WHEN A FELLA NEEDS A PRAYER IT'S ROSANNE TO THE RESCUE

It is customary for Rosanne to prayerfully ask her late Polish grandmother to "come into my heart" when I am involved in certain activities or challenges.  She firmly believes that her much beloved "Baba" watches over us with angelic care from her Heavenly resting place.

This morning I undertook a particularly challenging ministerial assignment and Rosanne knew that I was a bit apprehensive.  Her health does not allow her to accompany me, but when I returned home after the service, she was quick to ask "How did things go?"

"One hundred per cent," I replied.  "It could not have been better!"

"Oh, I'm so happy," Rosanne said.  "I prayed continually that everything would be alright for you.  I didn't ask Baba for help this time though, I prayed to God instead....I thought, what the heck, I might as well go right to the top with this one!"

God love her!

I publish the following story on Wrights Lane, not only because of my love for the game of baseball and admiration for those who play and coach it at any level, but also due to the fact that it reflects the honesty and integrity of a young man who did "the right thing".

Money Can’t Buy A Clear Conscience

Posted by BRIAN HORROBIN on July 11, 2013 in COLUMNS, FEATURED STORIES, RELIGION AND SPORTS BY PASTOR BRIAN HORROBIN

Jeremy Affeldt

The world of professional sports has its fair share of ups and downs. An aggressive media helps feed the average adoring fan a steady diet of stuff that makes headlines, whether it’s positive or negative. 

In fact, it’s often what happens off the field that gets the most attention. The recent arrest of New England Patriots’ tight end, Aaron Hernandez, on murder charges highlights an ever-growing trend of high-paid athletes making poor decisions away from the game and ruining their careers in the process. It is hard to read one of these sad stories of successful-players-gone-bad without feeling skeptical of every good, young player taken in a draft. Who can you trust these days?

Enter San Francisco Giants’ pitcher, Jeremy Affeldt. The veteran reliever signed a contract back in 2010, which gave him $500,000 more than was actually agreed upon. The conscience-stricken hurler chose to do the right thing and give the money back to the ball club. Since the ink had already dried Affeldt was actually entitled to keep the money, as it was a mistake on the Giants’ part. Even an assistant General manager encouraged him to keep the windfall. However, Jeremy Affeldt is not like most athletes. No, in this world of fat salaries and sometimes even fatter egos, he chose principle over prosperity. 

Said Affeldt, “I talked to Bobby (the Giants’ GM, Bobby Evans) the next day and said, ‘I can’t take that money. I won’t sleep well at night knowing I took that money because every time I open my paycheck I’ll know it’s not right.’”

The point is not really the money, even though the amount is very significant. Yes, it was half a million dollars! I think we can get all bogged down in the amount and lose sight of the actual act of integrity. If Jeremy Affeldt was buying a couple of packs of gum at the local Dollar Tree, was given 89 cents too much change, and then went back and returned it, would we be hearing about it from the sports media? Likely not. But to the Lord, the principle is the same. If something doesn’t belong to you, give it back. It’s the right thing to do and someone who walks in integrity does the right thing because it’s the right thing to do. Period. No photo op. No bells and whistles. 

Today, Jeremy Asffeldt is $500,000 poorer but spiritually richer and a whole world wiser because of the choice he made that day.

In Psalm 15 we read, “LORD, who may dwell in your sanctuary? Who may live on your holy hill? He whose walk is blameless and who does what is righteous… who does his neighbour no wrong… who keeps his oath even when it hurts.” Is it any wonder that this past winter Jeremy Affeldt was given a lucrative 3-year contract with the Giants? Money can buy a lot of things but one thing it cannot buy is a clear conscience. Just ask Jeremy Affeldt.

Thanks to Facebook friend Larry Balkwill of Chatham for bringing this story to my attention.

LITTLE GIRL SAW BEAUTY IN AN IMPERFECT AFRICAN VIOLET

I was shopping in our local Foodland grocery store (an almost daily routine for this chief cook and bottle washer these days) when my attention was drawn to a grandmotherly woman and a little girl hovering painstakingly over a display of African Violets.  It was obvious that the object of the exercise was to pick out one of the plants for the five-year-old to take home with her.

Without hesitation, the little girl reached into the middle of the display of several dozen brightly coloured purple and lavender plants and made a selection.  You could almost hear the wheels turning in her tiny mind and the expression of serious resolve on her face spoke volumes -- she had made her choice.

"But that one doesn't look very healthy," said the woman.  "Why don't you pick a better one?  Look, this one is very pretty," she added taking the less-than-perfect plant from the child's hand and replacing it with one that had lush green leaves and was in full, beautiful bloom.

Without saying a word, the child studied her grandmother's choice for several long seconds before setting it aside and re-claiming the plant with a lopsided small cluster of pale flowers, holding it in her chubby hands with the tender-loving care of the mother that she would some day become.

"I think that she has made up her mind," I could not help interjecting.  "Yes, but I'm the one paying for it," replied the grandmother.

As I pretended to be pre-occupied with a stand of tomatoes and cucumbers, I continued to watch the rather one-sided African Violet discussion out of the corner of my eye.  Finally, still yet to speak a word and clutching with childish determination what in animal terms would be the runt of the litter, the youngster walked away from the floral display as if to say, "Enough talking gramma, I'm taking this one!"

"I'm fighting a losing battle," the woman remarked with reservation and a smile as she hurried to catch up to the little girl making her way down the aisle hugging that sickly-looking African Violet firmly to her chest.

I could not help but think about the wonderful life lesson that had just been played out before me.  Beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder.  We should all be more childlike in our observations and human relations.

BRITISH WW2 WAR HERO WAS A DRESDEN, ONTARIO, NATIVE

Quiet and shady Hughes Street in Dresden (circa 1910)
as young Graeme Black would have known it.

What follows is a story I stumbled upon while doing some unrelated research several years ago.  The name "Dresden" bounced out at me. Countless hours of additional research and development were required.  In the end, I think that it was well worth the effort.
Young Graeme Delamere Black was a tall, handsome lad -- blond hair, quiet, adventurous.  He was the youngest son of Dresden Bank of Commerce manager Redmond Black and his wife Grace. The oldest son, by a couple of years, was Redmond Jr.

The Black family lived on the corner of Hughes and North Street in my hometown of Dresden, several hundred yards from the Wright homestead on Sydenham Street.  Graeme was born on the 9th of May in 1911, and in a few years would be kicking stones and picking up sticks on the same dirt sidewalks and streets as had my dad, Ken, a few years earlier.  He would also take the same one mile hike to school as my dad and, several decades later, me.

