KATHERINE IS TO "BLAME" FOR ME

Countless stories and reminiscences were exchanged at my book signing in Dresden on Saturday.  One of the best was provided by Katherine (McKay) Concannon.
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Katherine prefaced her story by saying that she was "responsible for my being born."  When someone makes a pronouncement of that kind you tend to sit up and take notice.
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Katherine's mother and father and my parents were good friends.  As she tells it, the McKay's visited my folks' home one evening, bringing along their recently-born little bundle of joy.  "The Wrights did not have a baby at the time and my mother laid me on their bed to bring them luck....Almost nine months to the day, Dick was born," Katherine stated with an impish smile of accomplishment on her face.  
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I know the long-forgotten story to be true because I remember my mother mentioning it to me at one point.  My mom and dad were childless for about five years before the old lay the baby on the bed trick worked its magic.
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Thank you for the story Katherine -- and for the role you played in my being born.

WE'RE NOT OLDER, WE'RE BETTER!

Special thanks to Wanda Pellerin for providing these photos and for her assistance in organizing Saturday's book signing.

BOOK SIGNING TURNOUT WAS GRATIFYING

This is the morning after a very long and wonderfully fulfilling day before and I am still basking in the marvel of it all.

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My book signing in Dresden was a huge success --beyond my fondest expectations.  In total, I signed 77 books in about 90 minutes time and the amazing thing is that I did not suffer the writing cramps that I had expected.  I am left with mixed feelings of joy and humility that so many people from my era in Dresden showed up for the event, many coming early and staying on just to chat.  At the same time I am just a little sad that I was not able to spend more time with each one individually and to say the things that one always seems to think of after the fact.

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In all sincerity, I love you all.  I would never have been so bold, or moved, to say that 55-60 years ago.
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There are those who maintain that you can never go back, but when you can turn back the clock and experience the emotions of yesteryear with fondness and respect and from the perspective of maturity, it is truly something special to take with you always.

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Contributing to the significance of the occasion were the friends I had never  met before who simply had an interest in things nostalgic and were interested in reading about my  memories of the period when I grew up in their town.  Having my eldest daughter, her partner and two grand daughters there to share the day with me, was also significant.  Heck, even the local media showed up.

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How lucky can one guy get?

My family, Alyssa, Darrell, Becky and Debbie enjoyed meeting Dresden friends. 

YOU CAN TAKE THE BOY OUT OF THE TOWN

...but you can't take the town out of the boy!
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The following is a story I wish I had remembered to include in my book, Dresden Life Remembered.  I get annoyed at myself when these types of items surface after the fact, but such is life in the world of someone with a memory like mine.
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THE MARTIN BOYS, Terry, Gerald, Lynn, Dennis and Arthur, were frequent visitors to the home of their grandparents who lived across the street from the Wrights on Sydenham Street in Dresden.  I played with Terry, Gerald and Lynn whenever they visited (Dennis and Arthur were latecomers to the family).
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One summer I was invited to attend a "threshing bee" at the Martin farm near Turnerville, about eight miles from Dresden.  Life on the farm was totally new to me and I was at first like a fish out of water.  For instance, how was I to know that a strange looking length of barbed wire that I unsuccessfully tried to circumvent, was actually an electric fence surrounding the cattle yard.  And no one thought to warn me about the hazards of disturbuting a hornets nest.


In my first 10 minutes at the farm I was sitting in Mrs. (Grace) Martin's kitchen cum emergency ward.  "You're really learning about the farm the hard way, aren't you Dick?" she chuckled as she dabbed a mixture of "laundry bluing" on the multiple hornet sting welts on my chest and arms.  "You're mother is going to think that you've been through the Boer War," she added as she removed the cap from a bottle of iodine which was destined for the scratches on my legs from the barbed wire.  One thing about the jolt of electricity that I received when I gripped the wire, was that it temporarily made me forget about the hornet stings. 


With the bluing and iodine working their wonder, I was soon joining the others on wagons in the field and actually sitting on the threshing machine itself, directing the shoot that fed grain into the barn.  A big deal for "a kid from town".


The thing that impressed me most about that day was the fact that a group of farmers from the area congregated at the Martin farm at sunrise to help with the threshing operation.  I was equally amazed at the virtual feast prepared by Mrs. Martin and several neighbour ladies for the hungry workers at noon -- roast beef, mashed potatoes, gravy, vegetables, all served in large help-yourself bowls, and the biggest slices of pie that I had ever seen.


The Martins' father, Jack, was a salt-of-the-earth kind of guy with a ruddy complexion and perpetual smile.  He was right up there on the father meter with my dad, Ken.  Of Irish heritage, Jack was a true sportsman in every sense of the word.  He loved soccer and was a pretty fair hockey goalie in his day, which explains his sons' subsequent lifetime involvement in community sports.  Father and several sons, in fact, are included in the Dresden Sports Hall of Fame.  Grandchildren carry on the sports legacy.

