A LUNCH THAT HAD NO APPEAL FOR LUNCH

We had four bbq'd chicken wings and some potato salad left over from supper last night.

"You can have that for lunch tomorrow," I suggested to Rosanne.

At noon today, however, she announced as only she could:  "I don't want that lunch for lunch (meaning the wings and potato salad)!"

"Well, then, maybe you can have it for supper," was my common sense retort, "otherwise it'll go to waste.".

"I don't want that lunch for supper either," came the mournful yet decisive reply.

I didn't dare mention having the lunch for breakfast tomorrow.  For some reason I didn't want to have that lunch for lunch today either.   Any wonder I'm on the brink of insanity?

Biblical expressions are timeless

My last post (below) carried what may seem to be a rather odd heading.  "Seeing through a glass, darkly" referred to the fact that I had engaged in a close look at myself and was taking measures to correct what I saw.

In the real biblical sense, to "see through a glass (mirror-like), darkly," is to have an obscure or imperfect view of reality.  The expression comes from the writings of the Apostle Paul where he explains that we do not now see clearly, but at the end of time, we will do so.  Sadly, to my way of thinking, Paul's contention will come too little too late to do our worldly selves any good, but I digress.

The "through a glass" heading got me thinking about other age old expressions that remain in common usage today.  "No man can serve two masters". "The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak". "The last shall be first, and the first last". "Man shall not live by bread alone". "Turn the other cheek". "Well done, thou good and faithful servant".  What do these familiar expressions have in common? The answer is of course that they all derive from the King James Bible. In fact, they can be traced to a single one of the 66 books that make up the Old and New Testaments: St Matthew's Gospel.

Even in an age when Christian faith is faltering, the language of the 1611 King James Bible is an important strand running through everyday English. Whether consciously or not, we reproduce its elegant phrasing when we say something is a thorn in our flesh or refer to an event having turned the world upside down. From Matthew alone we draw the expressions "den of thieves", "thirty pieces of silver", "O ye of little faith" and "the salt of the earth".

"Get thee behind me, Satan" is another Biblical expression frequently called on by yours truly.  Sometimes he does...Sometimes he doesn't, but once again I digress.

SEEING THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY

Something happened to me on the way to my present persona and I do not necessarily like it.

I have written before about the shyness that I was born with and troubling adolescent inhibitions that carried well into manhood.  It took almost 70 years for me to be comfortable in my own skin.  Along with that comfort, however, came a growing tendency to be a bit of a mischief maker and a compulsive tease.  It has been a subtle transformation that only recently I have acknowledged through some eye-opening soul searching.

More than anything else, perhaps, it has been Rosanne's insistant "people just do not understand your weird sense of humour, Dick", that finally forced me to take a close look at what I thought was a harmless "fun" side of my nature.  What I came to realize is that generally that "fun" was at other people's expense and that increasingly I could legitimately be accused of trouble-making.

Did the devil make me do it, or was I giving in to a personality flaw that had this strange way of surfacing?  Honestly, maybe a little of both.

It has been suggested that mischief making is a creative activity on a par with painting, cooking, basket-weaving, flower-arranging or God help me -- writing.  Pride is taken in all those types of activity.  Practised mischief/trouble-makers like me also become apt at hiding a big wooden spoon  because we know that stirring the pot is always best done subtly.  A disruptive word here.  A slightly stinging criticism there.  A tongue-in-cheek joke someplace else.  Gleefully rattling chains.

It is rather sad for me now to think of how often my kind of "fun" may have actually been misplaced and unappreciated.  As result, I am making a conscious effort to abstain from any form of teasing or mischief that has hidden potential to be misunderstood.  I am refusing to rise to the devilish challenges that so frequently presented themselves to me in the past.

If I do not seem to be the fun(ny) kind of guy that I used to be, you will now know the reason why.  It is all for the better.  Self-sensorship is serious business and it is certainly no laughing matter!

We jokesters walk a fine line and we have to be sensitive to how our words and actions are perceived.  Many times that "fine line" is none other than a fuse leading directly to a powder keg.

I think we all agree with the principle that we can accomplish far more with warmth, support and consistent kindness, than we can through conflict, confrontation and assertive intervention.  There are times, too, when we are better off turning the other cheek, simply letting go of certain issues and situations.  Why, then, is it so difficult for some of us to grasp that concept?  Why are some things in life far easier said than done?  God bless those who have the capacity to forgive -- and forget!  It is written that "their's will be the Kingdom of Heaven".  

THE BEST DADS BELIEVE IN THEIR KIDS

"My son is a major leaguer playing in the minors."

--Former big league baseball star John Mayberry talking about his son John Jr. who is developing his talents in baseball's minor leagues after several years as a standout college player.

A salute to fathers everywhere whose job it is to be supportive and have faith...And never hesitate to demonstrate pride in their kids.

MY LATEST BACKYARD MIRACLE

HELLO WORLD!...THE BREAKTHROUGH MOMENT

HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW!?

Miracles never cease in my back yard it seems.