Redmond Sr. immigrated from England while Grace was a Scottish lass.  (It is not known if the Redmonds married before or after coming to Canada.).  They were staunch Anglicans.

Capt. Graeme D. Black

With soon-to-be teenagers Redmond Jr. and Graeme in tow, the Blacks would eventually move to London and then Toronto.  Still in his late teens and with Canada suffering fallout from the Great Depression, Graeme would find himself across the Atlantic in his father's homeland and working for a handbag manufacturer.  He was destined for a more exciting life, however.  His destiny turned out to be the British Army where he quickly rose to the rank of Lieutenant and gained the reputation of being a fighting man's fighting man.  The rest is history.  Here's the balance of a World War II hero's story that does not have the happiest of endings. Not many war stories have happy endings -- that too is reality.

Bedraggled, beaten, starved and manacled, seven British soldiers captured on an undercover sabotage mission in occupied Europe were hauled from their cells at the infamous Sachsenhausen concentration camp in Nazi Germany.  Their private war was over. Forced to their knees beside an open trench, they were shot in the back of their necks by SS troops. Their summary execution 70 years ago on October 18, 1942, was a landmark of World War II.

They were the first to die as a result of Adolf Hitler’s notorious (and illegal) Kommandobefehl or Commando Order, his revengeful instruction for dealing with members of the elite British Commando force who fell into German hands. But more about that later.

The Commandos were the poster boys of the British military in World War II, the toughest and the bravest, cherry-picked from every regiment, ruthlessly trained and then let loose on clandestine missions in German-occupied Europe.  Hundreds of them died on what in many cases were suicide missions, operations so daring and dangerous that the commanders who sent them were grateful if any got back alive.

It was Winston Churchill who set up the Commando units, in the aftermath of Dunkirk. Britain stood alone and under siege, and until the country recovered the strength to fight back in numbers, the Commandos would be the ones to take the battle into the enemy’s backyard.  They would be the inspirational daredevils who would defiantly battle on for Britain and pave the way to eventual victory.

The Rambos of their day, they dashed across the Channel to cause mayhem in French ports, infiltrated enemy positions in the North African desert, blew up power plants, lighthouses, gun emplacements, anything whose loss would inflict damage on the enemy.  They were trained to march, run, climb, swim, canoe, shoot and brawl better than anyone else. And to kill without compunction — a strong arm round a sentry’s neck from behind, a quick jab with a knife in the neck, another enemy down.

Capt. Black in 1941 photo.

The British public loved their exploits, graphically retold in newspaper articles and radio broadcasts. A man in a green beret was guaranteed to be "stood" drinks all night in any pub by a grateful, doting public.  But Hitler came to loathe them as they stormed the walls of Fortress Europe and opened up chinks in his armour. Hence his secret order, issued after 18 months of incursions, to execute each and every one of them.

Even if they were in uniform and even if they had surrendered, Hitler fulminated, they were not to be treated as prisoners-of-war. They were "bandits" and "criminals", to be "eliminated", no questions asked.  A month later, 34 more commandos were dead when the gliders taking them on a secret mission behind enemy lines crashed. Those who didn’t die in the wreckage were summarily shot.

And the carnage went on as Hitler pursued his vendetta against a force that so dramatically mocked his mastery of the Continent. That the Fuhrer felt compelled to respond so ruthlessly was, bizarrely, a back-handed compliment, a badge of honour for his tormentors.

The mission for which those previously-mentioned seven brave men paid with their lives that day in Sachsenhausen was typical of the damage and the irritation they were causing.  Twelve hand-picked men, comprised of two officers, eight Commandos from No. 2 Commando and two Norwegian corporals working for the Special Operations Executive (SOE), set out on what was designated Operation Musketoon. The mission was led by dashing 31-year-old Captain Graeme Black — whose pre-war occupation, improbable for a hardened warrior, had been making handbags for the couturier Norman Hartnell.

Yes, that "Captain Black" was the same young lad whose roots were planted in good old Dresden, Ontario.  He was without question the bravest of the brave. Much decorated, he led by example.  Who would have known?  As it turned out, virtually no one in Dresden knew what had become of him.  If anyone did know of his exploits, it was certainly a well-kept secret.  He deserved better.

Black's mission was to penetrate deep into enemy-occupied Norway and shut down a smelting plant producing much-needed aluminium for the German army. His squad spent four days crammed in the hull of an ageing submarine in the North Atlantic before being infiltrated into the coastal waters of enemy-occupied Norway in rubber dinghies. The power station was located at the head of Glomfjord. Black anticipated that the Germans would be well prepared for a frontal attack since access from other directions was very difficult especially with the onset of the Arctic winter. To achieve the element of surprise he decided to disembark in Bjaerangsfjord immediately south of Glomfjord, the original choice. They paddled four miles to the shore, hiked up a mountain carrying 60 pounds of gelignite apiece and hauled themselves across a glacier on ropes. Their target was not the plant itself but a hydro-electric station that powered it. The team split in two, with Black leading the main force to the generator building, creeping in the dark past the barracks where 100 German soldiers were sleeping.

Re the above illustration (still trying to find the name of the
artist): The Free French submarine "Junon" was selected for
this raid because it had a silhouette similar to some German
U boats. This was a useful attribute especially when working
close to enemy coastlines. She slipped her moorings in the
Orkney Islands at 11.40 a.m. on Sept.11, 1942 escorted for a
while by submarines HMS Sturgeon, Tigress and Thunderbolt.
On board were the crew, Capt. Black's Commando squad, two
rubber dinghies lashed to her casing and a variety of guns,
ammunition, explosives and supplies

Once inside, they worked feverishly to pack explosives around the turbines and attach delayed-action fuses. It was all done in the dark in 15 frantic minutes, then they were out and on their way, heading back up the mountain.They had gone just a few hundred yards away when there was a tremendous explosion behind them and they stopped to gaze back with satisfaction. Job done.

Meanwhile, the other team had climbed high above the building to plant collars of gelignite around huge iron pipes feeding water to the plant. A second explosion sent millions of gallons of water and ton after ton of mud and gravel cascading down into the remains of the turbine room.  Soon the machinery was under 15 feet of silt and sand. Job doubly done.