Always at home on the ice, the Martins formed a hockey team which took part in a number of games for charity.  From the left, Terry, Lynn, Jack, Dennis, Gerry; goaltender Arthur is kneeling in front.
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Jack was also instrumental in starting up a baseball team in Turnerville that would eventually see all five of his sons in the lineup.  One summer Dresden Midgets made the jaunt to Turnerville to take on the local nine in an exhibition game.  In lieu of a warm body to do the umpiring, good old Jack took on that job too.  I was the pitcher for Dresden in that game and at one point had occasion to dispute one of Jack's calls at the plate.
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"Oh, come on Dickie!" Jack responded, looking me squarely in the eye.  Something in the tone of his voice, and the almost disappointed look on his face, made me feel bad for having questioned his arbitrative judgement.  He had that way about him.
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Just a few more memories that linger in the mind of a kid from town.
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Special appreciation to Lynn Martin for providing the photo of his family's hockey team and another wonderful picture of his mom and dad on the occasion of their 50th wedding anniversary some years ago.

NO LOVE LIKE ENDURING LOVE

Where would we be without love to balance the scales of life? Think about that for a moment. Quite frankly, we would all go to hell in a hand basket.
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When we ignore or are indifferent to the needs of others, for instance, our hearts grow cold over time. Stone cold hearts lead to war and crime --inhumanity toward man. Bitterness. Those of us who were Boy Scouts and Girl Guides well remember the Promise that we repeated so many times in our youth: "...do a good turn for someone everyday." Thought guru Zig Ziggler gives it his twist: "Do something everyday for someone else that they could not do for themselves."
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When we capitalize on the everyday opportunities to express love to each other we cultivate a love that will endure, a love that will stand the test of time. Love that is an emotion only will never stand that test of time, as evidence marital relationships that turn sour because the partners lose sight of the need to nurture each other over the long haul. (1 John 3:18)
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In our lives today the pressures we face can, in themselves, wear us down. It is easy to start strong in our relationships but it takes strength, resolve and effort to counter the tendency to simply give up.
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We all, every one of us, need love. We cannot survive without it. When we capitalize on the little everyday opportunities to demonstrate love to each other, we cultivate a love that will endure -- a love that will "stand the test of time." We are talking here about love that is tangible, love that can be seen and felt. Love transformed into action.
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Others count on us, just as we count on them. We receive love by giving it!
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Love discarded is a tragic waste. Love kept alive is a blessing.
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For some reason I felt the impulse to offer that reinforcement today.

ORDERING...!

My girl Lucy loves Tim Horton's. Here she is ordering "two medium coffees with cream and one plain Tim Bit from the drive-thru menu. Guess who gets the Tim Bit!

"THERE'S A SUV IN YOUR LIVING ROOM"

My granddaughter Becky could not believe the text message she had just received: "Go home Becky. There's a black SUV in your living room! OMG.".
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Becky and her sister Alyssa were house-sitting for their vacationing aunt and uncle in nearby Bolton when the startling words appeared on her cell phone. The sender of the message was a next door neighbour friend from Brampton and, no, it was not an April fool's joke -- there really was a vehicle sitting in the living room of the house she shares with her sister, mom and two cats.

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The story is incredible. The impulse is to say "no way!"

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According to an eye witness who just happened to be working on his car in a next-door driveway, he was startled to see the black late-model SUV pick up speed as it rolled in reverse out of a driveway across the street. As the errant vehicle jumped the curb on the opposite side of the street, the witness said he could see that the door on the driver's side was swinging open and that there was a young person behind the wheel and another in the passenger's seat.

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With a split second to make a decision, the man jumped out of the way as the open door of the vehicle brushed past him. "My first impulse was to try to stop the car, but it was going too fast," he told a newspaper reporter at the scene.

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The vehicle glanced off the garage side of the neighbour's house, changed direction slightly and crashed through the front of my daughter Debbie's house as shown in the Brampton Guardian photo above. Emerging from the demolition were two very frightened young girls, approximately 12-years-of-age and, fortunately, unhurt.

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Information that was pieced together in subsequent investigation revealed that the girls were in the vehicle with the permission of the one's mother. Both mother and daughter were later charged by police.

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The resultant interior and exterior damage to my daughter's house (actually owned by her sister Cindy and brother-in-law Joe) was extensive. City engineers determined that structural repairs could be made but the contents of the living room and dining room were totally destroyed -- a chesterfield, chairs, tables, cabinets and a television all wiped out. Shattered glass was embedded in everything, including the floors, walls and ceiling which insurance adjusters ordered stripped and replaced.

