By ERNIE NEUFELD, Weyburn Review Associate Publisher
Writing a column regularly begets constant fear that one day there will be nothing left to write about. Readers probably wonder at times whether I ran out a month earlier
Naturally, current events and the political scene, with all their ridiculous aspects, are always subjects ripe and suitable for picking, but when every scribbler in the country is on the same tack, the challenge becomes daunting.
In any case, once in a while panic sets in, and for a measure of reassurance or inspiration, it becomes prudent to consult lists made in earlier panic attacks, or to insert notes with interesting (if legible) incidents in weeks not lacking in topics, and hoard them for weeks less blessed, some even meriting entire space allotments.
Glancing through some of these today, I came across several such goodies. One was a reference to Wales, which I have never visited. This memo was triggered by the report of a Rotary exchange student who had spent a year in that tradition-rich part of Great Britain.
This address was given two or three years ago at a Toronto club, and I'm fairly certain I had an entire column in mind for the subject. The young lady, as intelligent and articulate as I have found most Rotary exchange students to be - whether visitors or outgoing "ambassadors" - was enthusiastic about her adventure, but any notes I may have kept have gone the way of old shopping lists. All that comes to mind at this late date is a fragment from a humourous aside on variations between Welsh and Canadian usages of the King's English.
For instance, it is customary for us, or certainly not unusual, to ask, "How are you?", upon meeting an acquaintance. In Wales, I learned, this query drew a perplexed look; so much as to invite the rejoinder: "In what respect?"
The locals of that land, however, would ask in a similar circumstance, "Are you all right?" I leave it to you to conclude what your response might be to that one.
Guess that's it for Wales, until I go there myself or run into another exchange student.
Another years-old notation brings back a droll but prairie-human incident that came to light in a coffee-break reminiscence about the hard years of the thirties, which my generation loves to expound upon.
Wally recalled growing up in a small Saskatchewan community where his father was a blacksmith. On one occasion, the father had to spend the day away on business, and Wally's brother was left in charge of the shop.
That day, a fire broke out in the smithy. Wally, still in school, came home in due course and naturally went to the shop to get an account of the conflagration. He was astonished at the extent of damage, and surprised to see the fire extinguisher still hanging on the wall, unused and shiny as on the day it was purchased.
"Didn't you use the fire extinguisher?" he asked.
"The fire extinguisher!" exclaimed his brother, with astonishment and disbelief at the absurdity of the question. "Do you have any idea what that sucker costs?"
Ah, what would Saskatchewan history be without the thirties?
Here are some thoughts from a Letter to the Editor in a Toronto newspaper last year, concerning Ontario's Health Promotion and Protection Act, which, as I understand it, requires compulsory blood tests under certain circumstances to reduce the spread of virulent diseases.
The writer of the letter expressed his objection to the fact that the act listed 12 such diseases, including diphtheria, ebola, syphilis and leprosy - but not HIV/AIDS. Noting he was the father of a paramedic, he protested HIV/AIDS is as virulent as any of them, and certainly more so than leprosy.
"It seems," he added, "that we would rather others die than be seen to be politically incorrect ourselves." He wondered whether political incorrectness is as deadly to individual politicians as AIDS is to individual humans. It's a thought that bears cogitation.
Here's a "funny" on how perspectives on time may vary.
Across the street from the Review office there once lived an auto mechanic/body man with his young family. Taking advantage of his work skills, every few months he brought home a badly abused vehicle, repaired it in his spare hours and sold the car he had been driving.
I was operating a very standard auto which, because another one was available for trips, I had driven for six or seven years, usually parked where it was visible from across the street.
Finally, about 10 years ago, considering semi-retirement, I bought a new car.
The first day I had it, I was just opening the door to go for lunch, when one of the youngsters from across the street and just coming home for lunch, stopped dead in his tracks and said, in near-disbelief: "You finally did it!" I must have looked puzzled, because he added, "You finally bought a new car."
He was 10 to 12 years old, and it took a few minutes for his point of view to register. Ever since he had been a virtual infant gazing out the window at the passing scene, I had driven the very same car, while his own father probably had changed vehicles about a dozen times. To him it was proof positive that the world is full of surprises.
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