But now the saboteurs faced the hardest part of their mission — getting away. Ahead lay a 40-mile trek to neutral Sweden across tough mountainous terrain, with what seemed like the entire German army now on their tails.  They paused on a ridge, taking pot shots at their pursuers, hoping to hold them off. salvos of German bullets sent them scurrying on. There was a life-and-death struggle with an enemy patrol in a hut where they sought shelter and one Commando was fatally wounded.   The rest split up but for the seven there was no escape. They emerged into an open bowl to see field-grey uniforms lining the rim on all sides. Captain Black crouched behind a rock, but when a couple of grenades were tossed towards them, they stepped out with their hands up. It was all over.

Of the others, three battled through blizzards and snow drifts, waded rivers and hid from tracker aircraft buzzing overhead for a week before making it to safety. The other went half-mad with hunger and cold but was helped by locals until, after 13 days on the run, he crossed into Sweden.

The captured Commandos, meantime, were transported to the most heavily guarded concentration camp in Europe.  Unaware of  the degree of security, Black attempted to organize an escape plan which was doomed to failure and effectively aborted.  He and second-in-command, Joseph Houghton were resultantly transferred to prison cells in Berlin where they were executed by firing squad and their bodies burned.  Black was posthumously awarded the Distinguished Service Order. It is said that Hitler was confused over the fact that Captain Black came from a place called Dresden.  He thought that it was Dresden, Germany, and that his captive was a German traitor.  Black was apparently able to convince Hitler of his true nationality, but it had little bearing on his immanent brutal death.

It is a cruel twist to the story that the hopes of relatives and friends were raised when the Germans let it be known that the Commandos had escaped. This of course was a cover-up to prevent the grotesque truth being revealed. Hopes and expectations for many back home had remained high and it was only after the war that the real fate of the men became known.  The mission, however, was trumpeted a great success.  Once again Britain’s shock troops had made their mark, as they had done in dozens of daring raids on the coast of France, in Italy and North Africa, inflicting pain and retribution on the enemy and hampering the German war effort.

The image of the invincible British Commando, dagger between his teeth, striking night after night in a carefully co-ordinated campaign of sabotage and raiding, was a symbol of defiance against all the odds. No wonder Hitler wanted to crush it.

The Commandos were a magnificent exercise in bravado and guts at a time when Britain’s very survival was in doubt. Those six brave Britons and one Canadian who went to their gruesome death in a Nazi concentration camp and prison 70 years ago, might have taken some final comfort from knowing that.

In a public statement issued several years ago, British Army Veteran Robert Bishop reflected on first-hand impressions of his then training officer, Lt. Graeme Black.

WW2 Vet Bob Bishop

"Lieutenant Black was my first training officer when I arrived as a 17 year old, accepted for Commando service. I well remember him as a very respected leader and also as a man who had already won the Military Cross. Behind the ribbon of the M.C. he had four bullet holes in his left shoulder from the Vaagso, Norway raid.

"After No. 2 Commando had been decimated in the St. Nazaire raid, Lieutenant Black was promoted to Captain and became my Troop Commander. He was held in high esteem and we were sorry when he departed for another operation in Norway.  I have never forgotten him.

"During the course of World War II, the British Army Commandos earned 38 battle honours and many other awards, including eight Victoria Crosses. It was a record which prompted the Founder of the Commandos, Winston Churchill, to pay the following tribute to the Commandos:

'We may feel that nothing of which we have any knowledge or record has ever been done by mortal men, which surpasses their feats of arms. Truly we may say of them, when shall their glory fade?'

"I like to think that maybe Sir Winston had Captain Black in mind."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So, there you have it -- an amazing story about a British war hero who was a Canadian, and a boy from my hometown of Dresden to boot.  I cannot help but wonder if in his final hours, Black took solice in thinking fondly of those childhood days in his home on the quiet and peaceful corner of Hughes and North streets.  It would be nice if he did.

Last known photo of  Capt. Graeme Black (standing, centre) with members of his Commando unit.

Memorial for British and Commonwealth Soldiers at Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp in Oranieburg, Germany.

MY TESTIMONY AS PUBLISHED BY THE ELDER'S INSTITUTE

*Sorry for the small print in this reproduction.  Click your cursor on the image to enlarge slightly.

A publication of the Elder's Institute, Vancouver, B.C.

JAMES NAISMITH TRADED THE PULPIT FOR PEACH BASKETS

After graduating from Presbyterian College in Montreal, James Naismith, a young ministerial candidate decided he could have a greater impact through sports than he could in traditional congregational ministry. And how right he was!

While training to be a YMCA director in Springfield, Massachusetts, in 1891, Naismith was given a class assignment to invent a competitive, less violent alternative to such contact sports as boxing and rugby that could be played indoors during the cold, winter months. Naismith’s original name for his new game was “Box Ball,” but when all he could find were two old peach baskets to hang on the ten foot high railing that surrounded the gym, he changed the name to “Basket Ball.” Years later there were attempts to rename the sport, “Naismith Ball,” but Naismith refused. He went on to become the first basketball coach at the University of Kansas (ironically he is the only KU basketball coach to have a losing record) and lived to see basketball become an Olympic sport in 1936, three years before his death in 1939. Naismith himself awarded the medals, gold to the U.S. and silver to Canada.

Naismith monument in Almonte, Ontario

Naismith never patented his game; it was truly his gift to the world. As the inventor of basketball, the enduring impact of James Naismith is inestimable. Today basketball is the third most popular sport in the world, and even the President of the United States holds national news conferences when he fills out his basketball bracket for the NCAA Basketball Tournament held each March. Perhaps most importantly, the sport has brought together rich and poor and helped to overcome the racial barriers that separate us from one another.

One will find basketball backboards in the driveways of the wealthiest homes and in the poorest neighbourhoods and ghettos, in public parks as well as the gymnasiums and parking lots of schools and churches and YMCA/YWCAs around the world. Many churches have used basketball as a means of reaching new generations of young people with a living experience of Christian community; indeed, the Chinese Presbyterian Church in Toronto began as a mission outreach to Chinese male immigrants to Canada in 1910, providing them with a place to live and a place to gather for recreation. They built a basketball court long before they built a sanctuary! The James Naismith Foundation, established in 1989, maintains the Naismith Museum in Naismith’s hometown of Almonte, Ontario, and supports basketball programs in First Nations communities.

And it all began with one Canadian Presbyterian who dreamed of bringing his love of Christ and love of sports together, and who could only find two old peach baskets to teach his new game of “Box Ball” to his gym class.


With thanks to PConnect

BARRETT: MY LATEST LITTLE BUDDY

Barrett with new sunglasses -- and a stick. 

Over the years I have had many little buddies.  I have written about some of them.  Invariably, they ended up calling me "funny guy".  A few adults have also called me a funny guy, but I much prefer it coming from the mouth of a babe.