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The front door of the house, which was not damaged in the crash, was nonetheless smashed in by police in their attempt to determine if anyone was hurt inside the home. (Debbie was at work in Richmond Hill at the time, so no one was home except the cats and they were okay.)

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"What are the odds?" you say. A nightmare!...What a terrible story!

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Well, the story does not end there.

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Out of necessity, Debbie took time off work several days later to make herself available to adjusters and repair people. With some errands to run, she was in her car at one point when "bang!", there was the sickening crunch of metal on metal. Another car had collided with the vehicle on which she had spent hundreds of dollars in repairs earlier that week. Miraculously, no one was hurt.

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Damage to both vehicles was extensive, however, and police were summoned. The driver of the other car, a young woman, sheepishly called the investigating police officer aside and admitted that she was driving her boy friend's car and that she did not have a valid driver's licence. Unbelievable! If that young woman ever does decide to conform to the law and get a driver's licence, good luck to her in applying for car insurance.

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As the damage to Debbie's vehicle was being surveyed, a tow truck driver was heard to comment: "You think this is bad? You should see what happened to a house in Brampton the other day."

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"Yeah, tell me about it...That was my house!" Debbie shouted. What are the odds?

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Some days -- scratch that -- some weeks, it doesn't pay to get out of bed in the mornings. It can be a crazy world out there, especially in the Toronto area where not everyone behind the steering wheel of a car has a driver's licence.

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In reminding her that things of this nature always seem to happen in three's, a sympathetic car mechanic friend offered Deb the words of comic strip character Elmer Fudd: "Be verwy, verwy careful!"

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Amen to that. Poor Deb!

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I'm afraid to answer the telephone anymore.

I LIKE BOLOGNA ON WHITE BREAD

Guess what I had for lunch today?...A nice fat bologna sandwich, that's what!
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You health nuts out there will no doubt take me to task for such an unhealthy food choice, what with processed meat being so bad for you, blah, blah. "Tell me you didn't have it on white bread," would be another response I would fully expect.
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"Of course I had it on white bread, with lots of butter too!" would be my honest and unashamed answer. I simply like bologna on white bread now and then, that's all there is to it.
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And, no, the Devil didn't make me do it today either...Actually it was singer-songwriter Alan Jackson who tempted me with that lunch time idea.
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That strange acknowledgement calls for an explanation. Right?
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Well, just before lunch I was listening to my favorite country music radio station when good ole boy Alan's latest song hit came on. In typical down-home style, Alan gave forth with exactly my own outlook on life as it exists today and reinforced it with an appreciation for things we take for granted, like my bologna sandwiches.
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I'll let Alan and his lyrics take it from here.
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There's satellite communications

Long distance Internet relations

The world's a little faster every day

I know it's all well and good

And I don't embrace it like I should

But I wouldn't wanna go backward even if I could.

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CHORUS

But I still like Bologna on white bread now and then

And the sound of a whippoorwill down a country road

The grass between my toes and the sunset sinking low

And a good woman's love to hold me close --

I like my 50-inch HD Plasma.

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Feels like they just reach out and grab

500 channels at my command

I finally gave in and got a cell phone

That I hardly ever seem to turn on

I guess I never have that much to say.

(Chorus)

I got a laptop that sits on a desk

I don't use it much except to check

Some ole car from yesterday I kinda like

That music thang, you just download 'em

And you can save about every song

That's ever been made.

(Chorus)

Well I guess what I've been trying to say

This digital world is really okay

It makes life better in a lot of ways

But it can't make the smell of spring

Or sunshine or lots of little things

We take for granted every day.

(Chorus)

Yeah, Bologna

A woman's love

And a good cell phone.

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Thanks for that Alan. I couldn't have writ it nor sung it any better! I relate totally...You stimulated my appetite and for that you deserve a "Blue Ribbon" -- no bologna!

WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO HAPPY MAIL?

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I was talking to a fellow in the post office the other day. We were both grumbling about the increasing number of bills that we receive and the fact that we just don't seem to get "happy" mail anymore.

People used to send out friendly greetings and letters and yes, we even got cheques in the mail. For crying out loud, I remember receiving pay cheques in the mail at one time and what a joy it was to open that envelope a couple of times a month. Pensioners, too, used to line up at the wickets at the end of each month to receive their regular government cheques. The post master was the most popular person in town on those days. Sadly, the inception of the direct deposit system at our banks has put an end to that kind of "happy" mail experience. Likewise, the Internet and email has changed the way we communicate with family and friends.

Now all we get in the mail are bills for hydro, heating, TV cable, credit card payments and municipal property taxes, to name but a few of the irritating reminders of our indebtedness for the necessities of life today. Then there are the flyers and direct advertising pieces in different forms that jams our mail boxes on a regular basis. I am convinced that the only person in the world that does not feel a degree of annoyance over the bulk advertising that we are exposed to these days, is my wife Rosanne. I swear, she never saw a flyer, a catalogue or any piece of advertising that she did not like.