Last summer it was a stray, determined sunflower seed that grew and grew against all odds, once stripped of all its leaves by a hungry Cotton Tail Rabbit and three times beaten to the ground by high winds and heavy rain storms.

This summer it is a fern pushing its way through five inches of driveway asphalt.  Several weeks ago I noticed a baseball-sized mound heaving up and breaking through the asphalt just inches from a garden walkway.  Within a 48-hour period the tips of several baby Fiddle heads were distinguishable as I pushed aside several clumps of asphalt (see photo above).  It was then that I realized that I had another amazing summer story in the making and weeks of fern-watching entertainment ahead of me, courtesy of Mother Nature.

Today I photographed the mighty little fern again -- all 18 inches of it, crispy green, healthy and justifiably proud of its accomplishment, in a horticultural sort of way.

If only we mere mortals could harness the sheer force and power of that little fern pushing its way through a driveway surface, surely we could move mountains.

Awe, the wonder of it all!

SETTING THE RECORD STRAIGHT ON BAGELS

Old friend Ray Gilbert was so intrigued by our silly little "New York bagel" story (previous post, below) that he could not resist doing a little research on the subject, just for his own edification.  He kindly passed his findings along to me.

"The two most prominent styles of traditional bagel in North America are the Montreal-style bagel and the New York-style bagel. The Montreal bagel contains malt and sugar with no salt; it is boiled in honey sweetened water before baking in a wood-fired oven; and it is predominantly either of the poppy "black" or sesame "white" seeds variety. The New York bagel contains salt and malt and is boiled in water prior to baking in a standard oven. The resulting New York bagel is puffy with a moist crust, while the Montreal bagel is smaller (though with a larger hole), crunchier, and sweeter.  Poppy seeds are sometimes called by their Yiddish name, spelled either mun or mon (written מאָן) which is very similar to the German word for poppy, Mohn, as used in Mohnbrötchen. The traditional London bagel (or beigel as it is spelled) is harder and has a coarser texture with air bubbles."

In thanking Ray for the interesting information I suggested that I hesitate to inform Rosanne that it is not "where" bagels are made that gives them their name, but "how" they are made.  Perhaps I will wait for an opportunity to tactfully work it into conversation.  God help me, she doesn't even know that I wrote about it.  For now, the rest of us will know the real story however.

WHAT MAKES NEW YORK BAGELS DIFFERENT FROM OTHER BAGELS?... I JUST HAD TO ASK

Rosanne reading aloud from the latest super market flyer:  "Dempsters has New York cinnamon-raisin bagels."

"What makes a New York bagel different from any other bagel?" I ask.

"They're made in New York," was her matter-of-fact reply.

Ask a stupid question and you get a perfectly obvious answer!

WHEN DOES IT HURT TO "SEE" NOISE?

Rosanne was explaining this morning why she wore sunglasses in the car when the sky was quite overcast with no sign of sun overhead.  "More than just bright light bothers my eyes," she said..."Sometimes loud noises hurt too!"

"But Rosanne, how can loud noise affect your eyes?" I questioned.

"It can when you have a migraine," came the answer.

Funny thing was, I almost knew what she meant.  I suppressed the impulse to ask what affect loud noises had on her ears...It was better that I not go there!

"COLON": NO MATTER HOW YOU LOOK AT IT, OR PRONOUNCE IT, IT'S STILL A FUNNY NAME

Rosanne commenting on Bartolo Colon, the starting pitcher for the New York Yankees in a game against her beloved Toronto Blue Jays:

"Roberto Colon (as in intestine)?"...What a funny name!"

Me: "His name is Colon (pronounced cologne), Rosanne."

Her: "Oh, that's better."

LIKE A BAD JOKE, IT'S NOT GOOD WHEN YOU HAVE TO EXPLAIN WHAT SHE JUST ATE

Because of Rosanne's delicate state of health I have the responsibility of all things domestic around the house and as a result of hard-earned experience I have all the respect in the world for my chief-cook and bottle-washing sisters and brothers.  Putting it bluntly: "T'aint easy McGee!"

Not that I look for pats on the back or compliments with every plate of food that I place in front of Rosanne.  The best I hope for, however, is that what I do place in front of her is recognizable --  either in appearance or taste and, sadly, such is not always the case.  Take this past Sunday for instance.

It is traditional for us to have bacon and eggs brunches on the Good Day but on this occasion I decided to change things up a bit, just as a surprise.  We enjoy toasted western sandwiches and I thought that wifey dear would appreciate something just a little different.  Only trouble was, I quickly remembered that I had used up our last onion the day before and that we did not have the green pepper that is so essential for Rosanne in all her Western/Denver sandwiches.

Time not necessarily being a factor, I took a quick trip to our local Foodland store to pick up the two required items along with a carton of Rosanne's favourite tangerine orange juice and some nice thick-sliced smoked bacon that I thought would be a good substitute for the cooked ham that is customary in all proper Westerns.