My latest tiny tot chum is 22-month-old Barrett.  Already he gets "Bear" for short.  He lives across the street from me with his young mom and grandparents.

Barrett likes lawn mowers, snow blowers, tools of all kinds (his grandfather's) and sticks, any kind of stick. He has a two-word vocabulary, "hi" and "bye", both of which sound pretty much the same.  We have great conversations, all one-sided; but I often catch him studying me as if thinking "what a funny guy."  When he wants me to sit down he pats a chair, the ground or a step with his chubby hand.  I try to comply in spite of my very stiff arthritic ankles.  By the time I get down to his level, he is generally off to something else that has caught his attention.   He is a great waver and shouts "bye" long after I have left the scene.

His folks are trying to get him to say "please" and "thank you", but I am waiting for the first time he calls me the way he no doubt sees me -- "funny guy".

I've already told Barrett that I think that he is a pretty funny little guy.  He makes me laugh!...All kids do.

SOLVED: THE MYSTERY OF A 100-YEAR-OLD SHOE SHINE BOX

I've always had a "shine" for this old box!

Old boxes have always fascinated me.  How old are they?  What did they originally contain?  Who did they belong to and why?  I've never seen a box that I didn't want to save and I have a basement, closets and a garage to show for it.

One small wooden box, approximately 8x8x6 inches, has been a life-long possession and has always mystified me.  As a matter-of-fact, for a combined 90-plus years, my late father Ken and I have used the box to store shoe shining items (polish, brushes and polishing cloth, etc.).

"Are you kidding?  Who shines shoes in this day and age?" you might well ask.  And I would tend to agree...I cannot truthfully say when I last polished a pair of my shoes, let alone opened the box.

The interesting thing about this particular box however, which I understand at one time belonged to one of my grandparents, is a sticker or label on the inside of the lid which reads: "The Jones-Eucamed Electro Medical Bandage, manufactured for Dr. William Jones, magnetic physician, Berlin, Ontario No 1.2.3."  Berlin, of course, was the former name of the City of Kitchener.  It was the Town of Berlin from 1854 until 1912 and the City of Berlin from 1912 until 1916.  So my old shoe box has to have been in the Wright family for at least 100 years.

But what about the "Jones Eucamed Electro Medical Bandage" made for Dr. Jones?  Curiosity finally got the best of me today as I opened the box to check on the condition of shoe polish which has to be more than a decade old.  Two hours of research revealed that during the years 1873 and 1876 Thomas A. Edison made and marketed an electro-medical apparatus he called the "Inductorium" which was reputed to cure rheumatism and to provide "an inexhaustible fount of amusement".

The device consisted primarily of an induction coil with battery and electrodes which were held by the person applying the current to a specific area of the body.

The complete apparatus sold for six dollars ($6.00) and was also said to be used in the treatment of hysteria. For at least two thousand years of European history until the late nineteenth century, hysteria referred to a medical condition thought to be particular to women.  I will not go into further detail on that subject nor the "inexhaustible fount of amusement" claim, except to say that doctors stopped "treating" hysteria" in the 1950s.

I was also interested to find that The Thomas A. Edison Papers, Rutgers University, in New Jersey is anxious to know if any of Edison's Inductoriums survive anywhere, public or private, and if any other material related to the devices are still in existence.

I wonder if they would be interested in my box?  Nowhere does it say "manufactured by Thomas A. Edison", but there is a very good chance that it was.  I wonder too, whatever happened to the original contents.  Unfortunately, I have been unable to find information on Dr. William Jones of Berlin, Ontario.

The rest of the story I will never know and maybe that is a good thing.  I'm just glad that I finally got around to doing the research and solving the mystery of what was originally in my old shoe shine box.

And, oh yes, the shoe polish is still in useable condition -- if I ever want to shine a pair of shoes.

Copy of an ad for Edison's "Inductorium"

JUST IN PASSING...

If your prayers are not being answered, there are those who might suggest the possibility that you are beseeching the wrong deity.  They might also say that you are making your supplications in an inappropriate fashion.  Personally, I do not think that there is a wrong way to pray.  There is a wrong way to wish for things, however.  Sincere wishes, expressed in a spiritual way and given over to God's universe, are similar to the act of praying and have every possibility of being granted.  If that possibility makes you feel uncomfortable, you may be well advised to wish (or pray) for something else.

I like what someone said about addictions the other day...We all have them, right?  We might readily allude to the "little" addictions in our life, but some are not quite so little.  We might think, "I'm fond of my coffee in the morning."  But on that odd morning when we run out of coffee, we realize that we are more than fond of it, in fact we are hooked on it.  My friend suggested that situations like that can present opportunities for us.  "It is just when we realize just how reliant we have become on something that we are blessed with the greatest chance to learn how to overcome that dependency."  Certainly, we do not need to feel trapped by anything in life, but if I'm going to be "hooked" on something I'll take coffee every time.

Vote for Madison Brennan - Harrow, ON in the 2013 National Mobility Awareness Month "Local Hero" contest!

NOTE FROM DICK: I am supporting highly-deserving teenager Madison Brennan in conjunction with a National Mobility Awareness Month initiative. Madison is the granddaughter of a friend, Robbie Davis of Southampton, and the daughter of Jay and Carol Brennan of Harrow, ON. A vote for Madison could help her win a 2013 wheelchair accessible vehicle. Just look for her (*Enter to Win...Find A Local Hero) on the National Mobility Awareness Month web site at www.nmeda.com. You can also Google "Madison Brennen, Harrow, ON." to gain access to the voting site.

MADISON BRENNAN

Madison is a bright, sociable, enthusiastic 17-year-old girl. She has overcome and surpassed countless obstacles in her life. She was born at 24 weeks, weighing only 1lb 10oz and was given only a10% chance of living. She is profoundly deaf and has Cerebral Palsy which has completely confined her to a wheelchair and is unable to move independently. She has faced many adversities but still has the most contagious smile and laugh you have ever seen or heard. She struggles with the day to day things in life that we take for granted and at the same time you’re inspired by her strength and persistence. Madison enriches the lives of everyone she meets, but as she gets older and bigger she is having increased health issues such as severe chronic tone pain for which she receives regular injections to control the pain and is only comfortable using her electric wheelchair.

Even though she tries to look beyond her disabilities and fit in, she still feels the frustration of her limitations regularly. Now only being able to feel comfortable in her electric chair she is limited even further because school and home are the only places she can go in her electric wheelchair. This vehicle would enrich Madison’s life tremendously. It would help her be able to live a productive life. She would be able to go places like the mall with her friends and out in the community to dances and other events and even to doctor’s appointments in comfort. It would also give her back some of her independence and freedom and help her live her life to the fullest and enable her to continue to inspire and enrich everyone she meets.