Rosanne is the same with bills...She actually pays them before the due dates and is quite upset when she does not receive them in the mail well in advance. I have heard her actually squeal with glee when opening a long-awaited bill. Different strokes for different folks, I guess.

As for me, I'd never go to the post office again if I didn't have to pick up bills and advertising flyers for Rosanne.

A BOUQUET FOR MY READERS

Our summer weather this year has been spasmodic, to say the least, but flowers in our gardens seem to be flourishing. I share some of the July beauties from my garden with followers of Wrights Lane today. What a wonderful world we live in. The earth truly smiles through flowers.

ROSES FOR ME IN DECEMBER

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.

"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

Apropos the post below, I add "Hallelujah!"

Hevinlee herself has authored a book on child abuse and I will report more on that in Wrights Lane at a future date. Meantime, please join me in praying for her daughter and the two babies who need their young mother.

HALLELUJAH FOR OUR MERCIES

I received a message from a friend the other day. She was expressing delight in how things had developed in her life in the recent past and ended her update with the word "Hallelujah!"

Most of us know that Hallelujah means, "Praise ye the Lord"; and we all can thank God for the wonderful blessings in our life. But how few of us put a Hallelujah to the record of our common mercies!

It strikes me that it would be a good idea sometimes to analyse our pleasures and to seriously consider the state of our affections. What about asking this one question in the midst of every enjoyment: "Can I put up a hearty Hallelujah at the end of it?"

SUNSHINE MAKES US SMILE

"Heavenly sunshine, heavenly sunshine, filling my life with glory Divine..."

We are all lovers of sunshine. The eyes brighten while gazing at the natural beauty of a sunlit scene. That warm beam of heavenly light has penetrated our very heart and made us feel glad to be alive. I am looking forward to much more of it this summer if, in fact, summer-type weather comes to stay with us for more than a day or two at a time.

But you know, there is another kind of sunshine that we all love. Is there not someone in your life whose smile is a brighter and dearer sunbeam to you than the brightest ray that gladdens the earth on a summer's day? That would be the smile of some dear being whose every thought is blended with our own and without which this would be a very gloomy world indeed.

Some time ago I wrote a post in Wrights Lane about the merits of a smile and, not so coincidentally, I end my latest book on that very subject. Like sunshine, a smile truly brightens our day.

There is yet another kind of sunshine that is in store for us -- an eternal kind of sunshine that no night shall ever cover over. The last cloud in the valley of the shadow of death will break away before the dawning of eternal daylight, and everlasting sunshine, for every one of us. It has been expressly written, that: "There shall be no night there."

May the clouds and storms of this life, then, be borne with patient and joyful anticipation...And a "sunny" smile!

LOOK FOR THE FINGER-POST

A couple of items ago I tested readers' knowledge and memory of "whetstones". Time now for another test.

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What do you know about "finger-posts"?

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Well, I've given you another clue in the accompanying illustration.

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A finger-post is just that-- a post with a sign, often shaped like a pointing finger or hand, indicating a direction. We find records of finger-posts dating back to the 16th century.

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Some time ago, a fellow affectionately known as "Old Humphrey" (how old was he?..about as old as me!) was travelling in a strange neighbourhood when he came to a place in the road where it branched off in opposite directions. Humphrey immediately slowed down his vehicle, not knowing how to proceed.

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It was indeed a perplexing situation, because taking the wrong road would have caused Humphrey great inconvenience, and his gas gage was hovering on the empty mark. Suddenly he spotted a finger-post which at first glance had escaped his view. A closer look revealed the left arm of the post pointing towards two distant towns, neither of which he wanted to visit.
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Much to his dismay, the opposite arm had been broken off. Ever the optimist, Humphrey took heart in thinking to himself: "Well, now at least, I know very well the road I am not going to take."

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It is not uncommon for any of us to reach a fork in the road of life. Our built-in finger-posts more often than not point in two directions -- right and wrong. Sometimes, as in the Old Humphrey story, the "right" finger is broken off, but we know very well the road we should not take.

The decision on what direction we take is always ours to make. If we choose the wrong road we might not have enough gas to get back.

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Consider well the finger-post!

TRY A LITTLE KINDNESS!

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There are few hearts so hard, few spirits so churlish, as not to be affected by kindness. Think about it...a kind thought is influential, a kind word is encouraging, and a kind deed is at all times a blessing.

Many years ago, a man spoke a few kind words to a young woman who was in ill health. It was not an overly profound utterance, but as the years rolled along the woman never forgot the man's words. On her death bed, in fact, she expressed an earnest desire to see the man again if he was still alive.