With a degree of satisfaction and pride I watched Rosanne out of the corner of my eye some 30 minutes later as she devoured her sandwich-and-a-half with what I thought was her usual gusto, but without saying a word.  "She's too busy enjoying it to comment," I reasoned.

The anticipation of a reaction was starting to get the best of me and in an effort to elicit something, I prompted:  "Did you enjoy your tangerine juice?"

"Yes, it was good!" she replied.  "But what was it that we just ate?"

I was immediately reminded of a few instances in the past where I had to explain a joke that I had just told her and realized that it is not good when you have to explain the punch line.  Certainly, it was not good that I had to explain that what she just ate was a Western sandwich, the only difference being that it had bacon on it instead of ham.

Sometimes a fella just can't win.

Next Sunday it's back to good old bacon and eggs, for sure.

MOTHERS EVERYWHERE, WHEREVER THEY ARE

With all our love.  We owe our lives to you!  If only we knew then what we know now...

"Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee calls back the lovely April of her prime."  --William Shakespeare.

HERE'S TO YOU, WILLS AND KATE!

I will be toasting the newlywed Royal couple, Wills and Kate, with a spot of Earl Gray green from my prized mustache cup (photographed here) commemorating the coronation of King Edward V11 and Queen Alexandra, August 1902.  The eldest son of  Queen Victoria, Edward was noted for the full growth of hair on his (stiff?) upper lip and he was reputed to have taken his high tea from a special cup designed to keep his 'stache dry as he sipped/slurped the steaming brew.  Edward V11 is the great-great-great grandfather of Prince William, the Duke of Cambridge.  The commemorative cup is a Wright/Perry family heirloom.

KING EDWARD V11, 1841-1910

THREE LITTLE WORDS SO RARELY SPOKEN

In case I am not around when you visit Wrights Lane, this site is dedicated to my family and friends old and new.    I love you all!  In some cases I have not expressed that emotion enough, in other cases I haven't shared it at all...I've been kind of funny that way...Still am I guess.

Until next time...

ANOTHER CONTRIBUTION FOR OUR DRESDEN "TURN BACK THE CLOCK" WEB SITE

Over the course of the past couple of years I have been the appreciative recipient of photos and clippings of bygone days from numerous Dresden residents past and present.  I was most pleased recently to receive a surprise package in the mail from Carol Taylor (Ruttle) of Newmarket.  Daughter of the late Rhoda and Dr. Jack Ruttle of Dresden and sister of Jim and Andrea, Carol passed along several extremely interesting items from her mother's scrapbook collection, including a newspaper photo of Dresden Continuation School students and teachers, 1934-35 (complete with names); an invitation card for the first annual dance held by The Dresden Police Department, February 24, 1939, and the 1949-50 Year Book for the Dresden High School.  It is interesting to note that Carol's mother, then a teacher, "Miss Rhoda Anderson", is included in the 1934-35 school photograph.  The first annual police dance was held in the Town Hall with an admission charge of 50 cents.  Music for the evening was provided by the McCutcheon Band, better known as "swing and clutch 'em with Sam McCutcheon".  Copies of these items will be given a home on my Dresden: Father and Son Turn Back the Clock web site.  I also plan to reproduce an editorial from the Hi-News of 1949-50 by Editor-in-Chief Catherine McVean.

DECEMBER ROSES COME IN SPRING

Back in June of 2009 I published an item, Roses for me in December, that had been prompted by a message I received from Hevinlee Melton whose 28-year-old daughter was seriously ill with cancer.  I was pleasantly surprised to receive the following good news email from Hevinlee this evening, almost two years later.


"I wish to thank everyone for their prayers for my daughter who had stage 2 lymphoma. I praise God and give Him all the glory for healing her. She just had her second year follow-up and she is CANCER FREE !  GLORY TO GOD !!! I thank Him for prayer partners and keep you forever in my prayers as well." 

--Hevinlee M.

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The initial post and Hevinlee's original email. 


June 10, 2009

If you ever wondered why I produce Wrights Lane, the following comment in response to my "One Couple's Journey With Cancer" site will answer that question. Certainly, for me, it makes everything worthwhile. I hope it is not construed as self-serving.

Dear Dick:

"Thank you for your bittersweet story of love, courage, devotion and endurance. I found this site quite by chance as my eyes captured the word "cancer".

"My 28-year-old daughter is fighting cancer too. She is married with two small babies and our faith in God is still moving mountains. I shall include you in my prayers. You and Anne had that once-in-a-lifetime kind of marriage. Such devotion; such love! I could almost feel it.

"May God continue to comfort and guide you. I read somewhere that 'God gave us memories so that we could have roses in December.' May you have roses in December. God less you..."

--Hevinlee Melton

NOTE:  ...Please join me in praying for Hevinlee's daughter and the two babies who so desperately need their young mother.

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Thank you to the readers of Wrights Lane who may have offered prayers.

THE ELEVATOR RIDE CALLED EXPERIENCE

The older I get the more isolated I am with my thoughts and who I have become.  There is an overwhelming sense of helplessness, too, in what may be in store.  I struggle with the odds as I gamble with the hands that are continually dealt me in this card game of life.  The more I search for meaning the more evasive it becomes.