Gramma Robbie thanks you in advance for supporting Madison with your vote...I do too!  Note also that you can vote for Madison every day until the contest closes.

YOU COULD HELP SAVE A LIFE

During a BBQ, a woman stumbled and took a little fall - she assured everyone that she was fine (they offered to call paramedics) ...she said she had just tripped over a brick because of her new shoes.

They got her cleaned up and gave her a new plate of food. While she appeared a bit shaken up, Jane went about enjoying herself the rest of the evening.

Jane's husband called later telling everyone that his wife had been taken to the hospital - (at 6:00 PM Jane passed away.) She had suffered a stroke at the BBQ. Had they known how to identify the signs of a stroke, perhaps Jane would be with us today. Some don't die. They end up in a helpless, hopeless condition instead.

It only takes a minute to read this.

A neurologist says that if he can get to a stroke victim within THREE hours he can totally reverse the effects of a stroke...totally. He said the trick was getting a stroke recognized, diagnosed, and then getting the patient medically cared for within THREE hours, which is tough.

Thank God for the sense to remember the "Three Steps", STR. Read and Learn!

Sometimes symptoms of a stroke are difficult to identify. Unfortunately, the lack of awareness spells disaster. The stroke victim may suffer severe brain damage when people nearby fail to recognize the symptoms of a stroke.

Now doctors say a bystander can recognize a stroke by asking three simple questions:

S *Ask the individual to SMILE.

T *Ask the person to TALK and SPEAK A SIMPLE SENTENCE (Coherently)
(i.e. Chicken Soup)

R *Ask him or her to RAISE BOTH ARMS.

If he or she has trouble with ANY ONE of these tasks, call emergency number immediately and describe the symptoms to the dispatcher.  NOTE: Another 'sign' of a stroke is this: Ask the person to 'stick' out their tongue. If the tongue is crooked', if it goes to one side or the other, that is also an indication of a stroke.

A cardiologist says if everyone who gets this message sends it to 10 people; you can bet that at least one life will be saved.

I WAS JUST SITTING HERE WONDERING...

...When the hell is spring coming?

BOY, WHAT I COULDN'T DO WITH $12.5 MILLION

I thought my readers would be interested in an email I received yesterday from a woman in Malaysia.  For some reason I get a lot of similar urgent pleas from people (usually women with pathetic stories) wanting to give me large sums of money.  I guess I have "sucker" written across my forehead or maybe wrightwords@sympatico.ca has some other giveaway meaning in certain foreign languages.  Anyway, should I pass up another opportunity for a cool $12.5 million in hard cash U.S.?  Just think of the good that I could do with it...Maybe even skim a mil or two off the top to supplement my fixed income.  Ideas, anyone?

From Mrs. Misael Garcia:

Life itself is a misery and nobody can tell what can be of it. Those that can tell what can be of it are those who cannot tell us because they are far from us (dead). if u will want to hear my story. I am the above named person but now undergoing medical treatment for cancer.

I am married to Dr. Garcia who worked with American embassy in Malaysia for nine years before he died in the year 2006. 

well i will only try to let you know who Dr. Garcia is by stating his philosophy of life ."life is worth living only if lived to the service of mankind" and "You make a living by what you earn, but you make life by what you give" This will give you an insight of the spirit behind what i believe and what i will live for because he is my mentor. 

To continue with my story, We were married for eleven years without a child. He died after a brief illness that lasted for only four days.Before his death we have made something of and from life. Since his death I decided not to re-marry or adopt a child, this is basically my own decision to honor him for the love we shared and the life we lived for. My late husband deposited the sum of$12.5Million (twelve million five hundred thousand U.S. Dollars) with one finance/security company in Europe before his death.

Presently, this money is still with the Security Company. 

Recently, my Doctor told me that I would not last for the next three months due to cancer problem. Though what disturbs me most is my stroke. Having known my condition I decided to donate this fund to a church, better still a Christian individual or a Muslim that will utilize this money the way I am going to instruct herein. first you must abide and live with my husband's philosophy, as stated you can't remember please i refer you to read through from the introduction of this letter cause that is the most important aspect that you must uphold. 

Secondly I want an organization or an individual that is God fearing who can invest the money and continuously use the money to fund orphanages,widows,the less privilege,the disabled and all those afflicted with strange illness or diseases.

Thirdly this money should not be used in an ungodly manner, or any form of evil or selfishness for that will warrant evil to that persons life and family from generations to generations. For you cannot use the hard earned money of my husband and i for evil or ungodly purposes. If these conditions are met i am not afraid of death for i know where i am going to and my heart will rest in peace. 

I do not need any telephone communication in this regard because of my health, for as soon as I receive your reply I will refer you to the contact of the Finance/Security Company in Europe and my doctor who shall arrange
you the letter of claim from the Malaysia High Court of Justice. This will be done if i see from your response that you satisfy the above conditions stated.

As i stated My doctor will issue you a letter of authority that will empower you as the original- beneficiary of this funds (consignment). i choose this means to locate you because i am sure i will be lead by a good spirit to the kind of person that will be honest. 

Delay in your reply will not be of benefit to me due to my health condition and this will propel me to search for someone else.Please assure me that you will act accordingly as I stated herein.

Please do get to me immediately

Hoping to hear from you.

In His Services.

Mrs. Misael Garcia

Ran across the following earlier today.  Couldn't help but relate.

Today is the oldest you've ever been, yet the youngest you'll ever be so - enjoy this day while it lasts.

Your kids are becoming you...but your grandchildren are something you never were -- perfect!

Going out is good..coming home is better!

You forget names...but it's okay because other people forgot they even knew you!!!

You realize you're never going to be really good at anything....especially golf.

The things you used to care to do, you no longer care to do, but you really do care that you don't care to do them anymore.

You sleep better on a lounge chair with the TV blaring than in bed...it's called "pre-sleep".

You miss the days when everything worked with just an "on" and "off" switch.

You tend to use more four-letter words ..."what?"..."when?"... ???

What used to be freckles are now liver spots.

Everybody whispers.

You have three sizes of clothes in your closet....two of which you will never wear.

It's not what you gather, but what you scatter that tells what kind of life you have lived.

But old is good in some things: old memories, old songs, old movies, and best of all, old friends.

TODAY I JOIN THE WELSH IN CELEBRATING...