The man was located and summoned directly. When he entered the hospital room, the woman wasted no time in explaining that the words he had spoken when she was unwell many years before had led her to believe that he would be willing to render another deed of kindness in her dying hour.

She said that something was laying heavily on her mind. It seems that she had for some time been at variance with a friend who had judged her unfairly and this had resulted in unresolved, hard feelings between the two. To forgive and be forgiven, and to die in peace with her estranged friend, was the desire of her soul.

The man said he would see what he could do to fulfill her wish and within hours he was able to entice the friend to the dying woman's hospital bed.

The two old friends wept, prayed and forgave each other. In a few days, with a mind impressed with a sense of abundant mercy, the woman died in the presence of her reconciled friend, calmly and confidently committing her spirit into the hands of her Redeemer.

This is a rather simple story about several acts of kindness that had a major impact on a sick woman's life. The sad part is that she waited until her last hours were numbered to resolve the issue that was so troubling to her. But how many a death has been rendered unhappy because a dispute and associated unkindness was left unresolved?

Perhaps we should take a review of our own past lives. It is never too late to atone for the manifold acts of unkindness that we might find there. We can obtain peace of mind and clarity with mankind if we are mindful of the amazing grace that pardons us.

A scripture passage comes to mind: "Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which spitefully use you and persecute you."

LET'S ALL USE A WHETSTONE IN LIFE

Okay young people, here's a question for you. What is a whetstone?

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Of course I gave you a clue by running the attached photo of two near 100-year-old whetstones used by my father to sharpen his barbering scissors and razors some 60 and 70 years ago. I'm not sure if many barbers sharpen their own tools today, straight razors being almost a thing of the past.

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Though it is sometimes mistaken as a reference to the water often used to lubricate such stones, the word "whetstone" is a compound word formed with the word "whet", which means to sharpen a blade, not the word "wet".

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Whetstones are almost as old as time itself. History tells us that ancient warriors of contending armies would retire to sharpen their swords for renewed combat, after they had blunted them so much in hewing down their enemies as to render them unserviceable. Large stones or boulders that show signs of wear on all sides, have been found close to battle grounds giving evidence of not just soldiers but whole communities shapening, or edging, tools there.

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Brutal hand-to-hand combat by sword was a terrible thing and one shutters to think or how those old warriors who lived in strife and contention would take such trouble to sharpen their swords in order to inflict human injury and death over and over again.

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I've been thinking about whetstones for some unknown reason and it occurs to me that metaphorically we should look more closely to our own sharpening devices where we may rub up and renew our affections toward others. Unlike those soldiers hundreds of years ago, we can "put an edge" to our zeal for life and sharpen our desires and convictions after every good word and deed.

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Is it too dull an idea to suggest that the old whetstone still has application in our lives today?

WE CAN ATTACH BROKEN THREADS

Consider this story from the imagination.

A little girl, about four years of age, came crying to her mother as if her heart was breaking. She had been sitting very quietly for some time on a little stool in her bedroom, sewing a piece of cloth from her doll kit for practice just as her mommy had shown her.

When her mother inquired about the cause of her distress, the small one reluctantly revealed that it was a broken thread. She seemed overwhelmed with the conviction that all her work was in vain.

"Did you think, sweetie, that I could not fasten it together again for you?" asked the mother, wiping the streaming tears from her daughter's flushed cheeks. "Yes," sobbed the child.

"Oh! but I can in a minute," replied the mother. "See, just like that!" she exclaimed with a few quick twists of the needle and thread.

When you stop to think about it, how often have we been like that little girl -- depressed at a particular twist of fate? How often have we poured out our grief with, as it were, a broken thread in our hand not considering how easy it would be to reattach it with a little faith and application -- how easy it would be, likewise, to ask our Heavenly creator to heal all the broken hearts of His children when they cry.

SNUB BEGAN A BEAUTIFUL RELATIONSHIP

KEN'S LETTER BROKE THE ICE

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One of my soon-to-be published books will be entitled Dresden Life Remembered. In putting this book together I keep coming up with little long-forgotten gems from the past.

I have written extensively about my mother and father and their love affair which began in their teens. This evening I came across an old weathered envelope bearing a two-cent stamp and postmarked July 3., 1918. It was addressed to Miss Grace Perry, Town (which meant it was mailed in Dresden for general delivery/pickup). Everybody knew everybody in town and street addresses were unnecessary, in fact houses were not even numbered in those days.

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The contents of the envelope are just too priceless to keep to myself. Or at least I think so anyway.

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The years were stripped away as I removed a neatly folded letter and immediately recognized my father Ken's hand writing. By means of introduction, I will simply reveal that my father was 19 years old at the time and my mother would have turned 16 within days of receiving the letter on or about July 4Th. Here are Ken's heart-wrenching words as only he could write them.