Good old Jonathan Cainer had an interesting twist recently on life in general when he compared it to "going up"  in a department store elevator (we seem to be on an analogy kick these days).

First floor:  friendships, hobbies and social occasions, which tend to dwindle with age.

Second floor:  family and domestic pleasures.

Third floor:  creative endeavours and commitments.

Fourth floor:  spiritual quests and intellectual challenges.

In the department store of experience, much depends on which buttons we press in the elevator and it really is not a question of going up or down.  It's a question of making the most of whatever floor you find yourself on.  There are problems, doubts, even disappointments, attached to every situation we encounter, but there are wonderful benefits too...Sometimes we just have to try a little harder to look for them.

Heaven help us though, when we land on a vacant floor.  It can be very lonely there.

ME, A "STYLISH BLOGGER"?...I'LL TAKE IT!

I feel quite fashionable after learning that I have been named a "Stylish Blogger" by Michael and Mary-Louise Langlois on their new and excellent "Youth Sports Site" found by clicking http://takingyoubeyondthegame.blogspot.com.  I would return the compliment but the Langlois have already been nominated for the same honour.

'TIS THE SEASON TO BE RATIONALLY REFLECTIVE

Life consists of a cycle of seasons and we move from one to another with renewed hope, inspiration and energy.  We learn that no one season is permanent and that the bad, like the good, will inevitably pass.  It's called the nature of things.

Most of my adult life has been spent advocating the merits of a positive attitude and embarking on tasks and challenges with enthusiasm, dedication and yes -- a sense of humour.  I've talked and written extensively about  tapping into our endless flow of spiritual abundance.  The written word has been an ally in putting forth thought-provoking forms of inspiration and motivation for others.  It has been a self-driven calling that has admittedly at times bordered on the unorthodox, perhaps even somewhat unconventional by some standards.  Involvement in youth activities, community service, human rights and church outreach have been particular personal passions.  All that, in retrospect, is so much history with questionable impact.

Purveyors of thought live in fear of their work falling on deaf ears and eyes that fail to see.  Nevertheless we persist,  compelled to do what we do in the seasons of our lives.  As short-term memory fails and the mind struggles to process everyday perspective with an annoying, troublesome and persistent haze, I am moved to commend those who are in the enviable position of continuing to give of themselves and their talents for the benefit of fellow man and the world in general.  I have long been an advocate of "giving back" to the society from whence we came.

I may well be alone in this season of my life.  I am weary, I am burdened, I have little left to give of a meaningful nature beyond the necessary and immediate personal subsistence of Rosanne and I.  Forever the athlete, my playing days are long past.  I can no longer answer the umpire's call of "play ball", the referee's opening faceoff whistle or the crack of the starter's pistol.  Intensity has gone the way of creative and physical wherewithal.

As I reach back to pass the baton in the relay race of life, I do not sense a ready grasping hand.  The finish line is immanent and I am assuredly losing the race.  Hail the victor!

I have reluctantly accepted the role of also-ran.  The world is filled with us!  As hard as we try, there are times when our best is simply not good enough.

And, after all, no one ever said we had to win every time out.  I take liberties with an old saying:  "It is better to have played the game than never to have played at all..."

Please excuse me now as I place my pen in the old bat rack of life and play a less active, more selfish game in my twilight seasons.  Veteran players have to learn to pace themselves and to pick their spots.

It's not so bad watching from the press box.  I've been there before.

"HANG" IN THERE GALS!

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Apropos my previous post "Honouring Full-Time House Wives..." below.
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Eleven people were hanging on a rope attached to a helicopter...10 men and one woman.  The rope was not strong enough to hold them all, so they decided that one of them had to let go because otherwise they were all going to plunge to the ground more than a mile below.  They weren't able to choose who that person should be until the woman shouted a very selfless proposal.

She said that she would voluntarily let go of the rope because, as a woman, she was used to giving up everything for her husband and kids or for men in general, and was used to always making sacrifices with little in return.

As soon as she finished her sky-high suggestion, all the men started clapping...

(With thanks to Ada Strong)

HONOURING FULL-TIME HOUSE WIVES WHO RAISED GENERATIONS PAST AND PRESENT

It is pure coincidence that I tackle this post on the 100th anniversary of International Women's Day, a time set aside to honour the suffragist movement and the courage and tenacity of the countless brave women of conviction in this country of ours over the course of the past several hundred years.

Earlier this week I received an interesting email message from Rebecca Beausaert, a PhD candidate in the Department of History at York University.  Her doctoral dissertation is about life in small town/rural Ontario, ca. 1870-1914 and she is focusing on the communities of Dresden, Tillsonburg and Elora with emphasis on the development of social activities for women.  She has conducted extensive research on the subject and expressed disappointment at the dearth of useful information in media and library records in particular; all of which is not too surprising considering that to me the rural, small-town housewife of 100-150 years ago is the most unheralded segment of society in history today.