Well, they come and they go on March 1st.  Take me and St. David, the patron saint of Wales, for instance.

St. David apparently died on this date, and approximately 20 centuries later I was born.

It is not commonly recognized in North America,  but March 1st, is St. David's Day - a day of remembrance for the death of  the Patron Saint.  Tradition holds that he died in the year 589 and, in the 18th century the first day of March was declared a national holiday in Wales.

As the Patron Saint of Wales, St. David plays a very important role in Welsh culture with parades held in Wales, especially in Cardiff where the Queen or Prince of Wales attend festivities.  People of Welsh background, such as 19th century explorer David Thompson and 20th century novelist Robertson Davies, are remembered on this day and many Canadians can trace their ancestry to Wales.  Unlike a number of contemporary Welsh "saints", David was officially recognized in 1120 by the Vatican.

The Welsh flag.

The Welsh generally are known to be extremely talented people.  Heading the list of Welsh notables in the entertainment field are singer Tom Jones and actor Richard Burton.  Actress Catherine Zeta-Jones is also of Welsh heritage.

I don't have an ounce of Welsh blood in me, but I enjoy celebrating March 1st. anyway.  Glad my mother had me 75 years ago today on good old Canadian terra firma!

MY MOTHER NEVER DID END UP IN A POOR HOUSE, BUT I MIGHT (OR AN INSANE ASYLUM, WHICH EVER COMES FIRST)...I'M MY MOTHER'S SON YOU KNOW

The Wellington County Museum and Archives is a National Historic Site.  It is located in a building that stands as the oldest remaining 'House of  Industry" in Canada. It was built in 1877 as a "Poor House" or place of refuge for the poor, homeless, and destitute people in Wellington County. It operated as a Poor House and Industrial Farm until 1947 when it became a County Home for the Aged. It was later transformed into the Wellington County Museum and Archives. A new Archives wing opened in 2010.

Recent discussion within the Dresden Virtual History Group is centering around "poorhouses" as they existed in the l9th century.  I grew up hearing the expression "poor house" more often than I care to recount.  You know..."We're all going to end up in the poor house" or "It won't be long before I'm in the poor house."

That was my mother talking when my dad did not bring home enough money from his business at the end of the week or when she was hard-pressed to meet living expenses.  "You're driving me to the insane asylum" was another expression often directed at the three men in her life -- my dad, my grandfather and me; but that's another story.  We're talking here about poor houses, although there might well be some correlation.

Though more commonly associated with Victorian England and novels by Charles Dickens, such as Oliver Twist, the poor house was part of Canada's social fabric for more than 60 years and one of its earliest legislated responses to poverty. Poor houses have been forgotten but they are part of our local history. These "houses of industry and refuge," as they came to be known, were shelters of last resort for the destitute, homeless, "feeble-minded" and elderly. In exchange for their labour, they were provided with spartan accommodation, clothes and simple food, much of it grown themselves. At Christmas, there might be small gifts, perhaps a handkerchief, a pipe or an orange.

The poor house closest to my home in Dresden was located in Chatham and according to a virtual history group member there was another located in Strathroy (her great grandmother died there).  To the best of my knowledge both houses were demolished years ago.  One of the oldest surviving examples of a poor house in Canada is in Wellington County (see photo). The Fergus, ON. building, a national historic site, opened in 1877 at a time when "pauperism" was considered a moral failing that could be erased through order and hard work. I have visited the Fergus facility and it is truly one of the province's best kept secrets.

It was also something Lieutenant-Governor John Graves Simcoe had very much wanted to avoid when he arrived in Upper Canada in 1791.  In his native England, more than 100,000 people were swallowed up in work houses, funded by a "poor tax" on landowners and criticized for being costly and creating cycles of dependency.

"When he came over to take up his position here, he was absolutely convinced he wasn't going to allow anything like that to develop," David Wood, a professor emeritus of geography and urban studies at York University's Atkinson College, has commented.  Yet poverty was inescapable. Crops failed. People starved. On farms and in cities, as the province slowly started to become industrialized, many couldn't work because they were sick or injured or old.

The only option for indigent people in the province's earliest days was to seek shelter for a night or two at the local jail, said Wood in a newspaper interview a few years ago.  He has written on the legislative history of Ontario's poorhouse system and admissions in Wellington County. One newspaper account from the early 1870s tells of one elderly man who was living in a hollowed-out log on a farmer's field in a township outside Fergus, partly paralyzed and in danger of freezing to death. The council was debating what to do and the story was being repeated hundreds of times across the country.

Across Canada, elected officials were struggling with similar problems. Handouts of food or clothing known as "outdoor relief" became common and, in New Brunswick, one solution was to auction off care of the poor to the lowest bidder at "pauper auctions" that were compared to slavery in the American south.  In Ontario, the province passed the Houses of Refuge Act in 1890, which provided county governments with grants of up to $4,000 to purchase at least 45 acres of land and construct a suitable building. By 1903, new legislation required every county in Ontario to have a house of refuge.

Much like today, misfortune seemed to hit society's most vulnerable people the hardest – the unskilled, the elderly, the disabled and children. While Canadian society has evolved and a sophisticated social safety net has developed to ease the burdens of those who've fallen on hard times, attitudes toward poverty remain much the same today.

Just another not-so-happy peek at yesteryear. A time that we should not so readily forget as we enjoy the comfort and security of our lives today.

THE WOES OF WINTER -- AND TOWN SNOW PLOWS

WHAT AM I GOING TO DO WITH THAT MESS?  This is what faced me at
noon on Saturday --  three-and-a-half feet of snow in my driveway.

DIG YOURSELF OUT YOU FOOL!  After almost an hour of  shoveling I 
finally penetrated the heavy  blockade but couldn't help leaving some 
snow in the street.

I know that I am no different than any one else when it comes to coping with mounds of snow piled in my driveway by municipal road clearing crews each winter. It is an unfortunate fact of life this time of year, but that does not make it any less of a nuisance that places inconvenience and physical strain on all of us.  Adding insult to injury for me this week was an announcement by Saugeen Shores Police Chief Dan Rivett to the effect that is was a breach of the Highway Traffic Act to deposit snow back onto the roadway, a crime that carried a $110 fine.  I just could not sit back and take it any more and vented my frustration in the following Letter to the Editor of the Saugeen Times.  I'm sure that readers will appreciate where I am coming from on this one.

Letter to the Editor, Saugeen Times

I may have been guilty of breaking a law under the Highway Traffic Act on Saturday, February 9, 2013.

