes it to the editor in his mouth, then sits perfectly, his tail thumping expectantly. “I-I-I can’t hire you - you’re a dog!” says the editor. “Besides, the ad says you have to be able to use a computer.” Homer leaps up, stands on his hind legs so he can reach the keyboard and fires up a nearby Mackintosh I Book. He runs off two spreadsheets, reprints the Help Wanted ad in bold face and italic and proofreads a short accident report finding two spelling mistakes and one dangling participle. The editor is dumbfounded. “Look, you are very intelligent and obviously have more than enough technical skills, but I still can’t hire you because, because....DAMMIT, YOU’RE A DOG!” With just a hint of reproach, Homer pulls the sign out of the window, puts it on the editor’s lap and lays a paw on the part about being an Equal Opportunity Employer. “Well I STILL can’t hire you! The ad says you have to be bilingual!” Homer looks him in the eye, opens his mouth and says, “Meow.” them “asshole,” it is not conducive to light­ hearted banter. In the 1999 election when Harris was premier, there were still a few cracks. The Tories said the TV program 60 Minutes “was going to invite McGuinty on to talk about his platform, but wondered how it would fill up the other 59 minutes.” The Tories called the Liberals “the Caramilk bar of politics. They’ve got a soft and squishy centre and what it contains is a mystery.” The Liberals argued that the restaurant Pizza Pizza “has a better system for delivering pizza than the Tories have for delivering medicare.” They said also Harris’s idea of long-term planning was booking a tee-off time for golf and had a candy joke, that the Tories are “the M&Ms of Ontario politics - on the inside they’re sweet, but inside they’re real nuts.” But the confrontational stances have only increased since Eves succeeded Harris, and voters in the coming election campaign are not going to die laughing. The short of it Time moves too fast School is out, highlighted by the ceremonial Grade 8 graduations. “It doesn’t seem possible that time has passed so quickly.... It seems like yesterday that we walked through the doors (of public school)...” Seeing those lines while reading this year’s valedictorian speeches 1 found myself thinking out loud, “Sweetheart, if it seems yesterday for you, it probably feels like an hour ago for your parents.” Where the years are going probably hits no harder than at this time. Just the day before they were your same little son or daughter. Then graduation arrives, and out of jeans and t-shirts, your babies, while not quite yet grown-up, are certainly noticeably on the cusp between innocence and adulthood. It was a jump which occurred without you even seeing it. And not for one second can a parent figure out where the years in between disappeared. I remember being in that position. I remember the mixed feelings — excitement for this new phase of their lives, sadness that with growing up comes growing independence, and pride, not just for that growing independence, but for their accomplishments. And I sit now, looking back to those four occasions many years ago, again wondering where the time in between has gone. If the years up to Grade 8 went quickly, those since have moved like quicksilver. In what seems a matter of days, my nest has emptied, my offspring for the most part having not only moved towards independence, but attaining it. My first Grade 8 grad has taught four graduating classes of his own. My second nurtures little minds. My third, a recent college graduate is working to build a career, while my youngest, still learning, is following his dream. Like most parents, I am so proud of who they are and what they nave become, happy that they are enjoying lives they have created for themselves. But there is always that one day when a memory or a song stirs bittersweet feelings. Then I wish selfishly that I could have back those hectic times when a houseful of kids kept me so busy that spending too much time thinking wasn’t an option. Women, traditionally, do find the transition between full house and just the two of us particularly difficult. With years of organizing for, focussing on and nurturing children, it is natural that mothers feel bereft when the last of their brood has left. My feelings regarding an empty nest are as mixed as those felt, when for the first time I knew that time was moving far too quickly for my liking. None of this is to say that where I am is a bad spot. It is a new one, and takes a bit of getting used to. But, there is something to be said about finding your home in the same condition as when you left. There is a freedom, a lack of feeling quite as responsible for everyone else that is actually enjoyable When they do all come home it doesn’t take long to realize either that the dynamics of our family have changed so considerably I can’t imagine them living back under my roof. Often, however, I can’t help wishing it could have stayed the way it was, at least for a little longer. 1 have many times heard a parent speak of the day when their kids will be leaving home with anticipation. They can’t wait, they say. If you’re one of them trust me. You won’t have to wait long.