I promised Rebecca my full support, for what it is worth, and wish her all the best as she continues with this worthy undertaking.  Meantime, she has inspired me to offer the following from the far reaches of my memory.

When considering the period 1870-1914, we are talking about my grandmothers, my mother and my aunts.  I have little documented information, but what I do have are stories passed on to me and memories gleaned from overhearing recollections shared by demonstrative family elders.  Mine was an extremely expressive family and I learned very early to be a good listener.

As a youngster, I came to appreciate the fact that the women in my family and the families of our close acquaintance, came from humble roots and as dedicated full-time housewives (home makers in today's vernacular) utilized skills and tender loving care that was their birthright.  I don't think that it is a far-fetched generalization to suggest that most women in small town Ontario 100-150 years ago were resourceful, true grit, hard workers who invested totally in their homes and families.

These women knew nothing of the luxury of vacuum cleaners, automatic dish washers, automatic
washers and dryers for laundry -- the list goes on.  Even indoor running water and toilet facilities were available only to the very privileged.  We're talking about multi-taskers of the highest order here. Cleaning, care-giving, mending, knitting, quilting, putting "down" of jams and preserves and baking were common ordinary tasks with continuing emphasis on nutritious meal preparation dictated by limited budgets and availability of seasonal foods, much of which came from back yard gardens.

In lieu of any formal health care and out of necessity, mothers of this period had to be their own in-house health practitioners regularly administering  mustard plasters, goose grease rubs and linseed poultices for those in their care.  There was also nothing like good old chicken soup and hot lemon juice and honey for children coming down with the flu or a cold.  Baking soda, apple cider vinegar and cayenne pepper too all came from the kitchen cupboard with special medicinal benefits.

Much of the economy in small town rural centres was agriculture oriented and the contribution of the farm wife who did not hesitate when required to exchange her house keeping apron for a pitch fork or a hoe, was so commonly taken for granted at the time and subsequently overlooked in present-day history.

Social life was pretty much centred around church activities, women's organizations being the catalyst for most fund-raising and mission and outreach work in the community.  With family homes the focal point, card parties, afternoon teas and summer picnics were a popular form of socializing and fellowship.  Quilting and sewing bees, oddly enough, were considered to be change-of-pace activities outside the home.  Music concerts were also a well-attended community family function as were rare productions staged in various town halls by roving theatrical companies.  For most women, however, there was little time in their busy weekly routine for recreational activities.  Generally, more often than not, any spare time was spent reading a good book.

Remember too, that there were no radios, movies theatres or televisions in those days.  Alexander Graham Bell had yet to invent the telephone and all communication was by word of mouth.  Gas-powered carriages instead of horse and buggy?...Don't be silly!

Rosemary Neering in her wonderful book Canadian Housewife, An Affectionate History, writes about the era of the full-time housewife coming to an end by the mid 1900s.  "Major feminist lonnes such as The Femine Mystic, the arrival of the birth control pill, increasing numbers of women going to university and seeking careers, full-time employment outside the home, prosperity, fast food, increasing automation, a reluctance to spend one's life focused mainly on the domestic sphere -- all those things meant major changes in the way women spent their time."

Indeed, times and conditions have changed for women in the last century and a half, and they can be proud of the role they play in all aspects of society today.  But on this occasion, the honour goes to those sisters who diligently and faithfully carried out their roles on the home front when life was so much simpler and less complex.

"A man's work is sun to sun, but women's work is never done," the saying goes.

A debt of gratitude is owed all those grandmothers and moms who lovingly toiled over wood-burning stoves and wringer washers more than a century ago.  We could not have made it without them!  I'm sure I speak for dear old Gramps and Dad too.

ON STAYING AFLOAT IN ROUGH SEAS

On the heels of a most unsettling development last week which will remain undisclosed, I find myself relying on a philosophical nature and a healthy daily dose of Celexa.

Like boats, I think we all want to be firmly anchored when life's seas are rough.  In our efforts to resist the winds of change and worst case scenarios, we often affix ourselves to a deep optimistic belief that we will stay on course.  Sadly, however, there are times when we tie ourselves to ideas that appear to have a firm anchor but are actually very much adrift and in danger of grounding or, worse yet -- sinking.

The upside of this analogy is that there is always a period of calm following a storm and generally a personal acknowledgement that we really do not need as much security as we originally thought.  There is always a new course to navigate with a promising horizon in the distance.

The next port will offer some new challenges and opportunities, maybe even a pot of gold.  At least that is what I keep telling myself.

Here's to smooth sailing for the balance of the cruise!

A SIMPLISTIC LOOK AT CHURCH RELEVANCY

Being of a relatively simple mind, I lack the ability to "intellectualize" when it comes to religious matters.  Generally I have more questions than answers.  I take some solice in the words of Augustine: "If you understand it, it's not God."

Classical theology has acknowledged that we cannot know much about "Our Father who art in Heaven", whose essence is hidden and incomprehensible to mere human intellects.  Blind faith is a hard sell
for many in this day and age of high tech hype when single narrative teaching tends to fall short.  The American writer John Updike said:  "Faith is a force of will whereby a Christian defines himself against the temptations of an age.  Each age presents its own competing philosophies..."