I read with interest and a degree of chagrin the "Police Beat" column published in the Saugeen Times, February 7, 2013, and a notice "From the Desk of the Chief (Dan Rivett)" announcing to the tax-paying public the sin of "pushing snow onto the roadway." He added insult to injury for 90 per cent of the population of Saugeen Shores by pointing out the potential of a $110.00 fine. My immediate reaction was "I think I may be in trouble."

You see I am a 75-year-old senior citizen recovering from total hip replacement surgery. For three days late last week I was marooned in my home due to the heavy snow fall and the fact that town road and sidewalk plows had deposited a good three-and-a-half-feet of snow in the entrance to my driveway. Finally, on Saturday, February 9, with no snow fall overnight, I had no other option but to dig myself out -- we were running out of food and my disabled wife needed a drug prescription refilled. I started shoveling at 1:15 p.m. and by 2 o'clock I had made my way down to the entrance to the driveway -- that's where the real work began. I took a short break for a hot cup of soup and two Naproxens, then set out to try to make a dint in the waist-high pile of snow at the roadway. Exactly 50 minutes later, I made the breakthrough.

Just as I was finishing depositing the last shovel of snow in the by now six-foot mountain at the curb, an elderly woman happened by on foot. We chatted briefly. She told me that she and her 90-year-old husband had a similar problem at their home just around the corner. "He (her husband) is laid up today because he worked so hard for two days trying to clear the pile of snow at the foot our driveway. I tried to tell him to take it easy, but he insisted; now he's paying a price," she lamented. I fully sympathized.

I live on Grey Street North in Southampton where the sidewalk is separated from the street by a two-foot-wide boulevard which limits space to pile up snow cleared from the street entrances to our driveways. Try as I may, I could not help but spread some of the snow approximately three feet out onto the street where it came from originally...In fact we all do it, out of necessity. The accompanying two photos show exactly what I am talking about. The scene was repeated several hundred times in Southampton this weekend.

This is how the "placement of snow" act is printed in Town of Saugeen Shores "Winter Maintenance Procedures".

Placement of Snow on Municipal Right-of-Ways

"Residents of the Town of Saugeen Shores are reminded that, pursuant to Section 181 of the Highway Traffic Act:

No person shall deposit snow or ice on a roadway without permission in writing to do so from the Ministry or the Road Authority responsible for the maintenance of the road R.S.O. 1990, s 181. Deposition of these materials on the roadway interferes with property maintenance practices. Your attention to this Act is required to assist us with keeping the roads maintained in a safe and useable condition."

Since he has publicly made an issue of this matter, my question to Chief Rivett is this: How much snow "deposited" back on the street is too much and how far out on the street is too far? For most of us it is virtually impossible not to leave some snow on the roadway after clearing the entrances to our driveways. Surely his officers will show due discretion as they patrol town streets (?) after heavy snowfalls and make allowances for senior citizens in particular who do not set out to break the law...They just need to get out of their driveways by the most expeditious means possible and without getting stuck in the snow that the town has redirected onto their property. Sometimes it is not a fair world! Not even in Southampton the good.

Richard "Dick" Wright
Southampton

THE ZACK BREAULT STORY:

I publish the following story especially for the enjoyment of old baseball chums Bruce Huff, Bob Peters, Jarvis Cook and Floyd McKorkle (all regular readers of Wrights Lane) and my friend Larry Balkwell Sr. of Chatham whose son Larry Jr. will soon break into baseball's professional ranks. We can all relate, for different reasons. This excellent account was written by Bob Fai who is publicity director for the Vancouver Canadians Baseball Team.

By Bob Fai

(Scotiabank Field at Nat Bailey Stadium - Vancouver, B.C.) - We are in the business of selling dreams here at the ballpark, it's as simple as that.

We tell you of players like Rich Harden, Kurt Suzuki and Nick Swisher that have gone on to play under the bright lights of a Major League Baseball stadium. It is what we hope makes us a credible summertime destination for passionate fans of baseball here in Vancouver.

Sure we have hot dogs that are as long as your child's arm, we have a grounds crew that breaks out in dance on a nightly basis - but we also try and sell you on the 'future' as well - the future of our players who maybe, just maybe, will one day go on to become the stars that you'll find on TV playing for the Toronto Blue Jays.

Canadian's pitcher Zack Breault 
moments after winning the NWL
 Championship in Boise, ID. 

Some make it, while others more often than not - don't.

That's okay to admit because what we are actually selling isn't the assurance that you are watching future Major League Baseball players - but that you are watching players 'try' to become Major League Baseball stars.

That to me is what makes our players' journeys so wonderful each summer.

Let me tell you the story of a player who chose this week to stop his pursuit of wearing a Blue Jays jersey - or any Major League jersey for that matter.

I became friends with now 'former' Canadians pitcher Zack Breault in the summer of 2011 shortly after he was assigned to Vancouver to play for our hometown team.

Our brand seemed fitting as Zack was one of five Canadian-born players to make the roster two summers ago and was named Opening Day starter just hours before we began the pursuit of what would be the first of two straight Northwest League Championships.

At 6'4", I looked up to Zack in stature but as I got to know him, eventually, I looked up to him as a person as well.

You couldn't 'not' appreciate his demeanour.

His razor sharp sarcasm, his desire to win were all traits that I enjoyed being around much like his teammates.

It's not easy for every pitcher in the Minor Leagues to simply go out and win, but Breault would work through the highs and lows and always find a way to balance the cheques and balances of his statistics finishing his professional career at .500.

Four wins and four losses.

Sitting just behind me on our many bus rides together back in 2011, Zack and I would constantly go back and forth with me trying my best to pull off an impersonation of him while he could do nothing more than shake his head.

It might have bothered him, but you'd never know it - that was just Zack.

We would talk about baseball, life in Amherstburg, Ontario (his hometown) and his housing family here in Vancouver.

Shortly after announcing his retirement recently to a local newspaper back east, Zack went out of his way to thank Bill and Jana Maclagan as well as their children Konnerand Keegan.

"They were great people," said Breault to the Amherstburg River Times.

"They did everything in their power to make me feel as comfortable as possible. They were a pretty big part of my pro career."

A pretty classy move to thank those who waited up late and woke up early to ensure his progression on and off the diamond.

The Maclagan's have housed Canadians players for years now and Zack would likely rank right near the top of players whom they hold near and dear to their hearts.

This past summer, his second with the Canadians, Breault would find his way into Clayton McCullough's bullpen as the rotation from our Championship squad of 2011 looked completely different a year later.

Admittedly, it would take Zack a few outings before his game finally 'clicked' and at times you could see his frustration building.