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Dresden, July 2nd./18

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Dear Friend:

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No doubt you will be somewhat surprised, perhaps annoyed, to hear from me.

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I think I understand thoroughly your wish. It is needless for me to state it, but that is not what I am writing about.

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I have spoken to you several times lately and you never let on you saw me. This leads me to think I must have done you some wrong and made you "sore" at me. I can't think what that might be as I did not do it intentionally. I am not trying to ignore (?) nor am I asking you to speak to me if you don't want to.

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What I do wish is that you would be kind enough to tell me what I have done. I really would like to know, perhaps just for curiosity sake.

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Hoping you will favour me with a reply.

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I am

your friend.

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K. Wright

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Note: I do not know how my mother responded, but she must have communicated favourably in one way or another. I am living proof of that. As it turned out, Grace and Ken never had any other boy friend or girl friend. Amazingly they had a very long courtship, marrying 15 years after my dad wrote his letter. I love sharing stories like this!

THE PRODIGAL SON RETURNETH

We're making progress

Hi folks, it's been a while!

Just minutes ago I released final text and graphics to the publisher for the first of two books that I have been working on this past month. I should wrap up the second project in another week or so. I am self publishing so there is a lot of extra work to do but I am sure that it will all be worthwhile in the end.
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Special web sites will be developed for both publications and all followers of Wrights Lane will be advised of availability well in advance. Details of the books will also be released prior to publication date. An exciting time, no question about it.

Oh Those Bad Church Bulletins!

Having been the editor of a church bulletin at one time, I was amused to receive the following from my daughter the other day.

Snippets from church bulletins and announcements:

The Fasting and Prayer Conference includes meals.

The sermon this morning: "Jesus Walks on Water". Sermon tonight: "Searching for Jesus."

Ladies, don't forget the rummage sale. It's a chance to get rid of those things not worth keeping around the house. Bring your husbands.

The peacekeeping meeting scheduled for today has been canceled due to a conflict.

Remember in prayer the many who are sick of our community.

Don't let worry kill you off --let the church help.

Miss Charlene Mason sang "I Will Not Pass This Way Again", giving obvious pleasure to the congregation.

For those of you who have children and don't know it, we have a nursery downstairs.

Next Thursday there will be tryouts for the choir. They need all the help they can get.

Sermon topic this evening: "What Is Hell?" Come early and listen to the choir.

Scouts are saving aluminum cans, bottles and other items to be recycled. Proceeds will be used to cripple children.

Potluck Supper Sunday at 5:00 p.m. Prayer and medication to follow.

Low Self Esteem Support Group will meet Thursaday at 7 p.m. Please use back door.

The Assoociate Minister unveild the church's new tithing campaign slogan last Sunday: "I Upped My Pledge -- Up Yours!"

TO MY FRIENDS AND READERS

I am taking liberties by re-working slightly a poem forwarded to me by Dargan and Theresa Burns. The author of the original piece is uknown, but I would like to leave my version of it with readers of Wrights Lane as I take temporary leave to concentrate on several books that I need to get off to a publisher in the next couple of weeks.

I will still make periodic posts to this site, but not with the regularity of the past year for a while. More about "the books" at a later date. Meantime, continue dropping in to Wrights Lane when you have a spare moment. It's good to have you!

I have a circle of Internet friends

Who mean the world to me;

Some days I send and post to them,

At other times I let them be.

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When in return I see a name download

And view the message they've sent,

I know they've thought of me that day

And good wishes were their intent.

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I am so blessed to have these friends

With whom I've grown so close;

So this little poem I dedicate to them

Because to me they mean the most.

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God bless!

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Picked up in passing: "To all, I would say how mistaken they are when they think that they stop falling in love when they grow old, without knowing that they grow old when they stop falling in love."