I acknowledge that we live in a postmodern age where attitudes question institutions and their underlying certainties.  One religion writer recently suggested that it is this fundamental questioning about whether truth has any objectivity or universality, that is a contributing factor in people not attending church services today.  The relevancy of God in every day life has all but been lost/ignored for many of those among us.

As too often suggested though, I do not think that there is a wholesale turning away from a belief in a Superior Being (God).  Most Canadians, I am convinced, believe...The question is, however, what do they believe and who do they trust to discuss it with?  Unfortunately, in the majority of cases, it is not in church and not with a priest or minister of The Word and Sacraments.  The end result is that there is a void in many lives today that may not even be recognized, or acknowledged.

To address the demise of church involvement and the public profession of faith, several national general
assemblies have taken on the task of studying what church membership might look like in the future.  Understandably, discussion is bound to involve traditional vs. the previously-mentioned postmodern thinking and this is where there is a problem for me.  I am all for change, but not change that dilutes the intensity of individual faith and long-held traditions and practices.

If we insist on continually revising faith according to the whims of society and our own interests, we will be in danger of cutting ourselves off not only from tradition but the church universal.  I wholeheartedly agree that confession of faith in a secular age is not fundamentalism; it is simply Christian.  Church worship should not be compromised for convenience any more than it should be for entertainment value.  Our churches do not need more, or different membership rules; rather they should focus on creating comfortable conditions where people can encounter the God that has been missing from their lives.  Create a familiar, welcoming church environment conducive to relevancy in a present-day context and they will come.  There is an inherent need in the world today for benevolency and a robust, joyful, holistic kind of faith.

As for this simple father's son, I yearn only to return to the God of my childhood, the God of Abraham and Moses -- the God that at one time I felt that I had outgrown.  I yearn to "cling to the old rugged cross and to exchange it some day for a crown."  Amen. 

The story of unseen things foretold is my heritage.  I pray that church legislators and scholars, do not make it unrecognizable for me.

To be certain, we are individuals in this life but we must recognize that we are united by the Divine membrane of love and forgiveness.  We should not look for, nor expect more than that.  Would that I could better  "intellectualize" it, but perhaps that would be a mistake.

REED WRITES: LAST WORDS TO LIVE BY

There are so many outstanding journalists from my era who literally flew under the celebrity radar in Canada, primarily because they were too busy exercising their craft to become media stars in the present-day context. They diligently and accurately reported the news rather than being the news. Their effective word pictures were painted with fairness, balance, passion and color. 

Jim Reed was one of those special journalists who believed in thorough research and backgrounded analysis. He worked as a researcher, writer, producer, director, reporter and news anchor for CTV, TVO and CBC. He travelled widely and freelanced for The Associated Press, The New York Times, The Globe and Mail and other news organizations. He was also a three-time Gemini Award winner, recipient of the “Gordon Sinclair Award for Excellence in Broadcasting” as well as the B’Nai B’rith Award for Human Rights.

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If you have not already noticed, I am referring to Jim in the past tense. Having fought a form of lung cancer since last fall, he quietly passed away in hospital February 11 at 72 years of age. He was born and raised in Goderich and lived most of his life in the small nearby community of Dungannon where in retirement he regularly contributed to his beloved blog Reed Writes (has a familiar ring to it) and produced monthly editorial columns for The Bruce County Marketplace Magazine.

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According to Marketplace Publisher James Pannell, the always professional veteran wordsmith turned in his last copy only three days before he passed away after choosing to be taken off life support. The column was so poignant and typically Jim that I respectfully reproduce it here. Headed "There really is a light at the end of the tunnel...look for it sooner rather than later", Jim's last written words convey a message for each and every one of us.  The thoughts and phrases do not flow as smoothly as would normally be the case with his writing and you can feel the sickness of a man who had come to terms with his life, taking small pleasure in the satisfaction of it all and the one last opportunity to leave behind small nuggets of advice for his readers. 

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I'm sure he would be happy to be getting a little extra ink with this one.

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*NOTE:  Due to problems with Google, this newsprint clipping cannot be enlarged.  Please zoom in your image to 150% and the print will be easier to read.

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It's my privilege Jim.  We celebrate you!

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MY COUSIN DONNA AND THE LONE RANGER



Me at four-years-of-age with cousin, big sister Donna and new pet puppy Spot.

One of the bonuses of being a member of the Facebook community is that it affords a wonderful opportunity to reconnect with family and old acquaintances.  Due to some of my nostalgic writing, I have recently enjoyed connecting with three second cousins from Michigan and in particular, a couple of third  cousins whom I have never met. 