A rough night in Everett back in late-July seemed to be the 'moment of truth' for Zack as his one inning of relief was anything but with the Aquasox torching him for a pair of runs, on a trio of hits en route to a Canadians loss, one that fell squarely on his shoulders.

Zack was as quiet as I had ever seen him after that outing as his 'slow burn' could be felt by everyone sitting near him on the bus. It would be a night where I chose wisely not to say a word.  We knew he needed the silence to figure things out - and he did.

That rough night in Everett would mark the last time any team in the Northwest League could manage a run off of his arm.

As he began to steer his season back onto the rails and toward overall success in August, I would watch him in the clubhouse, on the bus, at the field and around town - I think he knew even before we did that it was his time. He had reached as far into the professional game of baseball as his ability could take him.

I hope as you read this that you see there is absolutely no shame in this statement.

If anything, a sense of pride should be felt when you realize that even if your road doesn't end up in the Major Leagues, you have still gone further than 99% of those who dared to dream about a career in professional baseball.

Sometimes it's that peace and understanding that helps you do something you might not have done since you first signed a pro contract - breathe.

Once he exhaled, Zack was unbelievable down the stretch for Vancouver in 2012.

Not one run crossed home plate on his watch as his 14 1/3 innings of 'lights out' relief helped the Canadians chase down a playoff spot on the final day of the season.

If you can still remember, Vancouver needed every single one of those 46 wins in 2012 just to punch their ticket into the playoffs, and in reflection, it almost seems fitting that on a warm summer evening in Yakima, it would be Breault who would find the final victory of his career to help the C's clinch.

A week earlier, Breault was also at the center of another key moment in our season.

Those offensively-gifted Boise Hawks had been crushing LHP Kyle Anderson over his 1 2/3 innings of work here at Scotiabank Field as they put six runs up on the board in the top of the 2nd inning, forcing manager Clayton McCullough to summon Zack from the bullpen much earlier than expected to try and stop the bleeding.

Wouldn't you know it might have ended up being Breault's best outing as a professional.

Four and 1/3 innings of two-hit baseball holding the Hawks off the scoreboard until he turned the ball over to LHP Colton Turner who also slammed the door on the Hawks bats. This as the Canadians would somehow erase a six-run deficit to top Boise 7-6.

Had Vancouver not won that game, had Breault not come in and silenced the free swinging Boise bats, we would not be gearing up to slip on our second straight Northwest League Championship ring.

Simply put, Zack Breault can retire knowing that he finished his professional career as strong as anyone around him.  Even more beautiful, he leaves on his terms. No pink slip hanging in his locker. No injury that prevents him from taking to the field.

Zack simply gets to look his loved ones in the face and say 'I gave the best I had and this is as far as my abilities ended up taking me".

Every year we get to see upwards of 40 players try and reach for the stars.  Every year I find myself just as enamoured with those who choose to step aside from the game as I do those players who continue to push through.

I hope Zack will hold his head high, remembering the long bus rides full of laughter and learning, always looking at both of his Championship rings with the same pride that I look at mine - knowing that the only reason I have either of them - is because of players like Zack Breault.

Taking a leave of absence for a while folks.  Involved in a fairly intensive on-line lay ministry course...Talk to you when I have a free minute, or when I get back -- whichever comes first.

RETHINKING MY "SOCIAL" NETWORKING

I have always spoken what is on my mind. I appreciate others who do the same thing. Frankness and openness aids self-expression and when redirected, helps us know where others stand on issues. Admittedly, I have a "weird" (my wife's word) sense of humor too...Likewise, I appreciate and understand humor in others.

I have been involved in online communications now for more than 15 years. I have been dealing with the written word for almost 60 years -- a good half of that time in a public relations capacity. I think that social networking, in particular, has a lot of merit but, sadly, I have found that it feeds into human frailty and sensitivity like no other mode of present-day communication...You know, by all means "like" me and what I am posting (on-line, i.e. Facebook); but if you don't, "defriend me" (i.e. like it or lump it). Rational discussion often takes a back seat to argumentative reactions and the ultimate click of a computer key. Innuendo also runs rampant.

Quite honestly, more and more I find myself being annoyed by what I am seeing and reading on Facebook. Cutting, pasting and regurgitating the work of others under the guise of "sharing" is commonplace and spoils otherwise good intentions. It lacks something when we see several dozen other people sharing exactly the same post, which may or may not carry a virus. Originality is totally lacking. I do not live in a vacuum...There have been times when my more serious work has been viewed critically. On occasion, my comments have been misunderstood in some quarters and known to offend. That all goes with the territory for a veteran writer.

Humans experience an emotional response to a situation or comment first, making our primary feelings strong motivations of our behavior before we can think in rational terms. On-line/virtual interaction complicates how we interpret what we read and it is devoid of facial expressions, gestures and body language; it has no tone of voice to indicate emotion behind our words. How words are read and interpreted is up to the recipient and caution needs to be exercised here...We would do well to re-read words (several times if necessary), and think about them from the writer's perspective. We would also do well to consider the reader when crafting our words, think about how they may be received and if there is a better way to express ourselves.

On-line communications is a two-way street. We should navigate with care and sensitivity...Life is too short for spur-of-the-moment knee-jerk reactions. Trust me, no one wins an argument on Facebook.

Here's what another writer has to say on the subject: "Sex, relationships, personal causes, racism, religion, death, and politics are all serious topics, and they're all guaranteed one-way tickets to offending someone, and that's too bad. My advice to those who are busy drafting their angry responses while reading this is to chill. Take a second and ask yourself if perhaps you're being a little too sensitive, and therefore missing the point.

"Disagreeing with someone is par for the course in life. But telling another guy what he can and cannot say goes too far. If you disagree, wait for him to finish, consider what he has said and then react logically and sensibly to his ideas.

"Remember that not everything that is written or said is directed specifically at you; it's usually for the public at large or based on a specific principle. Everything happens within a context, even your reaction. It's the context that shapes the meaning of a statement. So consider, among other things, who the statement was directed at, what came before it and the writer or speaker's perspective.

"If all else fails, it sometimes pays to simply ignore the comment or provocative post. Life is too short to argue with everyone over every little thing. You've got better things to do... I hope. My advice is to try to let things slide. If they're really so bad, don't lend them credibility by talking further about them."

Thank you for that my friend. You know whereof you speak!!

Personally, for what little time I have left on this earth, I am going to be letting a lot of things slide. It is in my best interest. Maybe I should start by spending less time on Facebook and more time dealing with the things that really matter in my life.

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