CONFESSIONS OF AN IMPULSIVE KID

We all know that kids will be kids. They always have been and they always will be. We all were kids at one time. Some of us still are kids to varying degrees and there is nothing wrong with that. As we mature, it is healthy for us to remain young at heart for as long as possible. In adulthood, we simply and wisely learn to temper our childish spontaneity and compulsive behavior.
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As a kid, I had more than my share of spontaneity and compulsiveness and it often got me in trouble. In fact I did some things in my growing up years that leave me somewhat ashamed to this day.
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My childhood misdeeds were by no means premeditated, rather they were generally the result of exuberance gone wrong or misdirected. An early example was an occurrence in the cloakroom of our Grade 4 class as students were returning from a visit to the school nurse who was giving needles for small pox on this particular day. Vera Bresett complained that her arm was sore, prompting me to say something to the effect that "it wasn't all that bad." If only I had left it at that, but to emphasize my point I had to give her a poke in the arm at exactly the spot where she had just been injected.
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The poke was a little harder and more accurate than I intended, causing poor Vera to break out in tears. The teacher, of course, saw her crying and asked what was wrong. Long story short, the teacher gave me a strapping for unthinkingly inflicting unnecessary pain on Vera -- six whacks on each hand. I carry the shame of that incident to this day and still wonder whatever possessed me.
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I didn't set out to victimize kids by the name of Bresett, but the next unfortunate victim of my impulsive behavior just happened to be Jim Bresett, Vera's cousin I believe. We were kibitzing around in the classroom and for some reason I happened to have a sharp object in my hand (can't for the life of me remember if it was a pin or a pen). As Jim walked away from me, I jokingly gave him a sudden jab in the bum with the (you guessed it) business end of the pointed weapon. Once again, I did not realize the force of my ill-advised prankish action. The resultant puncture wound was a source of discomfort for Jim for quite some time, particularly when he sat down, and I really do not think that he has ever forgiven me. Can't say as though I blame him.
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Another time we had been dismissed early in the afternoon to take part in our public school's annual field day -- one of my favorite extra curricular activities. Buoyed by enthusiasm and lacking patience with the slow-moving line of kids on the school steps, I gave the girl in front of me a slight push. The unexpected forward progress caused her to miss a step and we both went tumbling forward.
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Once again, a teacher appeared out of nowhere asking what had happened. The finger of course was pointed at me. Guilty as charged, I in turn accused my innocent friend Jim Ruttle of pushing me from behind. Without giving Jim a chance to defend himself, the teacher promptly ordered the two of us back to the classroom, saying "There'll be no field day for you boys today!"
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From the confines of a stuffy classroom the shrieks of laughter and cheering in the school yard for the next three hours was almost too much to endure. I can only imagine what a falsely-accused Jim was thinking. Much to his credit, however, he did not seem to hold a grudge against me in later life.
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There were other incidents back then when my exuberance backfired on me in one way or another. All I can say now to anyone who may have suffered from my youthful indiscretion, is: "I am truly sorry...Please forgive me!"
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Golly, thinking back on it now, Grace Wright really did raise a rotten kid. Thank goodness George Rupert didn't get wind of any of it.
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Oh well, there goes another pure image in exchange for the lifting of a 60-year weight.

ABOUT ROOSTING CHICKENS AND A PERVAYOR OF BRUTAL FRANKNESS

It is incredible how the more I talk to people from my home town of Dresden who respond to Wrights Lane, the more names from the distant past tend to surface and memories of funny little personal stories come flooding back.

I wrote not long ago about Gary Fraser who now resides in sunny California. Gary got a kick out of my Memories of Dresden story about Dave McCracken, a town character back in the 1940s and 50s. It seems that when Gary's family moved to Dresden, they purchased a home that was previously owned by the McCrackens who had moved just across the street. Dave sometimes helped Gary's father, Harry, with chores around a horse barn on the property.

As Gary tells it, Dave was invited in to the Fraser home one day to see some of the renovations that had been made to his old family home. Once inside, Dave took a look around and exclaimed, "Yep, still looks pretty much the same!" Then pointing up the freshly painted staircase, he added: "The chickens used to roost up there."

Gary said he thought his mother was going to have a fit.

More recently a long-forgotten name came up in conversation with another resident of Dresden and it reminded me of a couple of incidents that impacted my young life at the time. George Rupert was a couple of years older than me and it seemed as though his mission in life was to be brutally frank with me.

With a very serious face and eyes that penetrated right through me, George would make great pronouncements. One day a bunch of us had gathered in a lot beside my friend Joe Carr's home. The conversation turned to baseball and George took it upon himself to tell me in no uncertain terms that Hubert McCorckle was a better pitcher than me. He added insult to injury by stating further that the only reason I made the town's bantam baseball team that summer was because my dad was the coach.

Sometimes comments like that can have a motivational influence. I don't know, but I've never forgotten the incident. The tone of George's voice and the earnest expression on his face, are as fresh in my mind as yesterday. Who knows, maybe George's evaluation was right! I honestly do not think that he was intentionally trying to be hurtful, he was simply giving me the benefit of his honest opinion.

Another time, shortly after my barber father had passed away, I had my hair cut for the first time by his barbering associate, Jim Ford. Poor old Jim was so upset and nervous when I climbed into his barber's chair that he gave me the worst hair cut of my life. In fact, he literally scalped me.

The next evening as I was riding my bike to a softball game at Jackson's Park, there was George again approaching me with that look in his eye. "Sally Wilmott used to like you, but now with your hair all cut off she says she likes Curly Clark better!" he announced, almost without breaking stride and leaving me speechless with a churning stomach.

I wore a cap for a few days after that. It took the better part of a month for my hair to grow back and for Sally to "like me" again. But I didn't hear anything more about it from George. I guess he wasn't in the good news business as far as I was concerned.