When I was growing up some 65-70 years ago, I was blessed to be a part of an extremely large family that consisted of my grandparents Harriet and Nelson Perry, five aunts, four uncles (and spouses) and 27 cousins.  My mother Grace was the youngest of the Perry brood and I, the youngest of the cousins.  We were an extremely close-knit family that gathered faithfully for special occasions -- Christmas, Easter, summer reunions, Thanksgiving and numerous times in between.  It would be nothing to have 30-40 of us under one roof at any given time, all hugging, kissing laughing, singing and eating lots of good food.  By contrast, families seem to break up and go their own way today and personally I think that it is a shame. 

 

I was so young and had no brothers and sisters, several of my then teenage cousins just naturally seemed to adopt me as their second little brother, Dickie.  Certainly to me, they were the equivalent of big sisters and brothers in every way possible and I spent a lot of time with them in my formative years.  Sadly, they are all gone now and I am the only one left to savor the happy memories of what used to be.  One of my favorite big sister cousins was Donna Phelps Cox (Reed), then of Detroit; and for the benefit of her daughter Betsy Priest and grandchildren Jennifer and Matt Pleva I pass on a story, the details of which may not be fully known to them.  It is a story that has special significance for me because Donna involved me at one point, helping to forge my lifetime fascination with cowboys of the wild west frontier.



Brace Beemer, shows trusty six-shooter to an admiring fan.

After graduation from school, Donna interestingly enough secured a job as a receptionist with WXYZ Radio Station in Detroit.  It just so happened that at the time WXYZ had come into prominence as the host and creator of the increasingly popular Lone Ranger series.  The star of the show in the 1940s was a strapping fellow by the name of Brace Beemer.   Donna would regale us with stories of how Beemer  would make it a point to stop and talk to her on his way into the studio.  She was a very petite, attractive, personable young lady and the six-foot, three-inch Beemer would loom over her threatening to put her in his vest pocket and take her home with him.  He had a pet name for her which completely escapes me at the time of this writing.


On one of my many Easter visits to my aunt Edith's home on Inverness Ave. in Detroit, Donna took me with her to the radio station on a day off from work.  She had arranged for me to meet Beemer following one of his three-times-a-week broadcasts.  I was spell-bound as Donna took me by the hand and led me into the studio where "The Lone Ranger" himself (minus his mask and dressed in a business suit and white shirt open at the neck) greeted me with an already-signed photograph that included sidekick Tonto (then played by John Todd). 


"Good to meet you, young man," said the radio legend, patting me on the back as he hurriedly made his way out the front door enroute to his farm outside nearby Pontiac, Mich.  It was absolutely one of those special occasions that a young lad never forgets.  It still gives me chills to think that I actually met the elusive Lone Ranger.  No where in the annals of radio history can one find a more popular voice than that of Brace Beemer as he portrayed the Lone Ranger in the 1940s and early 50s. In real life Beemer was known to be an all 'round outdoorsman who was both an expert horse rider and a crack shot, a combination that gave him a rugged and virile charm.  Although it was WXYZ station manager George W. Trendle who created and enhanced the Lone Ranger idea, it was my boyhood hero that carried the radio program so successfuly over the airwaves for more than 21 years. After the Lone Ranger series ended in 1955, he portrayed "Sergeant William Preston of the Yukon" on the television program Challenge of the Yukon, for a brief period.  He died in 1965


A little more about the Lone Ranger

With the stirring notes of the William Tell Overture and a shout of "Hi-yo, Silver!  Away!" The Lone Ranger regularly came into the living room of my home in Dresden just before our 6 o'clock supper time and I was glued too the old floor-model radio that seemed to burst at the seams with the vibrations.


The show, as stated, was the creation of station-owner George Trendle and writer Fern Striker.  Neither Trendle nor Striker had any connections to or experience with the cowboys, Indians, and pioneers of the real West, but that mattered little to them.  The men simply wanted to create an American version of the masked swashbuckler made popular by the silent movie actor Douglas Fairbanks in The Mark of Zorro, arming their hero with a revolver rather than a sword.  Historical authenticity was far less important to the men than fidelity to the strict code of conduct they established for their character.



The Lone Ranger never smoked, swore, or drank alcohol; he used grammatically correct speech free of slang; and, most important, he never shot to kill.  More offensive to modern historical and ethnic sensibilities was the Indian scout Tonto, who spoke in a comical Indian patois totally unrelated to any authentic Indian dialect, uttering ludicrous phrases like "You betchum!"    

"Howdy pardner!"  Me in my best cowboy get up, including a Lone Ranger pistol and holster.  I could be the Lone Ranger one minute and at the drop of my straw hat transition to Red Ryder, Hopalong Cassidy, Gene Autry or Roy Rogers.  When I wasn't in a Wild West frame of mind I could easily become The Phantom, Zorro, GI Joe and yes, even Robin Hood.  I was truly "the great pretender" as a kid -- still am, I guess. 

Historical accuracy notwithstanding, the radio program was an instant hit.  Children liked the steady stream of action and parents approved of the good moral example offered by the upstanding masked man.  Soon picked up for nationwide broadcast over the Mutual Radio Network, over 20 million North Americans were tuning into The Lone Ranger three times a week by 1939. In an early example of the power of marketing tie-ins, the producers also licensed the manufacture of a vast array of related products, including Lone Ranger guns, costumes, books, and a popular comic strip.



The Lone Ranger made a seemingly effortless transition from radio to motion pictures and television.  The televised version of The Lone Ranger, staring Clayton Moore as the masked man and Jay Silverheels as Tonto, became the ABC netowrk's first big hit in the early 1950s.  Remaining on the air until 1957, the program helped define the golden age of the TV Western and inspired dozens of imitators like The Range Rider, The Roy Rogers Show, and The Adventures of Wild Bill Hickok.  Although the Lone Ranger disappeared from American television and movie screens by the 1960s, he lived on in a popular series of comic books well into the 1970s.



Cousin Donna would eventually introduce me to a number of other special things like my first movie, my first game of bowling and milkshakes but to my mind the greatest thing she ever did for me was to introduce me to her friend, The Lone Ranger.

"They went thata way, Kimosabe...We'll head em off at the pass!

My bandwagon runneth over with fruit cake

It's been a while since I posted a "Rosanneism" on Wrights Lane.  Well, in spite of my best intentions (and her orders), I just have to give in this one last (?) time.

This afternoon while out on a shopping trip, I was giving Rosanne a hard time/teasing about something, as is my calling in life (I fully expect that in time God will get me for all of that).  To tell you the truth, I can't even remember what wise-crack remark prompted her to blurt out with all the causticity she could muster, "Dick, I've had just about enough fruit cake from your bandwagon." 


As always, I considered myself told in no uncertain terms.  In some weird way I have learned to interpret her messages.

Did you ever force yourself to feign indignance while supressing the impulse to break out in hysterics?  I do that a lot!


Looking for a traditional family table game or the latest in video games?  Visit www.givemgames.com

WE CAN ALL LEARN TO DANCE IN THE RAIN

http://www.flickspire.com/m/passiontest/LearningtoDanceInTheRain

Life's events and experiences are like the weather -- they come and go no matter what our preference.

This is a link to a wonderful video that is an excellent follow up to my last post (see blow) about making the best of things in our lives and being thankful for the simple blessings that we often overlook, or take for granted.  Watch it and you will see what I mean.

About the broken eggs and lemons in life

I live in a world continually subjected to second-guessing and devil's advocacy which, out of necessity, I have learned to supress at all costs.  I do not think that I am any different from most others in this regard, it is just that I seem to place myself in vulnerable positions more often than the average person.  Activist innovator doers have a habit of doing just that.

When we are not chasing rainbows, taking on causes and treading into the unknown we find ourselves deflecting the woulda, shoulda, coulda analystic influences in our lives.  Maybe at the end of the proverbial day, one balances the other out -- I don't know.  The bottom line is that we are the masters of our own destiny and that we accomplish nothing if we give in to negativity, be it of our own making, the victimization of others or pure happenstance.

I have interviewed  several individuals recently who I greatly admire because they have overcome severe setbacks and circumstances that were beyond their control.  One describes his experience as the equivalent of being kicked squarely in the genital area and knocked to his knees while the other speaks of the nausea that accompanies disappointment, embarrasment and heartbreak.  While they come from differing cirumstances, they both had one thing in common -- the ability to pick themselves up, dust themselves off and make the best of the devestating situations in which they found themselves.

An old friend who I often quote, has an interesting analogy involving the cooking of eggs.  "You can't make an omlette without breaking the eggs," he says.  "If, though, you really feel determined to keep the eggs in one piece, you can always cook something else.  If you are dealing with a tray full of eggs that are already broken, however, you may as well use them up.

"What he was saying is that there is no point in wishing that a certain situation had never come about or thinking in retrospect about how the end result could have been much different.  What is done, is done, and the only way to improve it is to accept the unalterable and to go about seeing what can be made of it.

It's all about another analogy, making lemonade out of lemons.  The end result can be quite surprising and palatable beyond our fondest expectations. 

LIKE OLD BARNS, THE OLDER YOU AND I GET... WELL WATCH THIS VIDEO ANYWAY

INTRODUCING MY LATEST BLOG SITE

I am pleased to announce the publishing of my 25th blog site featuring an interesting and talented young  hockey player who grew up in my hometown of Dresden.

Robert Johnston (right) and older brother
 Brian, circa 1960

Like so many other starry-eyed youngsters, Robert "Rosy" Johnston never did make it to the National Hockey League but he has maintained a burning love for the game all his life.  A respectable Junior "A" caliber player, Rosy eventually made his way out west where he played on provincial championship teams in both Manitoba and Alberta.  Now 57 years of age and living in Calgary, he remembers his formative years in Dresden with fondness and credits the grandmother who raised him and surrogate parents who mentored him with being responsible for the man he is today.

It is a simple down-to-earth story that kind of makes you feel good about a lot of things and, in particular, a likeable blue collar guy who has done the best with what God and some caring people gave him when he was growing up in a small close-knit Southern Ontario community.    
Click http://rosysheartneverleftdresden.blogspot.com