WHAT IS TRUE LOVE?

The author of the following poem is unknown but I publish it here because it has special significance for me, and others in my life, at this time.

True love is a sacred flame

That burns eternally,

And none can dim its special glow

Or change its destiny.

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True love speaks in tender tones

And hears with gentle ear,

True love gives with open heart

And true love conquers fear.

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True love makes no harsh demands

It neither rules or binds,

And true love holds with gentle hands

The heart that it entwines.

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

To which I add:

Sometimes true love takes work

And is worth fighting for,

But once you have it

You could ask for nothing more.

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Cherish it always!

LARRY F. GRAY: I KNEW HIM WHEN...

Canadian military historian once a soap box derby kid.
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I am deeply indebted to Wanda Pellerin (Gray) of Dresden for sending me the above photograph of entrants in the Dresden Optimists Club Soap Box Derby of either 1948 or '49. Identified in the Windsor Star photo are (l to r) Peter Manderson, Larry Gray (Wanda's brother), Bill Foster, Jim Tricker and Bob Drlicka. The photograph will have a permanent home in my Memories of Dresden web site.

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This also gives me an excellent opportunity to continue featuring on Wrights Lane, Dresden kids that I grew up with and who have gone on to interesting and successful careers. Larry Gray (second from left in soap box photo and above right as he is today) entered himself in the senior category of the Second Annual Dresden Soap Box Derby and his "Super Mouse" creation performed quite well, if memory serves me correctly. He worked very hard to make his soap box machine as sleek and aerodynamic as possible so that it would cut through the Dresden air with the least possible resistance as it sped down the Optimists Club's makeshift derby ramp.

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Larry was a motivated sort of young lad growing up in a small community where everyone seemed like family. He is the son of the late Clark and Neva Gray. The family lived on Centre Street. A good student, he was particularly active in Boy Scouts and you just knew that some day he would take a leading role in his chosen vocation. That vocation just happened to be a lifetime commitment to the Canadian military.

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Move the calendar ahead 60 years and Capt. Larry Francis Gray is a distinguished retired member of the Canadian Armed Forces. He served as a radio officer, air navigation and information officer before becoming the managing editor for the newspaper of the Canadian Army in Europe, known as The Beaver. He has also been a United Nations military observer and served as part of the Commonwealth Election Team in Zimbabwe in 1980.

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After he retired from the RCAF with 24 years of service under his belt, he worked with the Royal Canadian Legion, the Veterans Review and Appeal Board, and the Office of the National Defence and Canadian Forces Ombudsman. Emblematic of his contribution to Canadian military affairs he received the Minister of Veterans Affairs Commendation, the Queen's Jubilee Medal, the United Nations Peacekeeping Medal and the Canadian Forces Decoration.

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As an author Larry has published a number of articles on World War One in Esprit de Corps magazine and, with the encouragement of his school teacher wife, has written two books on the war dead from his current home in Carleton Place. His first literary effort in a "Faces and Names" project was entitled We Are the Dead followed by Fathers, Brothers and Sons that gave life to the young men who followed their Great War veteran family members into World War Two.

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It is Larry's wish that his published work will interest young Canadians in their long-neglected military history and with any luck contribute to renewed national pride. He became interested in battlefields and war cemeteries during a posting to Germany and in 1986 he developed and led a Legion tour of young people to military sites and cemeteries for the dead of both world wars.

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He continues to live in Carleton Place and Stanley Bridge, PEI, with his wife of 50 years, Gloria. His interest in the personal, human aspect of soldiers stories has not waned.

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You did extremely well for yourself Larry. Scouter George Brooker and Capt. Frank Brown would be proud of you...So would your mom, Neva.

I'LL DRINK TO THAT...I THINK!

The manager of the Walker House in Southampton has a weird sense of humor. By offering "free beer during all Maple Leafs playoff games", he really knows how to rub it in to die-hard Toronto Maple Leafs fans. Considering the Leafs did not make the NHL playoffs again this year, all I can say is "Thanks for nothing, Mr. Smart Alec!" Just wait until next year though!

ROSANNE STRIKES AGAIN

Rosanne has taken her malaprops to a new level. She has entered the realm of sayings and expressions in recent days.

Commenting on a professional athlete who is engaged in a long-standing common-law relationship, she stated: "He's not going to open the barn door when the cow is free!" I think you can figure out the two or three expressions that she was confusing.

The other day our dog Lucy was giving me extra licks for no apparent reason. "You certainly know what side your bacon is rubbed on, Lucy!" Rosanne said with a knowing laugh. Come to think about it, what do dogs know about buttered bread anyway? They're all about bacon treats and belly rubs. Makes perfect sense to me.

Presto! Just like that, two new expressions are born. Rest assured I'll find ways to keep them alive.